“We’ll see about that,” I mutter back, despite every nerve ending in my body firing like crazy at just his proximity.
He smirks, my heart does another little somersault, and then he backs up, wiping his flour-covered hands on his apron. He holds my gaze as he grabs an egg with one hand, taps it to the counter, and easily opens it onto the pile of flour on the table.
“Oh, wow,” I tease. “Youcando it.”
He discards the shell in an empty bowl on the counter, then grabs another, locks his gaze on mine, and cracks the next one. “I told you I could.”
“I know, but I didn’t believe you.”
He presses his free hand to his chest. “‘Ye of little faith. You wound me.” He tosses the empty shell then grabs the next egg, cracking it open with one hand. He tosses the last shell into the bowl and turns to face me, hands extended at his sides.
“Well?” he asks. “Are you impressed or what?”
I slow clap for him. “So impressed. Amazing job, Chef Matthews.”
He pauses for a moment, the smile on his lips grows so wide and so brilliant that my breath catches. “I like that.”
“What?”
“You called me Chef Matthews.”
“I did.”
“Do it again.”
I step up to him so close that our chests brush, holding his gaze as I reach around him for the salt shaker. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I whisper.
He barks a laugh and I step back with a satisfied smile.
As promised, Reid stands behind me, his broad hands guiding mine as we knead and mix the dough together. His chest is pressed against my back. I can feel his heartbeat, calm and steady, and I vaguely wonder if he can feel how frantic mine is. Celeste is walking from table to table, checking in on everyone when she stops in front of us. For a moment, I fear she’s going to tell us he’s being inappropriate by standing behind me and making this a romantic day, but she’s thoughtful as she studies his hands.
“Amazing technique,” she says, eyes catching on Reid’s forearms as he kneads the dough. Honestly, I can’t blame her.
“Lots of practice,” he says quickly. I’m finally starting to realize that he doesn’t speak in full sentences when women come onto him. It’s like a tactic to seem disinterested. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.
“Are you a chef?” Celeste asks him.
“I am.”
“Eccelente.” She watches him a moment longer, appreciation on her gorgeous face. With one last stare, she turns and continues to the next table.
“Wow, women love you.”
“It’s the forearms. Women can’t resist.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Yeah, that’s it. The forearms. Not the mesmerizing eyes or the perfect, brilliant smile or the brooding nature that makes a girl think ‘I can fix him.’”
“What’s there to fix?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your attitude, mostly.”
He chuckles, then his expression turns thoughtful. “You really think I have mesmerizing eyes and a brilliant smile?”
No sense in lying now. Especially when the way the compliment seems to have him radiating a whole new sense of charm and confidence that makes it harder to get away from him.
“I do.”
His smile is so wide that I’m happy I was honest. I mentally start filing away compliments and jokes and anecdotes that can make him smile every time I talk to him.
