Kristin Hardy - The Chef's Choice - The Chef's Choice

Cady stopped at the side of her truck and turned to face him. Against her will, anticipation began to thrum inside her.

He fingered her bow tie. “You stopped me in my tracks tonight when I saw you."

“It’s just the tuxedo.”

When he looked her up and down, she felt his gaze as surely as any touch. “No,” he said simply. “I’m pretty confident it’s got nothing to do with the tux."

Her mouth went dry. He watched her with the same intensity as when he was at work, creating, but now it was all focused on her.

“Why didn’t you make a scene with that diner tonight?” she asked. Abruptly, it seemed vital to know. “He was obnoxious. Why didn’t you kick him out? It’s what you would have done in New York."

Damon moved his shoulders. “This isn’t New York.”

“Is that why you don’t party all night anymore?”

He reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I can think of other things I’d rather do."

His fingers lingered against her cheek and Cady felt a flip in her stomach. It was only a light touch and yet she was trembling.

Nerves, anticipation, confusion.

“Why are you here?” she managed.

“To cook.” He traced his fingers down the side of her throat. “That’s what I do."

“You can do that anywhere.”

“I’d rather do it here.”

Cady moistened her lips, never taking her eyes from his. “I don’t know what to think about you.” “Do you have to?”

It was imperative, somehow. But his hand was slipping back to curve around her neck, leaving a trail of heat that turned all her muscles liquid. She was sinking into lassitude and heat and wanting.

And wanting.

“I need to know,” she murmured as he bent his head to hers. “I need …"

“What?” he whispered.

And then his mouth was on hers.

They had no business kissing out here in the parking lot where anyone could see them; Cady knew it but she couldn’t make it matter. It wasn’t the time, it wasn’t the place, but the whole notion of right time and right place didn’t seem important anymore. They could have been in a million different places at a million different times and still all she would have been able to register would be the heat of his mouth on hers.

He had a reputation as a volatile genius, as an unapologetic player. She’d never expected gentleness from him. Yet it was gentleness he gave; sweet, persuasive caresses that undermined her defenses and left her helpless to do anything but sink into the warmth and the pleasure.

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