Page 49 of The Chef

“Alright.” Bay flicks her hair back and turns to the sink, washing her hands with soapy water. She’s trying to appear confident with the way she glides over to the kitchen counter and checks around for the right cooking equipment, but I know she’s nervous. Good. I want her to be. She talks the good talk, let’s see if she can pull this off.

It’ll be good to embarrass her if she’s not even that good after all.

“Medium rare?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Got it.”

I watch Bay as she circles around the kitchen, spinning from counter to counter and fridge to grill as she slowly prepares herself. I cross my arms, hoping to be a watchful nuisance.

She turns to me. “How about you take a step back, Cliff.”

I raise my hands up. “Sure.”

I give her the space to work around me. I watch her as she cooks a nice cut of steak we’ve stored in the fridge. I watch her cute brown hair sway as she speeds around the kitchen, I watch the softness of her lips as she works and her lovely intense green eyes as she closely observes what she’s doing.

The girl’s very pretty, I’ll give her that.

She’s not like a supermodel, but she’s more real. Not someone I would normally fancy, but here we are. I like how she handles the food, the way she plays with it. I don’t want to admit it, but she knows what she’s doing. She’s got this under control.

I like her.

Dammit. It was never supposed to come to this. I told myself never again after what happened with Cleo. No more girls, I told myself after that Paris hotel room. Don’t expose your heart like that.

But Bay Dover has swanned into my life and is tearing open my heart like she’s currently doing with the steak in front of her.

What have I got myself into?

“Ta da,” she exclaims, and I blink, snapping out of my daydream.

She’s done.

“You’re finished?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“No way.”

“I’m all done.”

She spins around and offers me a plate. She’s cooked a steak and smothered it in garlic sauce. I take a peek at it, then at her. Bay is biting her lip, waiting for my reaction.

She looks kinda cute like that.

I place the steaming plate on the kitchen counter, pick up my steak knife, and cut it open.

It’s cooked perfectly to medium-rare, just pink enough. The way I like it.

Damn, she’s good.

I take a bite.

The flavor explodes in my mouth and I find myself drooling for the rest of it.

Shit, she’s really good.

No way.