“Now go and eat,” he says, nodding to the table. “Scallops can’t wait or they get rubbery.”
By now my stomach is growling, so I sit down and eat. The scallops are excellent, crispy on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside. I finish them all just as Tyler brings me the perfectly cooked salmon and braised lentils, which are melt-in-your-mouth delicious.
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.
“Not bad, Chef,” I remark, which of course is a vast understatement.
His grin tells me he knows that. “Glad you like it.”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Your dad must be really proud of you.”
“He would be.” A shadow crosses his face. “He died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “I finally convinced my mom to sell the diner after he died. She’s living down in Florida now near my sister. I see them a couple of times a year. I’m thinking of opening a place down there someday.”
He looks at my empty plate and stands. “Hold on. One more thing I want you to try.”
A few minutes later, he returns with a warm, flourless chocolate torte adorned with raspberries and homemade coffee-bean ice cream.
“The ice cream is my favorite,” he says. “When it comes down to the basics, I’ll always pick good ice cream over anything else.”
He watches me as I eat the torte. I’m very conscious of his gaze.
“Tyler, this was amazing.” I lick the crumbs from my fork. “You didn’t have to take the time to show me so much, but I’m glad you did.”
“So am I. And I offered, remember? I was thinking we should come here as a class one afternoon. Like a field trip. So everyone can see how a restaurant kitchen runs.”
I look at him for a minute. His face is flushed from the heat of the stove, and his blond hair is ruffled. A few strands stick to his forehead. There’s a smear of chocolate on the front of his chef’s jacket.
Cute, indeed.
I pull on my coat and stand. “Thanks again. I won’t tell Charlotte I was here, though, because she’ll get jealous.”
“Charlotte doesn’t have a reason to be jealous.” He pauses. “Does she?”
“No.” I duck my head. “Of course not. I’ll, uh, see you in class.”
He walks me to the door. Before I leave, he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey.”
I stop.
“Did it make your soul sparkle again?” he asks.
For some insane reason, my throat closes over. I can’t speak past the constriction. Instead I just nod and pull away from him. He lets me go.
“See you in class, Liv.”
I hurry outside and walk back to my car. It’s not until I take off my coat before getting into the driver’s seat that I realize I’m still wearing the chef’s jacket. I pull it off and stuff it underneath the seat, then head home.
I smell like olive oil, salmon, dill, chocolate. I need a shower.
My chest is tight, even though I did nothing wrong.
Did I?
At home, I drop all my things on the counter beside Dean’s keys and briefcase. The shower is running. I remember the time I’d tried to join him in the shower and encountered a locked door.
Now my chest is so tight it hurts.
I go into the bedroom. The bathroom door is open.
I fumble with the hem of my T-shirt and start to take it off, then stop. Instead I reach underneath it, unhook my bra, and toss it aside. I take off my skirt but leave my panties on.
Before I can think too much, I enter the bathroom. Steam coats the air, blurring the mirror and the shower door. The outline of Dean’s body is behind the glass, his arms raised to scrub his hair.
He turns at the sound of me opening the shower door. Water cascades down his chest. My eyes follow the rivulets down to his groin. He’s already half-erect. That alone makes my heart throb. I wonder again what he’s been thinking about, standing here naked with hot water pounding over his skin.
I’m your wife, Dean.
I don’t know if the reminder is meant for me or him. Water splashes through the open door onto me, dampening my T-shirt.
Dean’s gaze goes to my breasts. My nipples harden and tent the soft cotton. My belly starts to swirl with desire, and I reach up to rub my palm across my breasts.
Dean places one hand flat against the door and pushes it fully open.
“Get in here,” he orders.
The gruff tone of his voice pulses through me. I step inside. The water drenches me in seconds, plastering my shirt to my skin and outlining every curve. Dean closes the door hard enough to rattle the glass on its hinges, then he turns and hauls me against him.
I move my hand down to brush against his cock. “What were you thinking about?”“You.”
“Really?”
“Porn.”
“No way.”
“No.” He slides his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him. “You. Really. Naked and moaning and creaming all over my prick.”
A shiver rocks me. The hard edge to his voice floods me with arousal.
His mouth crashes against mine, and lust surges like an ocean swell. I can feel the adrenaline from the football game still racing through him, the heat of his skin beneath the water.
He lifts his head. “You taste good.”
“I had… I had some chocolate.”
“Nice.”