“Me? Really?”
“Really.” He holds the front door open for me. “You’ve improved a lot, Liv, and I think they’d have some interesting questions for you. Plus, you’re articulate and… uh, well… they want people who’ll look good on camera.”
That comment should deepen my unease, but instead I’m pleased. “You think I’d look good on camera?”
“Well, yeah.” In the dim parking lot, a flush colors his face. “You look good… you know, all the time, so you’d look great on camera.”
We pass his car and he stops to put his stuff in the trunk. After feeling so lousy for so long, I’m now intensely warmed by his compliments.
“Thanks.”
“So you’ll do it?” he asks as we continue to my car.
“Sure. Sounds like fun.” I open the passenger side door of my car and place my satchel and containers on the seat. “Will they want me to say nice things about you, though?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.” There’s a smile in his voice. “The question is, do you have nice things to say about me?”
I turn. He’s standing right behind me, too close, resting one arm against the car roof. Even in the light of the streetlamps, his eyes are very, very blue. I’m trapped between him and the open door of the car, but I don’t feel threatened. Just warm, almost sheltered.
“I have a lot of nice things to say about you,” I admit.
I am acutely aware that things are getting dangerous. That I should get in the car now and drive away.
But I don’t.
“Yeah? Like what?” He doesn’t move closer to me. He also doesn’t move back. He studies me, his gaze flickering down to my mouth and back up to my eyes.
“You’re a great teacher,” I say. “An amazing chef. You’re patient, confident, supportive. And you help your students believe in themselves.”
He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “Wow. Tell that to the producer, and I might end up with my own show.”
“You deserve one.” I mean that, too.
“Thanks.” He moves a little closer.
I don’t back away, not that I could have even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. He puts one hand on the car door behind me and lowers his head.
I stiffen when his mouth touches mine. Confusion rises in me, warring with curiosity.
And interest. Yes.
His lips are gentle but unfamiliar, fumbling for a second before settling against mine. For a moment, he doesn’t move and we stand there with nothing but our lips touching feather-light. Then he shifts, and the pressure increases.
I jerk away. The back of my head hits the edge of the car door.
Tyler stops and straightens, his gaze searching mine. I pull in a breath and just stare at him. He slides his hand to the back of my head and massages the place where I’d bumped it. His fingers are warm and strong. Pleasure unknots my tension, smoothes down my spine. Then he lowers his head again.
This time, I meet him halfway. Our lips touch, still soft. Because he is not much taller than I am, we fit together easily and without strain. Warmth begins to ease through my blood, washing away my lingering fear. He moves his lips lightly against mine, unthreatening, almost comforting. He tastes like chives and tarragon.
It’s nice. Very nice.
He slides his hands down to my hips and curls his fingers into the material of my skirt. After a moment’s hesitation, I rest my hands on his waist. I can feel the heat of his skin even through his chef’s jacket. So close to me, his body feels the way I’d imagined it—firm and solid.
My fingers tremble. Desire flickers low in my belly. The scents of the kitchen cling to him—melting butter, the fragrance of chopped herbs, sweet onions, ripe peppers, olive oil. It’s potent, delicious, sparking a hunger for more than just food.
Tyler doesn’t try to push things too fast, too far. He doesn’t press his body against mine or try to touch me beyond grasping my hips. His kiss is sweet, almost tender, and the sensation of it lights something within me that I thought had gone out.
I swallow hard, my hands tightening on his waist as I part my lips tentatively. His fingers flex in reaction as our tongues touch. It’s smooth and easy… too easy.
My heart pounds. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Within seconds, our lips are pressing harder together, tongues tangling in an effortless rhythm.
A rhythm that makes me want him.
The realization hits me hard, cracking through the haze of lust. I freeze. My hands drop away from him.
He lifts his head and stares at me, his breath hard against my lips. He looks almost as shocked as I feel—not because the kiss happened, but because of how it felt.
I manage to get my hand up between us to ease him away. He steps back, rubbing a hand across his mouth.
“Liv.” His eyes fill with consternation. “I’m sorry. I—”
“No.” I can hardly get the word out. “Don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”