The Chef's Choice by Kristin Hardy Page B

pastry.”
    Her brow creased. “I think I liked it better when I didn’t know.”
    â€œSorry, I’m fresh out of cheese Danish.”
    â€œToo bad. I’m not much for fancy food.”
    â€œOh yeah?” He leaned against the counter. “For not being much for fancy food, you seemed pretty into it. Maybe you should spend less time worrying about what you don’t want to like and just go ahead and like it.”
    She had the uncomfortable feeling he was talking about more than food. She raised her chin. “Thanks for the sage advice, Yoda. I’ll keep it in mind. Here are your ramps, by the way. At least Gus thinks they’re ramps. If not, you’ve got a bunch of matching weeds.”
    â€œThey look right to me,” Damon said, picking one up to inspect it.
    â€œGreat. I hope they rock your world. I’m out of here.” She headed for the door before she could start staring at his forearms again.
    â€œWait.”
    â€œI’ve got to go.”
    â€œJust hang on a minute, will you?” He followed her.
    â€œI already got up at the crack of dawn for you. What do you want now?” she asked, a tiny thread of desperation in her voice. She turned with her hand on the latch, heart hammering, to find him behind her.
    â€œI wanted to say thanks,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to do this. It wasn’t your job and you still took the time.”
    She shifted uncomfortably. “I did it for Pete and his wife.”
    â€œI like that all the more.” He took another step closer.
    Her pulse thundered in her ears. “I should get to work.” She moistened her lips. “You should get back to work.”
    He looked down at her as though she was the next course on the menu. “We should do a lot of things.”
    â€œWe shouldn’t do this.”
    â€œYou don’t know, you might like it.”
    Something stirred again in her stomach. It was a risk she couldn’t take. “It doesn’t matter,” she reminded herself as much as him. “I know what I don’t like to like and I stick with it.”
    And with a turn and a step, she was out the back door.

    It was a good thing, Damon told himself as he stood staring through the screen at Cady’s retreating back. He had no business kissing her, however much he’d had the urge.
    And he’d been having the urge a lot in the past few days.
    It made no sense. She certainly wasn’t like the women he usually went after. He already knew what she thought of him. Anyway, he didn’t need to be distracted just then by a woman, especially a permanently cranky woman who’d made it her mission to irritate him. However much it might fascinate him to see her hard shell dissolve, to watch her gaze blur and her mouth soften, she wasn’t for him.
    But still he stood watching as she walked away.
    Maybe if he hadn’t seen that look on her face, the complete and utter absorption in pleasure when she’d tasted the croustillant. He’d expected her to like it. He’d never in a million years expected the reaction he’d gotten. He’d watched her face and all he could think was that this was how she’d look at climax. And he’d felt himself tighten as though he’d just brought her there.
    And he was doing himself absolutely no good by thinking about it. He was working for her parents, Damon reminded himself, walking back into the kitchen. He was supposed to be changing his life, not just taking his act from Manhattan to Maine. Cady was right; they had no business doing anything about whatever it was that was suddenly simmering between them.
    But as a chef he knew that the longer you left something on simmer, the stronger it became.
    There was a brisk ticking noise from the kitchen. Roman, he saw, on the clock and jumping straight into work.
    â€œYou’re in early,” Damon said as the sous chef began to deftly and precisely