corrupting you.”
She smiled, a slow, sweet curl of her lips. “Sugar, I’m counting on it.” Devon stared into her eyes and counted his heartbeats in the throb of blood through his groin.
“I’d say you’re well on your way,” he told her in a voice that sounded like he’d been gargling rocks.
“Hey, not that I don’t appreciate the White Knight routine, but do you think you might be willing to let a girl stand on her own two feet?”
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “You didn’t seem to be doing such a good job of that up on the counter.” She shrugged cheerfully, not a hint of blush or embarrassment darkening her cheeks. “I’m better on good ol’ terra firma. Well, not tons better, I’m still pretty much the Queen of the Klutzes, but at least there’s not as far to fall and therefore less chance of a broken ankle.” She twisted in his arms, eyeing the distance from her perch to the ground. “Speaking of broken ankles . . . Be careful when you put me down. I just got this job; I can’t afford to be limping around the restaurant.”
“Adam hired you?” Crap. Devon had a strict policy against fraternizing with restaurant employees.
“Yup,” she said. Then added, “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
She was starting to squirm again, which felt outrageously good, so Devon put her down before he got distracted and dropped her, thereby fulfilling her broken-ankle fear.
“Seems like a yes or no situation to me,” Devon probed.
She wobbled slightly when her feet hit the gleaming hardwood, but she righted herself quickly and ran a careless hand over her shirt. It was another unflattering rag, pink with embroidered blue flowers on the collar, and it hung on her, as if she’d bought the wrong size. The cut of her baggy brown pants did very little to showcase the assets he’d admired last night. If he’d seen her across a crowded gallery opening or at an opera gala, he might not have given her a second glance. And he would’ve been missing out.
She turned back to the counter for a moment, swiping her palm across the shiny metal surface as if checking for incriminating evidence. Devon eyed the way the curve of her waist flowed into her hips.
Maybe he would have given her that second glance, regardless.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, my life doesn’t really seem to work like that. I exist in a constant state of maybe, almost, and who knows. Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? Are you a customer? It’s pretty crazy you’d choose this place to come and eat, after last night and all. What are the chances? Only we’re closed. I think. You’d have to ask someone who’s been working here longer than five minutes, and they’re all downstairs, having a meeting about something top secret.” Apparently satisfied with the state of the countertop, she turned back and looked at Devon expectantly.
“No, I’m not a customer.”
“Oh.” She got that adorable frown line between her brows. “Are you . . . did you come here for me?” Devon wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings with the truth—that he’d had no idea she was working at Market and if he had, he probably wouldn’t have slept with her in the first place. Nor did he want to lie and say he’d searched high and low for her, or had Paolo track her down, or something equally stalkeriffic that might raise false hopes.
He stood there, trying to come up with a response, and for the first time, Devon noticed the distinctive slightly acrid scent of hot oil—was she frying something? Ugh. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to cough.
“Oh, shoot!” she said, grabbing a large spoon from the counter and whirling to check a large pot of something bubbling away on the stove.
There was a smudge of flour along one high, pretty cheekbone. She didn’t move like any line cook Devon had ever worked with. There was no economy of motion to her, no swift moves at all. She was all
She smiled, a slow, sweet curl of her lips. “Sugar, I’m counting on it.” Devon stared into her eyes and counted his heartbeats in the throb of blood through his groin.
“I’d say you’re well on your way,” he told her in a voice that sounded like he’d been gargling rocks.
“Hey, not that I don’t appreciate the White Knight routine, but do you think you might be willing to let a girl stand on her own two feet?”
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “You didn’t seem to be doing such a good job of that up on the counter.” She shrugged cheerfully, not a hint of blush or embarrassment darkening her cheeks. “I’m better on good ol’ terra firma. Well, not tons better, I’m still pretty much the Queen of the Klutzes, but at least there’s not as far to fall and therefore less chance of a broken ankle.” She twisted in his arms, eyeing the distance from her perch to the ground. “Speaking of broken ankles . . . Be careful when you put me down. I just got this job; I can’t afford to be limping around the restaurant.”
“Adam hired you?” Crap. Devon had a strict policy against fraternizing with restaurant employees.
“Yup,” she said. Then added, “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
She was starting to squirm again, which felt outrageously good, so Devon put her down before he got distracted and dropped her, thereby fulfilling her broken-ankle fear.
“Seems like a yes or no situation to me,” Devon probed.
She wobbled slightly when her feet hit the gleaming hardwood, but she righted herself quickly and ran a careless hand over her shirt. It was another unflattering rag, pink with embroidered blue flowers on the collar, and it hung on her, as if she’d bought the wrong size. The cut of her baggy brown pants did very little to showcase the assets he’d admired last night. If he’d seen her across a crowded gallery opening or at an opera gala, he might not have given her a second glance. And he would’ve been missing out.
She turned back to the counter for a moment, swiping her palm across the shiny metal surface as if checking for incriminating evidence. Devon eyed the way the curve of her waist flowed into her hips.
Maybe he would have given her that second glance, regardless.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, my life doesn’t really seem to work like that. I exist in a constant state of maybe, almost, and who knows. Hey, what are you doing here, anyway? Are you a customer? It’s pretty crazy you’d choose this place to come and eat, after last night and all. What are the chances? Only we’re closed. I think. You’d have to ask someone who’s been working here longer than five minutes, and they’re all downstairs, having a meeting about something top secret.” Apparently satisfied with the state of the countertop, she turned back and looked at Devon expectantly.
“No, I’m not a customer.”
“Oh.” She got that adorable frown line between her brows. “Are you . . . did you come here for me?” Devon wasn’t sure how to answer. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings with the truth—that he’d had no idea she was working at Market and if he had, he probably wouldn’t have slept with her in the first place. Nor did he want to lie and say he’d searched high and low for her, or had Paolo track her down, or something equally stalkeriffic that might raise false hopes.
He stood there, trying to come up with a response, and for the first time, Devon noticed the distinctive slightly acrid scent of hot oil—was she frying something? Ugh. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to cough.
“Oh, shoot!” she said, grabbing a large spoon from the counter and whirling to check a large pot of something bubbling away on the stove.
There was a smudge of flour along one high, pretty cheekbone. She didn’t move like any line cook Devon had ever worked with. There was no economy of motion to her, no swift moves at all. She was all
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