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“You did,” she assured him. “I was just being tactful amidst polite society.”
“So,” he said with a devious grin, “what my kiss did to your other body parts is considered unmentionable ‘amidst polite society’?”
“Suffice it to say, you don’t leave a dry thong in your wake, Chef St. James.”
He groaned. “Now I’m hard.” Thankfully, his leather jacket was zipped and long enough to cover most of the bulge between his legs.
Bayli said, “Serves you right. What the hell were you thinking kissing me like that in front of all these people?”
“I don’t fucking know,” he earnestly told her. “Not my style at all. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing to me, Bayli, but … I’m dying to kiss you like that again. With or without the audience.”
“Rory.” She stopped walking. “This could be bad publicity for the show.”
“First of all, honey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. I yell at people in my kitchen all the time, and that’s never resulted in bad publicity. Second, it could actually intrigue viewers if there’s speculation about what goes on between us when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
She shook her head. “There’s nothing going on between us. Not presently. Not really. And that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m thinking in terms of all the female fans—even some of the guys—who will hate me if there’s evidence you’re into me. Beyond that, what about Christian? And beyond that…” She pulled in another deep breath. Let it out slowly. “What am I talking about? What am I trying to say?”
He chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” she insisted in a haughty tone as she swatted at his arm. “I am a very smart woman who has very collected and highly organized thoughts. Yet at the moment … I can’t latch on to a single sane one. What did you do to me with just a kiss?”
Rory’s lips whisked over hers and he murmured, “Beats the hell out of me. But you being all flustered like this is driving me wild. Let’s get going.”
“No! Wait!”
She didn’t budge when he tried to get her moving toward the car.
“Bayli.” He stared her down. “Not the best time for a battle of wills. I’ve got fresh duck that needs to be in an oven soon and we still have a lot of curious eyes on us.”
The woman he’d so rapidly become enthralled with gave him a sassy look. “You’re forgetting one thing, Mr. Perfect Chef.”
“I never forget anything when it comes to cooking.”
She pointed at his bag and said, “Where’s your French baguette?”
“My wha—”
“The baguette,” she repeated. “Every romantic comedy the world over that features any sort of meal being prepared always has a scene in it with a French baguette poking out of the paper bag. You don’t have a paper bag because you are clearly environmentally friendly with your reusable cloth tote, but still. Point being—”
“Point taken,” he gruffly interjected, “but I make my own bread.”
“Of course you do.” She sighed. “Because you really are perfect.”
“Hardly,” he grumbled. Then stalked over to a vendor who displayed an array of baked goods, slapped down two bucks on the table, and stuffed a baguette into his overcrowded bag. He turned back to Bayli. “All good here?”
She smiled prettily. “Rob Reiner would approve.”
“Fabulous.”
They returned to the car. As they merged with slow-moving traffic, Rory said, “I read on your application that you’ve only been in the city a couple of months. And you’re from River Cross, California.”
“If you’re wondering if I knew Christian back in the day, the answer is no.”
“Well, we’re both five years older than you. But also, he lived outside of town.”
“He told me.”
“Really?” Rory was taken by surprise. “That’s something he rarely shares.”
