“How is it?” I ask.
“Taste it.” She reaches for her notebook, scribbling something down with that distracting pink pen. A tendril of hair, loose from her customary braid, falls over her face. I nearly tuck it behind her ear. She doesn’t notice, fortunately; one slip-up in a day is more than enough. “I actually think I’m onto something here.”
I stick the spoon in my mouth. The slight sweetness of the sherry vinegar hits my taste buds first, always a pleasant sensation. The flavor profile expands, however, as I sink into the silkiness of the olive oil and the sharp grain of the mustard. A hint of shallot. A generous hit of salt and pepper. Honey, instead of a pinch of sugar, and fennel seed, an unexpected note lingering at the end.
It needs tweaks—I can already picture them in my mind—but it’s much better than any of our other attempts. Poppy bounces on her heels, clearly pleased with herself.
“So?”
“You already know the answer.”
“But I want to hear you say it.”
I’ve always admired the honesty of kitchens. No one tiptoes around anything. If something isn’t cooked properly, it’s brought to that chef’s attention. If someone’s technique is wrong, they practice until they get better. Communication is paramount, because without it, we’d be scrambling to put out different fires, and no one would get fed.
“This is the direction we’re going in.” I tap the edge of the plastic container with the used spoon. “Write down the measurements.”
“Already have.”
“I have tweaks in mind, but I’ll mull them over first. We should clean up, anyway.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No sarcasm?”
“I’m shocked too,” she teases, one shoulder lifting in a shrug.
I tested her earlier with that aged gouda, curious about what she would taste and how she’d describe it. She sounded thoughtful, and downright clever. A budding chef. I wonder what she’d say if I told her that. Despite her enthusiasm, this is a brief interlude for her. A push for independence. As soon as she realizeshow much she misses the world she came from, she’ll be gone. The sight of her in this kitchen, in my bed on the houseboat—it’s all temporary.
I can’t forget that.
And yet I also can’t stop staring at her as she bends over the sink, tackling the dirty dishes. She’s humming to herself, her braid dangling over her shoulder.
Weeks of seeing that braid every day, and I haven’t gotten over the urge to tug on it.
Preferably while kissing her speechless.
I’m not the man for her, and she’s not the woman for me, yet my body doesn’t give a damn. It wants to press against her, my rapidly stiffening cock fitting against the curve of her backside. It wants me to devour her mouth, licking up every remnant of the food we tried. It wants to nibble on her delicate neck and earlobes and everywhere else as I breathe her in.
She catches my eye over her shoulder. “Hey, have you looked for staff yet?”
“What?”
“Staff,” she says, going back to the scrubbing. “You told me you’re handling it, but no one has even come in for an interview, and it’s not like you and Herman can just...” She trails off, blinking as I sidle to the sink. “Hartman? You’ve got those dead fish eyes again.”
One kiss. One kiss, and I’ll get this awful, unwanted desire out of my system. She’ll probably slap me after.
That shouldn’t make my cock throb, but fuck, it does.
I lunge forward, pressing my lips against hers with every bit of the feverish desire pumping through me. She nearly falls backward into the sink, but I catch her in time. Instead, mixing bowls and plates and measuring cups crash into the basin in a cascade. I steady myself with a soapy hand, then wrap it around her braid, tugging so we’re kissing so deeply, our teeth catch. I nip her bottom lip and she moans. It jolts her into action; she kisses back, arms flung around my neck. It’s a fucking mess, harsh and bruising, but I can’t bring myself to cut it short. Not with her body pressed against mine, warm and so, so soft. Not as her fingers skate into my hair to tug on the ends. I’m an animal, going on instinct, my body begging for more. Idevour her until my lungs are screaming, and by some miracle, she doesn’t pull away.
When we finally come up for air, she stares, her gorgeous lips swollen, a bit of soap on her cheek. Her eyes are wide, blue as sapphires. She wipes her hands on her apron.
“Jack,” she whispers.
I tug her into my arms again. Breathe in the rosemary and mint smell of her, underneath the soap, and nuzzle a spot by her ear. Her breath hitches. She presses close enough I can feel her racing heart. She feels right, held against me. Soft. Beautiful. I’ve never had a moment like this with a woman, so charged that a first kiss has me aching for release. Her fingertips stroke over my beard. Her breath ghosts over my lips. Sparks of heat rush through me, each one coaxing the fire in my belly, my groin. I lean in the rest of the way, kissing her slowly this time. Taking my time, as if she’s a vintage wine I’m lucky enough to taste. I wonder if she can feel my heartbeat, too. My arousal, straining against my jeans. She slides her fingers down, tracing over the tentacle at my throat. I swallow against her fingertips, shuddering.
She tears away with a sharp gasp.
