The Sweet Spot (Table for Two #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

There were few things better in this world than a steaming-hot, homemade biscuit slathered in fresh jam and topped with a mountain of whipped cream. The sweet spot, a Clarke family favorite. Colby dared anyone to fight her on it, especially the whipped cream part.

She snapped a picture, sent it to her sister to drool over, then dug in, savoring the sweet, fluffy goodness and washing down each bite with the leftover bubbles from tonight’s service.

Benefits of being the last chef standing.

Not that head pastry chef at Chess was a particularly grueling gig.

More like the best of her culinary career—the food comfy yet elevated, the restaurant lively and welcoming, the kitchen friendly and fun.

The whole operation a queer-friendly family.

But as spring break vacationers swarmed Martha’s Vineyard, the first of this year’s tourist season, the restaurant was booked solid every night, even on a Wednesday, and no one was skipping dessert.

Nine tickets out of ten, the dessert of choice was the nightly sweet spot. She’d won awards for this little ditty.

Was up for an even bigger one this year.

And the interminable waiting was killing her.

She’d just finished the first half of her biscuit when the door at the far end of the restaurant swung open.

Ford Rafferty emerged from the manager’s office like a bear from hibernation.

He stretched, he yawned, he ran a hand through his thick blond hair and scratched the scruff on his face.

He glanced to his right—at the quiet, empty kitchen—and startled to a halt.

His dark blue gaze traveled the length of the sparkling clean service counter, past the giant stone hearth that divided the kitchen from the dining area, to where Colby sat at the communal farm table in the center of the latter.

He blinked twice, rubbed his fingers over his eyes, then, as if surprised his surroundings didn’t magically populate and animate, frowned. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Service ended an hour ago.”

“Shit.” He glanced past her, out the plate glass windows at the dark Nantucket Sound. “How’d I lose track of time like that?”

“You opened the spreadsheet of doom. This one time—”

“At band camp.”

Colby chucked a balled-up napkin at him.

“Sorry,” Ford said with a shrug as he ambled in her direction. “Millennial. Force of habit.”

“My sister would argue that belongs to Gen X, but in either event, did you ever actually go to band camp?”

“You’ve seen me dance.” He did a little shimmy, somehow off-rhythm even with no music playing. “What do you think?”

He was too cute for his own good. She grinned and continued with her story.

“CC told me about this one time Tyler went into the office in New Orleans and didn’t come out for eighteen hours.

” Her older sister, who was general counsel for Rosin Hospitality, the company they all worked for, had had to shut off the lights to get the overworked CEO to leave.

“He hired you as East Coast manager a month later.”

The sound that escaped Ford was half chuckle, half groan.

He tossed his phone on the table, threw a long leg over the bench where she sat, and lowered himself beside her.

“Please tell me there are more of those,” he said, eyeing the biscuit in front of her.

“The spreadsheet of doom damn near killed me.”

Colby had spent the better part of eight years working for chefs from New Orleans and North Carolina, but even those honeyed accents couldn’t hold a candle to Ford’s deep Georgia drawl, heat rippling through her every time he opened his mouth.

His mouth that was still moving while she’d totally zoned out, fantasizing about sexy words in that sexy voice. “Sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. “Long night out here too. I missed that last bit.”

Ford’s slow grin almost made her miss his words again. “I said ‘Feed me, Seymour.’”

She pouted dramatically. “Sadly, this is the last one.”

“You gonna take pity on me, then?” He hilariously pumped his brows, distracting her long enough to swipe a finger through the coulis on her plate. He shoved it into his mouth and hummed with delight. “Berry goodness. My favorite. I love you.”

He went for the whipped cream next, and she playfully slapped his hand away before pushing the plate properly in front of him. “I wouldn’t share the last dessert with just anyone.”

He dove in with unbridled gusto, and she laughed at the man who had so easily slid into her life.

Who had become one of her favorite people.

A former chef, he understood the rhythms of a kitchen, hadn’t tried to tell Miller, Chess’s head chef, how to do his job, and his easy Southern charm had won over the rest of the staff too, including Colby.

Also didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes, all long limbs, broad shoulders, and sandy hair.

She snagged a champagne flute from a nearby place setting and split the remaining sparkling wine between their two glasses.

They sipped and chatted about the day and his meeting the day after next in Boston with the contractor working on Chess’s second location until the last bite of dessert was gone.

But not the last dollop of whipped cream, a tiny bit left at the corner of his mouth. Colby darted a hand out before his tongue could reach it, stealing it away with her finger, popping it into her mouth, and sucking with a hum that was far more suggestive than Ford’s earlier playful version.

His darkened gaze shot to hers, familiar heat crackling between them.

Then short circuiting as Ford’s phone vibrated, a message from a dating app Colby recognized appearing on the screen.

“Oh!” She snatched the phone off the table before he could reach it.

“What’s this? Did you get a match?” She’d convinced Ford, who’d arrived in Martha’s Vineyard last fall, fresh off a divorce, to jump back into the dating pool a few months ago, but as far as she’d heard, it had only been strikeouts so far.

She read the app message and frowned. “Miles wants to know why you stood him up?” Her gaze shot up from the phone and she flipped it around to display the silver fox hottie on-screen.

“You missed a date? With this guy?” She properly thunked her friend’s head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He half chuckled, half groaned again. “I have no excuse. Stick a fork in me and call me a workaholic.”

“I’m the workaholic in this relationship.

” She turned her attention back to the phone, tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, considering.

She had no filter, no idea how not to be forward, no idea how not to stick her nose into other people’s business, especially when that other person was someone she cared about. “I’ll fix this.”

Anticipating his objection, she moved to angle away on the bench, but Ford was too fast. He reached across her, spun her back in his direction, and stole back his phone before she could type the first word.

“Thank you,” he said, all humor, no hostility, drawing from the ever-present well of patience he seemed to have. “But I can fix it myself.”

“Alrighty, then.” No sense arguing at this late hour, especially when she still had one more bake to finish before calling it a night. She hiked up her gingham skirt and threw one Croc-encased foot over the bench. “You fix that before I finish making the batch of madeleines for tomorrow.”

She moved to stand, but Ford clasped her knee instead, keeping her seated. “I have a better idea.” Indigo eyes leered at her from under long, burnished lashes. “From one workaholic to another.”

Heat ran down her spine and pooled in her belly.

She knew that look from him. Had been seeing it since New Year’s Eve.

Could resist it even less now than she had then, knowing how talented Ford Rafferty was with his tongue.

The madeleines could wait a little longer, but she wasn’t ready to let him completely off the hook. “What about your date?”

“I’ll reschedule.”

She spread her knees wider, skirt inching higher, encouraging Ford’s hand to do the same. “You promise?”

“I promise.” Ford tossed his phone on the table, then flicked her skirt up the rest of the way. “Can I eat my dessert now?”

She plowed her fingers through his hair. And shoved him down. “Yeah, baby, feast.”