I attempt to open the door to my car, but it sticks, just like it always does when it drops below fifty degrees.
“Piece of shit,” I yell, cursing the archaic hunk of metal that bears a minor resemblance to a car. I pull a few more times, but it doesn’t budge. “Fuck.” I kick the side of the door, and my shoe flies off in the process. I bend down to pick it up, but when I do, I’m met with legs in front of me. Long legs. Long, masculine legs.
“Need some help?” a low voice drawls above me. It sounds familiar. I look up and…holy shit.This is not happening.
“Um.” It’s all I can think to say as I stand up and come face to face with one of my idols. Not only is he a genius chef, but he’s also not bad to look at. His inky hair curls over his bright green eyes, muscles straining under his white button-down as he takes his jacket off.
Why is he taking his jacket off?
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, draping it over one arm and reaching for my door with the other. With minimal effort, he pushes his shoulder into the door before pulling on the handle and opening it. He waves toward my now wide-open car door and flashes a smile, his white teeth sparkling against his tanned skin.
I take a moment to pick my jaw up from the floor and slide into the driver’s side. “Um…” I say again.Allie Jean Montgomery, say something fucking else!“Thanks,” I manage.
Never in my twenty-four years on this planet has a man left me speechless.Not true.I bat away the unwanted thoughts as I peer back up at Craig.
“I couldn’t very well leave a lady in distress, now could I?”
There’s that smile again. How are his teeth that white? If any other man had said that to me, I would have backhanded him. I wasnotin distress. I would have gotten it open eventually.
“I appreciate it…” I trail off, pretending not to know his name.
“Craig,” he says, holding his hand out and revealing his tattooed knuckles. “Craig Holder. And you are?”
“Allie,” I reply.
“Nice to meet you, Allie. You work atThe Lantern?”
“Oh, yeah, maybe.” I take notice of the fact that Craig is leaning into my car with his whole body, his hand lazily slung up against the top of the car door. “I just interviewed.”
“For the food writer position?”
Shit. How does he know?
“Yes, actually.”
“Good luck.” He moves back. “We may be seeing more of each other if you get it.”
“Oh. Well, thanks again.” I scoot back, attempting to close the door, but his hand shoots out, stopping my movement. He bends down to pick something up from the ground, granting me a view of his blue-jean-clad ass.
Lord, help me.
“Forgetting something?” he asks, holding my black pump in his hand, the shoe casually hanging off his index finger.
“Thank you,” I breathe, taking it from him and putting it on my foot, now wet from the damp ground.
Then he fucking winks and thumps the top of my car like he’s telling an ambulance it’s good to go. His jacket is thrown over his shoulder, and just as fast as he appeared, he’s gone.
I slam the door shut and peel out of the parking lot. What the hell was Craig Holder doing atThe Emberfield Lanternoffice? And what did he mean we would be seeing more of each other? Most importantly, what was that horrific reaction I just had to him? I’m always the picture of control when it comes to men. They chase me, not the other way around. I don’t catch feelings…like ever. Okay, so maybe I had a tiny crush on Craig for the better part of a year after I first went to his restaurant, Willow & Thyme. But his steak frites melted in my mouth, and don’t get me started on the scallop parfait. Avocado mousse? Fucking brilliant. Not to mention the things that man can do with a shallot. When I caught a glimpse of him in the kitchen, calling out orders to his staff, the feminism clear evaporated from my soul.
A shudder racks my body as I cruise down the main part of town. I haven’t even thought about Craig in months. I’m only having this reaction to him because I haven’t gotten any in a while. Alongwhile. Not since…
Don’t you dare think about that.
I shake the thought away. I haven’t lost my edge. I am a strong, confident woman, and I don’t need a man for anything. Well, one thing. Although lately, I’ve been doingthaton my own as well. Thank God for Thor, my trusty golden silicone friend. He has six settings and doesn’t talk back, so it’s win-win.
As I pull into my driveway and exit the car, it becomes clear that there are only two things that can make me feel better about the multiple shit shows I’ve just endured.
My best friend…and tequila.
