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Derrick was perfectly fine. I loved him, but I wasn'tin lovewith him. He was my friend, and when it came to sex, it was pleasant. But not passionate. And, despite his best efforts, it always left me wanting and unsatisfied. Sex with Derrick was like being inside a bakery. You can see and smell everything. You can even watch the baker bake every beautiful cookie and cake until it makes your mouth water. Until you crave a slice of cake so badly you can almost taste it. But you never get to eat any goddamned cake, and it's incredibly frustrating. So frustrating that you eventually resent the baker and the whole fucking bakery.
I just want to eat some fucking cake.
Cake that I don't have to bake myself. And I'm great at making myself cake, but sometimes I think it would be nice to have someone else mix the batter and lick the icing off my spoon.
Who knows, maybe I'm one of those girls who can't come during sex. Even with Aaron I didn't feel the zing of lust and desire that I feel with Chase. We never got passed the kissing phase of our relationship, but the few times we engaged in handsy make-out sessions, I didn't even feel a tingle down there. When he used to rub his hands over my thighs and press his palm into the spot where he thought my clit was, I knew what he was trying to accomplish, but he never succeeded in reaching the goal.
It's stupid when you think about it. I don't understand why men don't just communicate with a woman and ask her what she likes. They act like finding a woman's clit is the equivalent of finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Virtually impossible and perhaps even make-believe. But seriously, it'sright there.And when I hear stories about women humouring their boyfriends or husbands by going to the doctor to have aweird little lumpon their lady bits checked, I don't understand how the human race ever procreated in the first place.It's not cancer, you dumb ass. It's my clit.Communication really isn’t our strong suit. Maybe men really are from Mars and women from Venus, and we are speaking two different languages.
Chase is an inferno where Derrick and Aaron were tiny sparks to a flame that never caught. I feel like if he were to touch me, really touch me, I would detonate.
Chase grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, never taking his lips from mine. He's forceful in a way I've never experienced, and I like it. It's exciting and new, and I want more of it.
"Is this what you want, little Lily?" He asks, using my old nickname while grinding into me.
"Yes," I breathe as he runs kisses down my neck, never letting go of my wrists. "I want you, Chase."
A crash from the hallway interrupts whatever delicious thing he planned on doing next. Much to my dismay, he stops and stares at me for a moment, and I am pretty sure I'm an utterly dishevelled mess. His eyes dart to his large hands holding tight onto my wrists pinned against the wall. Like the flip of a switch, something in him goes cold, forcing him to jump back from me like he's been burned.
"What?" I ask, confused. "What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry, Lily. I'm so fucking sorry." The look on Chase’s face is a mixture of worry and something else I can’t name. "I didn't mean—we can't do this."
Before I can't get another word in, Chase turns on his heels and leaves. He just disappears. I'm left dazed, confused, and incredibly turned on. What did I do wrong when everything felt so intensely right?
I have no idea what just happened, but I want more of it.
Nothing and everything has changed.
And Chase Wilder is still a jerk.
A gorgeous, beautiful jerk who makes my pulse race.
2
Cooking for Show
Lily
Present
Itake a deep breath and straighten my jacket. Every time I wear my white chef's uniform, with its double-breasted buttons, a sense of pride fills my chest. I've worked my ass off for this. I spent four gruelling years in culinary school and two years cooking under some of the best chefs in the world to learn the art of cooking.
It's an art and a science. The art comes in the presentation of the food. People always say you eat with your eyes first, and a great chef knows how to make even average food look exquisite. The science comes in knowing what spices and flavours complement each other. But the real trick is curating the ability to transform any ingredient into something people will moan in delight over.
I check and recheck my knives for sharpness. They could easily take off a finger or two, and that's just how I like them. I may or may not have sliced the tip of my thumb off a time or two, but that's neither here nor there. It grew back.
I've got this.
I know I do.
This is my chance. My big break. I haven't spent the last six years of my life working towards this goal to flame out now. I glance around the room at my competition. Holly said there would be at least two other chefs competing to become the Toronto Northmen's personal chef. They're both older men, and I know they've discarded me as the token woman of the group. Men always underestimate me, and I like it that way. I'm the unsuspecting assassin.
When people look at me, they see one of two things—A smallish, blonde sprite of a woman with curly hair, or Luke Valentine's little sister. I never thought the two entities would merge, but here I am. Holly and Avery have assured me this position is not guaranteed. They may have gotten me in the door, but I have to earn my place with the team just like everyone else.
This year the team is hiring a professional chef to work alongside a nutritionist to create meal plans, recipes, and food for the NHL's most popular team. This past spring, the Northmen went all the way to game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals and lost after a funny bounce in overtime to St. Louis.
It was a heartbreaker. My brother, the captain of the team, was devastated. Everyone could taste victory on the tips of their tongues, only to have it ripped away. And now the team's hungry for a win.
