Page 38 of Tastes Like Summer

“I don’t care if Gordon Ramsay himself taught you—you’re doing it wrong.” He takes the knife from my hands and pulls a honing steel from one of the bags. With careful precision, he begins to sharpen the eight inch chef’s knife, swiping the blade over one side of the steel rod from the bottom to the top and switching sides. He repeats this motion about five times, and it’s only once he’s done that I realize I didn’t breathe once throughout the entire process.

I shake my head to try and clear it before attempting to get us back on track. “Are you saying that my mother was wrong? That she doesn’t know how to cook?”

He huffs out a laugh as he rinses the knife and wipes it clean. “No. I would never insult any mother’s cooking, even if I don’t know her. I’m just saying your technique is wrong.”

“God, you love disagreeing with me, don’t you?

Michael smirks when he hands the knife back to me. “No, I think you’re confusing me with yourself.”

He moves behind me, reaches around to adjust my hold on the knife. “Here. It should be easier now that it’s sharp. With your right hand, pinch the blade with your thumb and forefinger, then grip the handle with the rest of your fingers. And then with your left hand, hold the veg or whatever the hell it is you’re chopping in a claw shape. Like this.” He gently takes my left hand in his and shapes it to his liking. “That way, your fingertips are safe since your knuckles act as a protective barrier.” He runs his fingers over them, a current of electricity shooting up my arm.

Michael crowds me from behind, my body between the hard marble of his chest and that of the countertop. He is predator and protector at the same time. The way he curves over my spine leads me to believe he’d stand between me and an avalanche without hesitation, but would love to eat me simultaneously. I’m surrounded and… it feels amazing. I feel his hot breath on my neck and close my eyes, imagining the feel of him in this position—only in bed with considerably fewer clothes. I can’t help the whimper that breaks free from my lips.

Yeah, this definitely isn’t a little crush.

“Michael,” I murmur his name, though I barely hear it over my heart’s loud drumming.

Suddenly, I feel the tip of his nose drag up my neck. Soft as a feather, but with the intensity of a laser beam. Heat blooms low in my belly and I nearly whimper when he takes a deep breath, holding it in for several seconds. “You smell,” he whispers low in my ear, “like the most fucking delicious summer peach.”

My breath hitches, his hand sliding up my left arm. Without thinking, I lean back, giving in, and realize that his chest isn’t the only marble-hard thing about him.

Did she just—?

My arm bands around her waist as I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve wanted her for weeks—I can admit it to myself now after being in denial for so long—but now isn’t the time and it isn’t the place. So while I am on cloud fucking nine, I know I have to force myself to come off it.

I gather the strength of a million Greek gods and begin to loosen my hold on her, part my lips to say something that will stop this before it starts, to say something that will make it clear that while I do want to keep going, we can’t have it now. But then she looks over her shoulder, stares up at me through thick lashes with those beautiful, dark eyes of hers, and I can’t help it. I lose any hope of self control. Heart beating against my ribs, I lean in, half an inch away from kissing the most gorgeous lips I have ever⁠—

A phone rings in the background. It’s fuzzy in my head, but I can hear it, and it brings us both to a stop.

We freeze as we gaze at each other, waiting for something or someone to tell us what to do next. Is it right, kissing her now, like this? I don’t think so. But do I want it? Fuck, yes. It feels like I haven’t wanted anything as much as I want this in my entire existence.

“That’s my phone,” she whispers after a few seconds, her sweet breath on my lips almost making me forget every logical thought in my brain.

“You—you should probably get that, then. Before the person hangs up. Might be important.” I loosen my hold on her, and she clears her throat. When she slips out of my arms, I’m left with the most hollow feeling in the world. The loss, though short, is almost seismic.

“It’s my boss; I have to take this. I’m sorry,” she says, looking genuinely apologetic.

“It’s alright. I’ll just…” I’ll just what exactly? Go die of embarrassment, maybe?

I exhale deeply and step outside into the pool area to take a breather on one of the lounge chairs. And to wait til my dick calms down, because, yeah, that was one of the hottest moments of my life, and there wasn’t even kissing. Just feeling her like that…

I shut my eyes and lie back, listening to the crickets chirp as the sun goes down, Diana’s voice faint and muffled in the background, while I try not to think about all the ways in which I would’ve liked that moment to have progressed.

It’s a while before I hear the sliding glass door of the pool house open, but when I do, I sit up in a panic, not knowing what to expect. I never intended for this to happen, and definitely not like that.

“Hey,” she says, walking up to me with a wry smile.

The sun is a kaleidoscope of oranges, yellows, pinks, and purples—breathtaking in its own way—but it’s nothing in comparison to the way she looks tonight.

It’s a few seconds before I can breathe again.

“Hey.”

She takes a seat in the lounge chair beside mine and faces toward me, so I sit up and face her.

“Sorry about that. Colorado is two hours behind, so I’m technically still on call for work, you know? Usually, I’m not done until maybe eight or nine P.M.”

“Oh. That sucks. I’m sorry.” And I am. Anyone who’s met Diana for even a second will know that she is not one to shirk work responsibilities or give anything less than one hundred percent of herself in anything she does. I’d bet my entire professional chef knives collection that she’s been running herself ragged—and still thinking she isn’t doing enough.