11. Wesley
11
WESLEY
A very really is exceptional. It’s only been three weeks and she’s already blown through all the basics. I’d figured she would, but actually seeing it play out is amazing.
Watching her move around the academy’s teaching kitchen like she’s queen of all she surveys has been the most delicious torment I could ever have imagined.
The way she glares at the dough when it’s misbehaving (her words, not mine) is nothing short of charming. Every inch of her figure that goes on display when she stretches up on her tiptoes to reach things from the higher shelves is enough to bring me to my knees.
Don’t even get me started on the faces she makes when it comes time to taste what she’s made that day. All the brain space that’s supposed to be devoted to critiquing the end product is supplanted by fantasies I could get fired for.
She’s almost caught me staring at her like a lovesick teenager more times than I can count. Fortunately, I’ve been able to school my expressions into something more appropriate whenever our eyes meet—at least I hope I have. The last thing I want to do is make her feel uncomfortable.
And yet there have been times when I could swear she’s been looking at me the same way. There’s a flush to her cheeks whenever our eyes meet accidentally that makes me think she’s picturing something she shouldn’t be.
Even if that’s true, which it probably isn’t, this is not the time or place to find out. Right now, she’s my student and I’m her teacher. I know she’s off limits like I know my middle name. So why can’t I stop thinking about her that way?
I shake my head in disappointment at my lack of self-control and try to focus on what I should actually be doing—evaluating her.
Today is a bit of an easier day. At least it is for me. There’s no skill I’m actively teaching her, no reason for us to work side by side in the kitchen, no bumping into each other by accident.
This is not the time, Wesley. Focus.
I wanted to see what she could really do in terms of flavor and technical skill. So when she came in today, I’d told her to make me a croquembouche with a floral element in one of her fillings.
“Lavender. That’s an interesting choice,” I say.
“It’s the one I’m most experienced with.”
“It’s also one of the easier ones to overdo.”
She squares her shoulders and scowls. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, but if your creme pat ends up tasting like soap, I’m firing you.”
“I don’t work for you.”
Not yet, but if I have my way, you will.
I swear I’m going to do everything I can to poach her from Brookside Manor once she gets her certificate.
You can’t date her if you’re her boss.
It’s a disappointing thought, but I’m not going to stand in the way of her success just because I want her in my bed. If I can ignore my urges here, then I can certainly do it at my own company.
Based on what I’ve seen and tasted of her work, bringing on someone with her talent and creativity will slingshot Fantasy Flavors to heights I never could have dreamed of. I’m not about to throw that away because of a few base urges that will no doubt fade away soon.
Besides, it’s not as if she’d even consider me—not with all the men her age who are likely queuing up to take her out. This is definitely one-sided.
Isn’t it?
“Nothing to say to that, Mr. Fancy Chef?”
Her taunt pulls me out of my head before I get fully immersed in my own personal pity party.
“Feeling pretty big for your boots today, are you?” I grin. “How about trying this on for size? I might not be your boss, but I am your teacher and I can and will fail you for being sassy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like that’ll stand up under any kind of scrutiny.”
“I don’t know, I’m a pretty powerful guy here. I think it might work.”
“Just because you were one of the first teachers asked to be on staff doesn’t mean you can fail me for giving you grief.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.
“Who told you that?”
“Jamie did.”
“Jamie told you that.”
“Yes.” Her brows knit together in concern. “Why? Was I not supposed to know that?”
“No, no, that’s not it,” I say quickly. “I was just surprised that he told you. He’s not exactly the sharing type.”
“I never would have guessed. He’s been telling me all about his garden and the museums he’s been to. In between the course work, of course. We’re not just sitting around chit-chatting the whole time, but he’s been fairly open with me.”
Interesting. Very interesting.
“He’s not usually like that outside of our friend group.”
“Maybe I’m just weird.” She shrugs. “There’s always some sort of anomaly in any pattern. I guess I’m it.”
That’s one way of putting it. He must have more of a thing for her than I thought.
The mere idea of sharing her with anyone else would make my skin crawl, but when it comes to Jamie or Phillip… well, that’s a different situation entirely.
Slow your roll there, Buddy. You don’t even know if she even thinks about you in that way and you’re jumping to sharing her like a joint at a frat party?
I shake my head to clear my thoughts, but it doesn’t work all that well.
The sway of her hips as she moves around the kitchen, the delicate way her fingers wrap around the piping bag, even the little wrinkle between her eyebrows while she’s doing the caramel work is driving me to distraction.
“Alright,” she says, blotting sweat off her forehead, “it’s done. Go ahead and do your worst.”
“It’s not the Spanish Inquisition. I’m just tasting it, not chaining you to the wall.”
My laugh dies off at the sight of her expression.
Apparently, I was wrong about her not being interested.
I’m overcome with a desire to pin her hands above her head and leave my mark on her perfect ballerina neck.
Or maybe I’ll take her home and show her my favorite room…
Now is not the time or place for this. This has bad idea written all over it.
I take a shaky breath and try to navigate us away from the tense situation we find ourselves in.
“Why don’t you, uh… Maybe we should…”
“How about I get some plates and napkins so we can try it?” she says, saving me. “I’m looking forward to any feedback you might have for me.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Let’s do that.”
Smooth, Wesley. Very smooth.
We retreat behind painfully awkward small talk as she grabs everything.
She’s taking longer than she needs to, but I imagine she’s trying to get herself back under control—much like I am.
I’m desperate to talk about what just happened. I need to know exactly what that look in her eyes meant. Is she feeling even a fraction of the desire I'm drowning in?
Even though every fiber of my being is demanding to ask her, I keep my mouth shut.
I shouldn't even be thinking about it.
Thinking turns into talking.
Talking turns into temptation.
Temptation can only turn into Avery on her back with her legs on my shoulders, screaming my name.
Yes, it’s definitely for the best that she’s taking her time.
By the time she comes back to me, we are both more composed and in charge of ourselves again.
“The profiteroles on the top half of the croquembouche are filled with lavender and lemon creme pat. The ones on the bottom are orange and cardamom. I’ve worked with lavender before, but I’ve been waiting for an excuse to try including cardamom, and this seemed as good of a time as any. Hopefully, you like them.”
That shy smile makes me want to kiss her right then and there. Instead, I do the sensible thing and take a few profiteroles off both the top and bottom of the croquembouche.
The first one I try is the lemon and lavender. The pastry is decadently light and the filling is bursting with lemony flavor that is the perfect amount of tart. Then right when I think the lavender got overpowered, there it is right at the end of the bite.
I don’t think I’ve had anything this perfect before.
My mind is absolutely blown, so maybe that’s why I forget to think before I speak.
“Fuck, this might be better than sex.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it.
“That was unforgivably inappropriate for me to say as your teacher. I’m sorry.”
I feel too guilty to meet her eyes, so I keep them fixed on the table. Even so, I can’t mistake the smile in her voice.
“It was definitely unconventional praise for a teacher to give, but I don’t mind a little unconventionality every now and then. Besides, I like it when you enjoy my taste.”
My head snaps up at that.
When our eyes meet, I can see her face is redder than a beet.
“Oh, shit. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I meant to say flavors. I mean the flavor combinations I try out, not, um, anything else.”
I’d believe that if her eyes hadn’t dropped down to fix on my mouth.
The last bit of self-control I have vanishes as all the blood in my body rushes to my dick. I close the distance between the two of us, placing a hand against the counter on either side of her.
“You know, I don’t think I believe you,” I say huskily. “I think you said precisely what you meant the first time.”
“We shouldn't be doing this,” she says, grabbing my shirt and pulling me closer.
“Shouldn't isn't the same thing as not wanting to. You want me to know exactly how you taste, don't you, Princess?”
“Yes.”
She squeaks when I pick her up and drop her on the counter.
I pause for a second to give her a way out if she wants it, but she wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me closer.
“You sure this is something you want? I don't want you to feel like?—”
She cuts me off with what might be the quickest peck on the lips I've ever had.
Taking that as a yes, I grab the back of her head and pull her to me.
When our lips meet, it's like a thousand volts of electricity are coursing through me.
The way her body molds to mine is like she was made specifically for me.
She must have had one of the pastries at the bottom because when my tongue brushes against hers, she tastes faintly of orange and cardamom.
I tug on her hair, and the moan she makes has me sliding my other hand under her shirt.
Then we hear something that drags us back down to reality—the rattle of the custodian’s cart from the top of the hallway.
We break apart, both breathing hard.
Avery slides off the counter and adjusts herself while I smooth down the wrinkles in my shirt.
That was close—too close, not to mention completely wrong.
It never should have happened, but as I take in her flushed face and kiss-swollen lips, I can't seem to feel bad about it.
Neither of us makes a sound until the cart passes us by. I think Avery might even be holding her breath.
“I should go,” she says, reaching for her bag.
“You're just going to leave? Shouldn't we talk about this?”
I hate how pathetic I sound.
“It shouldn't have happened. I'm so sorry for forcing that on you,” she says, ducking her head.
“But you didn't,” I protest.
“I really need to go. I promise you, it will never happen again, Mr. Brooks. I'll see you next week for our lesson.”
She scurries out the door faster than I can come to my senses, leaving me alone in the kitchen, wondering where it all went wrong.