“Give me a spoon.” He hesitates. “I said, give me a damn spoon quickly, come on.”
Leo lets out a short breath, but reluctantly hands me one, and I take a big bite of his dessert. I turn toward where Grayson is, and he’s still facing away. Tasting it carefully, I recall it’s almost exactly like the one Stevie’s dad made.
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“What?” Leo whispers.
I shake my head. “Nothing. It tastes great, Leo.”
He smiles. “Thanks.”
With that, I head back to my seat, my eyes meeting Grayson’s for a moment before I give him a disapproving nod. I thought he was better than this. The dessert wasn’t overly sweet at all.
I may not be a professional, but I’ve traveled a lot and can tell the difference between this dessert and crème brûlée. Maybe I’m wrong, but the narrowing of Grayson’s eyes suggests I’m not, and I plan to stay and find out.
An hour later, almost everyone has left the room. Leo gives me a wink and a wave goodbye. I offer him a small smile and a slight nod.
Then I turn to the man of the hour.
“Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Haywood?” Grayson takes off his chef’s coat, revealing a light green T-shirt that goes with his black pants.
Clearing my throat, I tap my oldest and favorite pair of black stilettos.
“Why were you so harsh with Leo?”
“I gave him some constructive criticism. Why? Did he say something to you?”
I scoff. “He didn’t have to say anything.”
He shrugs. “What I told him was true. The dessert was too sweet.”
“Riiiight,” I drag.
Grayson turns to me and raises an eyebrow. “If you have something to say, Ms. Haywood, then by all means…”
With my heart in my throat, I keep my composure while talking to him.
“I’m trying to keep this professional, and I want to stay out of your way like any other writer would, but I noticed the way the students looked at you. They seemed uncomfortable with how long you were staring at Leo’s food compared to everyone else’s.” He remains quiet. “I’m not a professional cook by any means. I only know how to make scrambled eggs—which are pretty great—but I’m well-traveled and have eaten that dish made by a trained native. In my opinion, you overexaggerated.” Grayson leans back against the large wooden professor’s station by the front. His eyes are all over me, scrutinizing me, but I keep going before I lose my nerve. “Now, I don’t know if I’m going crazy or not, but by the way you reacted last week to him asking me out, your smug look after giving him shit on his dish, and everything else I already mentioned…I—I can’t help but think it has something to do with me.” I curse at myself for stumbling over the start of my last statement.
Grayson’s body remains in the same position. His arms are crossed over his chest, his hair is messy from the hat he was wearing, and he continues to lean against his desk station.
“This is you being professional?” he asks sternly, but doesn’t allow me to answer. “I have years of experience, Ms. Haywood. This class was booked solid within twenty minutes of its opening on the school website.” He steps away from the desk, but his arms stay crossed. “My job is to be harsh when needed, constructive when needed, and to give compliments to students who work their assess off.”
“Can I quote you on that?” I smirk, hiding how my body shakes in response to the tone of his voice.
Grayson steps forward and chuckles darkly. “On that, yes, you may, but what I’m about to say now is off the fucking record.”
He takes another step toward me, then another, as I stand frozen in place. My breaths quicken, and I feel the urge to run, but his gaze keeps me rooted.
“I will never do what you just accused me of.”
“And what did I accuse you of, exactly?”
His lips go straight, and now he’s only three feet away from me. “Letting my personal feelings get in the way of my job.”
My throat goes dry as there are only two feet between us. “And what personal feelings are those?”
He remains silent as he leaves about half a foot of space between us. My four-inch heels make me five-foot-four, standing next to his six-foot-three frame, allowing me to see him clearly.
