Page 48 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

Yeah, yeah, he had earned his Michelin stars.

I was suddenly hungry. His dish looked amazing.

“Ladies first,” he said, gesturing toward his plate.

I took a bite and had to suppress a moan of pleasure. The pasta was perfectly al dente, the filling a silky blend of ricotta and herbs that practically melted on my tongue. The brown butter sauce was nutty and rich without being heavy, and the sage added just the right aromatic note.

“Damn you,” I said after swallowing. “That’s really good.”

“Thank you.”

“Your turn,” I said, sliding my creation toward him.

He looked skeptical as he dipped his spoon into the layers, but his expression changed completely when he tasted it. The coffee and mascarpone played off each other perfectly, the chocolate soil adding texture and depth, the whole thing somehow managing to be both familiar and completely unexpected.

It wasn’t the first time I made it. I knew it would work. Usually I would give myself more time, but I had pulled it off. I knew I did, judging by the look on his face.

“How did you—” He stopped, taking another bite. “The mascarpone isn’t grainy at all. How did you get it to set so quickly?”

“Trade secret,” I said smugly. “So what’s the verdict?”

We grabbed a bottle of champagne from his well-stocked bar and took our dishes out to the balcony. The Miami night was warm with just enough of a breeze to make it comfortable. The city sparkled below us, and the hot tub bubbled invitingly in the corner.

“I hate to admit it,” Rhett said after we’d both finished eating, “but I think you might have won this one.”

“Might have? That tiramisu was inspired and you know it.”

“It was creative, I’ll give you that. But my ravioli was technically superior.”

“Technically superior doesn’t mean better. Sometimes the best dishes are the ones that take risks.”

We debated back and forth, the champagne making us both more animated and silly. It was exactly what I had been hoping for when I suggested the cook-off. It was a way to break through his sudden return to brooding.

Success.

I kept finding my gaze drawn to the hot tub. After hours of dancing and then the intensity of cooking, every muscle in my body was crying out for relief. The thought of sinking into that hot, bubbling water was almost irresistible.

“You know,” Rhett said, following my gaze, “winner gets first dibs, remember? And since we can’t agree on who won…”

“Are you suggesting we share?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light even as my pulse quickened at the suggestion.

“I’m saying you’re welcome to get in if you want. I can see you eyeing it.”

The offer was loaded with possibility. It was another crossroads. Another choice. We could maintain safe professional boundaries or acknowledge that something was shifting between us.

I made my choice.

Standing up from my chair, I reached behind me for the zipper of my dress. “Well, since I clearly won our little competition.”

I let the dress slide down my body and pool at my feet, leaving me in nothing but my black lace bra and matching thong. It wasn’t anything more revealing than a bikini would have been, but the intimacy of the moment made it feel incredibly bold.

Rhett looked like he was about to swallow his tongue. Mission accomplished.

His eyes raked over my body. He didn’t hide his appreciation. And I stood there longer than necessary to make sure he looked his fill. I was playing with fire. I didn’t care. I was a chef. I was used to getting burned.

I stepped into the hot tub. The warm water immediately began to work its magic on my tired muscles. The bubbles rose around me as I settled onto one of the built-in seats. I couldn’t suppress a small sigh of pleasure at how good it felt.

When I looked back over my shoulder, Rhett was still sitting in his chair, champagne glass frozen halfway to his lips, staring at me like I had just performed actual magic.

“Are you only brave in the kitchen?” I asked, letting challenge creep back into my voice.