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“Besides,” she said, looking up and giving me a smile. “I like Chef.”
“Okay,” Juan said, sounding very confused.
I eyed her with suspicion.
“You really need to wear nonslip shoes in the kitchen,” I said, feeling like I needed to make a statement about the safety of the staff in general, her in particular. “That’s an order.”
Her smile never wavered.
“Yes, Boss.” Isla had a bowl filled with mango for a chutney. She picked up a piece and bit into it, closing her eyes in ecstasy. “Hmm, this is so good. You should try it.”
Juan left the kitchen. The poor kid looked terrified.
Common sense told me not to go over to where she was standing with the bowl of fruit. I had never been known for taking the safe route. I went over and reached to snag some mango. She pulled the bowl away.
She was playing a game and I didn’t know the rules. But then I decided I wasn’t a rule-follower anyway. I liked to make it up as I went.
“Here, let me get it for you, Chef.” She fished out a piece and held it up to my lips with a mischievous sparkle in her eye.
If she was flirting to fuck with me, which I was almost one hundred percent certain she was doing, it wouldn’t be a hardship for me to do the same.
“Thanks.” I opened my mouth and let her place the mango between my lips. But I captured her wrist with mine to hold her hand there. Her eyes widened as I took both the mango and her finger into my open mouth.
A little gasp escaped her.
The juice of the mango when I bit it ran down over her fingers and I sucked each one, getting all the sweet flavor. It was highly unprofessional and something I had never even been tempted to do at work before. But staring into her eyes, I had been taken back to that moment in the hallway, when our lips had met, and there
had been an explosion between us.
Her eyes darkened with desire. I leaned closer to her.
Then she suddenly seemed to remember where she was because she jerked back so fast she collided with the work station, rattling bowls and knives. “What the hell?” she demanded, but her voice sounded more aroused than aggravated.
“Delicious mango,” I said, and my voice was rough and raw to my own ears.
Sure, I should apologize, but I didn’t think I could say anything without suggesting we go into the storeroom and put our hands all over each other.
Besides, she’d started it. If she couldn’t take it, she shouldn’t dish it out.
Isla picked up the bowl and shoved it at me. “Here, all yours.”
“Thanks.” I gave her a slow smile and put another piece into my mouth. I chewed and made sounds of pleasure. “Mmm.”
She rolled her eyes. “What are your thoughts on the Best of Brooklyn cook-off? I know it's a month away but I know Nico wants to approve a menu soon.”
I had plenty of thoughts about the competition, but in the interest of fostering a better working relationship between us, I wanted to hear her thoughts. “What did you do last year? I don’t want to repeat anything.”
“Last year we did a twist on Tex Mex. Street corn, pork belly fajitas, that kind of thing.”
I nodded, moving in next to her as she sliced the tenderloin. I started making the rub for our smoked brisket. We had a smoker in the back, venting to the alley, and I had to make the rub to start the brisket for overnight smoking. We would slice and serve it tomorrow with our special sauce. “I get that. But I don’t want to be predictable.”
Isla didn’t say anything.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?”
She cleared her throat. “Was there a question in your statement? Because I didn’t hear one. Are you asking for my opinion?”
Her flirty facade was slipping just a little. Not a lot, but this Isla felt more familiar than the one who had been pulling a Susie Sunshine routine the last few days.
