“K.”
I take a menacing step in his direction.
“F.”
Another step.
“C.”
And one more, so I’m right up in his face.
Actually… he’s about a foot taller than me. So I’m not exactly in his face. But I’m close to his face. In the general proximity of his face. Which totally conveys the same threatening effect.
Right?
Shit.
Emmett’s lips twitch as he looks down at me. I fear my lethal glare isn’t quite as intimidating as I thought it would be.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I growl under my breath, hoping no one else can hear.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” A dimple pops out in his right cheek and more butterflies burst into flight. “You know… you’re pretty fucking cute when you’re angry. No wonder your kitchen staff puts up with your tirades.”
The butterflies die instantly, incinerated by a fresh wave of anger. “I do not have tirades.”
“Fine.” He pauses. “Diatribes?”
I hear several telltale snorts from behind me and swivel my head around. Sure enough, every single one of my underlings is staring avidly in our direction, fascinated by the sight of two premiere New York City chefs mere inches away from strangling the life out of each other.
Or… maybe, doing something entirely different to each other. Something I refuse to let my brain contemplate.
“Everyone is dismissed,” I bark gruffly, making them all flinch. “I’ll finish the clean-up. See you tomorrow night. On time. That means you, Steve.”
With a murmured chorus of “Yes, Chef”, they slip out of the kitchen without a word of protest. The door bangs shut with finality. Steeling myself for another round of battle, I glance back at Emmett and find his smirk is more pronounced than ever.
“Tell me again how you don’t have tirades rivaling that of a small, tyrannical dictator?”
“You know, when I ordered everyone out, that applied to you as well.” I look pointedly toward the door. “Shoo.”
“Did you just shoo me? Like a dog?” He laughs again. The sound pools in my stomach like a warm shot of whisky.
“If the fleas fit,” I say sweetly, turning my back to him. I cross to the closest stainless prep table and grab the bottle of disinfectant spray. There are still plenty of counters to clean and utensils to store, thanks to my early staff dismissal. I’m glad for the distraction.
He won’t leave?
Fine.
I’ll ignore him.
I set to work, misting the surface and wiping it down with rhythmic strokes. Usually, this kind of monotonous task would be enough to calm me. However, tonight, with Emmett standing five feet away watching my every move, I find myself more keyed-up than ever. Nervous energy zips along my nerve endings.
“Ignoring me now?” His voice is wry and warm.
I scrub harder.
“That’s fine, Ems. We don’t have to talk.”
I hear footsteps heading my direction, but I don’t look up — not even when he comes to a stop next to me. He’s standing so close, I can feel the heat off his skin, can hear the soft, steady breaths escaping his lips. Shifting so much as an inch would bring our bodies into direct contact… and I’d be lying if I said, just for an instant, I’m not reckless enough to consider the repercussions.
What would happen if I closed that gap?
If, just this once, I let my unparalleled self-control lapse?
I push the voice away, cursing myself for even considering such madness. No matter what he looks like in that suit… I hate Emmett Fox, and I always will.
Even if he’s hotter than the blow-torch I use to caramelize my creme br?lée.
Holding myself perfectly still, I hardly dare to draw a breath as I wait for him to say something that will shatter the heady tension filling up the narrow sliver of air left between us… but he doesn’t say a single word.
My heart begins to pound faster.
My fingers clench the rag harder.
After a moment, a large, callused hand reaches into my line of sight and grabs the disinfectant spray. To my everlasting relief — and, admittedly, a tiny shred of disappointment — Emmett steps out of my space. My lungs resume functioning. Keeping my eyes locked on the cleaning cloth in my hand, I listen as he rounds the kitchen island and takes up a position directly across from me.
With the stainless table planted firmly between us, I feel safe enough to steal a small glance at him. Just one, tiny peek won’t hurt…
Right?
Wrong.
My heart stutters a beat as I take in the sight of Emmett shrugging out of his expensive jacket and tossing it onto a nearby shelf. There’s something almost erotic about the way he rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white button-down, those dexterous fingers folding back the fabric to reveal a set of sun-bronzed forearms. My mouth feels suddenly dry as I watch his muscles flex beneath the cotton fabric of his shirt when he sprays down the stainless surface and begins to wipe it clean with practiced motions.
“Wh-wha—” I swallow hard. “What are you doing?”
“Playing basketball,” he deadpans, not looking up.
I sigh. “Why are you helping me clean?”
“Contrary to what you might think, I’m actually a nice guy.”
“Not from what I remember. In fact, nice wouldn’t even make the top fifty adjectives I’d use to describe you, Fox.”
“Fifty adjectives, huh?” He whistles. “Guess that means you think about me a lot.”
“Try never.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Ems.”
“Wasn’t aware you had a heart.”
He glances up, catching my gaze immediately. There’s a lighthearted look on his face, but his eyes are more serious than I can ever recall seeing them. “You’re certainly determined to carry on this feud, aren’t you?”
“Me?” I snort. “Refresh my memory — was it me who went to your restaurant, sent back your signature dish three times, then came into your kitchen to troll you in front of your staff?” I pause. “No! That was you.”
“Come on, Ems. Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Somewhere in the garbage, along with the three uneaten batches of coq au vin I made tonight.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” He sets down his rag and braces his hands against the table. “Yes, it was a dick move… but it was also my only move. If I’d asked to come back here to see your kitchen — to see you — would you have rolled out the welcome mat for me? Or would you have sent that waitress straight back to my table with a message to get the hell out of your restaurant and out of your life?”
I jerk my chin in lieu of an answer.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”
“In case you’re forgetting — it’s not like you deserve a red carpet reception, Fox. Not after all the shit you put me through back in culinary school.”
“Such as?”
“How about the time you slid skewers inside all my baguettes, so I couldn’t slice them?”
“You mean, after you’d removed all of mine from the cooling rack without permission, to make room for your own?”
I have no rebuttal for that.
Emmett snorts. “Cooking with you was like a military coup d'état — no compromise, no communication. Just a seizure of control without any concern for anyone else.”
“Nice,” I drawl sarcastically.
“True,” he counters softly. “You may blame me for starting this rivalry, but of the two of us, you’re the one who made everything such a damn competition. I was just… rising to the challenge.”
“Oh, spare me. Not all your pranks were so justifiable.” I narrow my eyes at him. “What about the time you dyed my chef’s hat bright green with food coloring? I walked around all week looking like a damn leprechaun.”
“It was Saint Patrick’s Day! I was being festive. And you dyed my soufflés blue in retaliation,” he reminds me, smiling. “Or am I not permitted to mention your offenses, prosecutor?”