“Wyatt, please just acknowledge that everyone is drunk by now!” a woman yelled from by the coolers. “This isn’t fucking Top Chef!”
Wyatt spread his hands wide on the stainless steel table, gripping the edges in an effort to keep his cool. He dropped his head and roared, “Goddamnit, Kaya, if the mousse isn’t perfect I’m going to fucking fire you!”
I watched Kaya grin at his back, pleased that she’d gotten to him. “I’m here on a volunteer basis tonight, asshole! You can’t fire me for helping you out.” The rest of his cooks ducked their heads and focused intently on staying out of his way.
“And I thought Killian was scary,” I said loud enough to catch Wyatt’s attention.
His head snapped up and I had the pleasure of watching his cheeks turn red. “Killian had me for a sous chef,” he growled, throwing a murderous glance to the back of his kitchen. “And I didn’t run my mouth constantly.”
Kaya dropped a tray of chocolate mousse cups next to Wyatt. “That’s because you were too busy using it to kiss his ass.” She walked away making smooching noises.
Wyatt glared at the desserts. “So help me God, if these aren’t perfectly fucking executed.”
“I should put a cuss jar back here,” I told him. “I’d be rich.”
“You’re trying to push me over the edge, aren’t you?” Wyatt snarled at me. “You’ve joined forces with Satan’s mistress and the two of you are in cahoots to give me an aneurism.”
“Who’s Satan’s mistress?”
Kaya raised her hand. “That would be me. It’s our esteemed chef’s affectionate pet name for me. Along with Madam Satan, She Devil, the Antichrist’s Baby Mama, and Mrs. Bin Laden.”
Mrs. Bin Laden?
I swallowed a laugh since it was obvious Kaya didn’t appreciate her nicknames. “Quite the hostile work environment you’re fostering, Wyatt.”
He grumbled more curse words beneath his breath, but overall chose to ignore my comment. “What can I help you with, Molls?”
I shrugged and took a nervous sip of my champagne. “Just stopped by to see how you were doing. I was hoping you would be done by now and could come hang out with me.”
Wyatt reached up to tug at his tall chef’s toque. “Wish I could, but I have to finish up desserts. I’ll be out as soon as we clean up.”
“So in like three hours?”
“Sorry.” He frowned. “You hired me to work. I’m still working.”
I didn’t really hire him. He volunteered. But I understood that he still had a job to do, and I didn’t want to get in the way. “Find me later?”
His expression softened and his eyes warmed, transforming his looks completely. Wyatt was a total bad ass. At only thirty years old, he already commanded one of the best kitchens in the state. He’d inherited Lilou from Killian, taking over to fill giant shoes. But Wyatt hadn’t faltered for a second. From what Vera had told me, Ezra was seriously impressed with how Wyatt was able to handle the kitchen, the menu, and the staff.
Wyatt wasn’t hard to look at either. He was tall and lean, his corded muscles like taut ropes against bone. High cheekbones, a square jaw, perfectly shaped ears, on top of a rock-hard body, and kick ass kitchen skills? Yes, please.
Also, I only noted his ears because his shaved head drew attention to them. I didn’t have like an ear fetish or anything weird.
But what put Wyatt at an entirely different level than most of the good-looking men I knew, was his bad boy attitude complete with facial piercings and tattoos. All the tattoos. From his wrists they snaked upward, over sinewy forearms and cut biceps, ducking beneath his clothes and reappearing around his neck, all the way up to those strangely attractive ears. Wyatt was the kind of guy that made butterflies leap, and dance, and dive—and panties melt right off your body.
The first time I met Wyatt I thought for sure I was going to combust from sheer nerves. Because he wasn’t just pretty to look at, he was also one of the coolest people I’d ever known.
Unfortunately for me, we’d gotten to be too good of friends. For like a hot second I thought there would be something between us. But now he fit firmly in the friend zone. And I knew I was the same for him.
It was a bummer I would never get to know what it was like to make out with him, because I knew, I just knew Wyatt would be the best kisser ever. Instead, I had to settle for a good friend that I could actually rely on.
It was the worst.
Also, in case of a flat tire or if I ever needed help moving, it was the best.
He smiled at me and my heart warmed with platonic affection. “Save me a dance?” he asked gently.
“Only if you promise not to kill your sous chef,” I countered.
His eyes hardened again just thinking about Kaya. “We’ll see.”
I left the kitchen only to run straight into a brick wall. Thankfully, I saved my champagne before the delicate flute smashed against Ezra Baptiste’s six pack of steel abs. I landed my free hand on his chest that seemed to be made out of the same super-human muscle metal.
I let my hand linger as I pretended I needed help balancing—okay, maybe I really needed help. Apparently I’d had more to drink than I realized. I looked up at his angry expression and tried not to cringe. “Oops.”
He glanced over my shoulder. “Were you in my kitchen again?”
I shook my head quickly. “No?”
Ezra let out a huffy sigh. “Molly.”
“Not all the way in,” I amended. “More like on the fringes. Just the edge. The door barely closed behind me.”
His jaw ticked. “Why?”
I tilted my head to the side, trying to make sense of his question. “Why what?”
“Why were you in there,” he clarified. “What do you need?”
My stomach dipped at his question, like I’d been unexpectedly thrown in the front car of a rollercoaster. “N-nothing,” I told him. “I was just looking for Wyatt.”
If possible, Ezra’s eyes darkened even further and an angry cloud took up residence over his head. He was always too handsome to look directly at, but like this, with his eyebrows scrunched together over his nose and his jaw hard and firm and so angular, he looked like a god, like a marble statue that had been expertly carved. I had the strongest urge to run my fingers over his nose, to memorize the exact curve of his jaw and trail my finger through the wrinkles next to his eyes so that next time I painted him I would get every single detail right.
“You need Wyatt?” Ezra asked.
“To dance.”
“To dance?”
I nibbled the corner of my lip and tried to collect my thoughts. “He’s busy so he can’t dance with me.”
Something changed in Ezra. His demeanor shifted, moved, and then settled. It was hard to explain how I noticed it because it wasn’t something physical. If I was painting him right now, it wouldn’t have been something I could have marked with physical features. And yet it was there, in his aura, in his being. I would have had to throw away the painting altogether and start over from scratch, trying to capture the essence of this mysterious man.
“I’ll dance with you,” he said.