Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ford tried to focus on washing the dirty madeleine pans Colby pitched into the sink every few minutes, but it was hard doing with her wearing only his dress shirt.
Sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the shirt tails were barely long enough to cover her ass that swayed to the Trombone Shorty number that played through the kitchen speakers.
What he wouldn’t give to have that ass, and the spectacular woman it belonged to, in his bed for an entire night instead of the random hookups in every place other than a bed since New Year’s Eve.
Of course, if that fantasy ever did come to life, he wasn’t sure he’d want it to end, and that wasn’t a prospect Colby seemed to want to entertain, never pressing him—or anyone she dated—for more.
He couldn’t recall her going on a second date with anyone since he’d been at Chess.
And despite his own inner romantic, he wasn’t ready to consider more either, especially on what would have been his thirteenth anniversary.
The other reason he’d thrown himself into the spreadsheet of doom today.
He humored Colby’s attempts to get him to date, but after his marriage had ended so contentiously, he wasn’t sure he wanted a relationship again.
But he also wasn’t sure he could do casual as easily as Colby did.
He’d dated a total of three people in his life, none of them for less than five years.
He’d been with Josh, his ex-husband, for twelve.
He was the committing kind, and after being burned so badly for who he was, after losing so much, commitment scared the shit out of him.
Another pan clattered into the sink, snapping him back to the present.
“Keep up, Rafferty.” Colby raked her short nails across his bare torso, then rotated back to the next pan, swaying to the music once more.
He wondered if she noticed his boxers were tented again.
In desperate need of a distraction from the torture, he shifted his attention to the daily mundane.
“What are the weekend specials?” he asked as he sprayed the pans with soap and water, the leftover bits of cake sending hints of lavender and lemon into the air.
“I can pick up ingredients in Boston when I’m there.
I’m going in tomorrow, so I should have plenty of time. Miller already gave me his list.”
While they could get much of what they needed on-island, they couldn’t get everything.
And if one of them was already making a trip into Boston, which was more often these days with Chess’s second location set to open there later this summer, it was cheaper and created less of a carbon footprint to pick up supplies themselves.
She rattled off her list, and he rattled back the ingredients he hadn’t seen in their pantry or fridges or at the local markets.
“That should do it.” She tossed the last pan into the sink. “Everything else I can get here.” She scooted around him to grab the packaging supplies from their cubby. And grabbed a handful of his ass on the way, torture resuming.
“Wha—” He gulped down the higher-than-expected syllable, then restarted in a more level voice. “What about some chocolate from that Asheville place you love so much?” There was a market that carried their stuff around the corner from the new Chess location.
“Ooh, yes! Get me a bar of the spicy one that made your eyes water.” She laid a smacking kiss on his cheek. “And I love you too.”
More torture, an arrow straight to his heart. You don’t want more, he coached himself, then dried his hands on his boxers and grabbed the roll of plaid ribbon she’d forgotten. “I should be back Friday before dinner service.”
Nodding, she laid out sheets of cellophane above each group of four madeleines. He’d told her once before that they had staff that could do this, but then he’d watched her smile grow wider and wider with each bow she’d tied around the treats she’d made, and he’d never asked her again.
“All right,” she said as she reached for the first batch of tiny Earl Grey cakes. “Remind me what else I have to do before then. You know my calendar better than I do.”
He grabbed the cuff of her shirt sleeve, stopping her short. “First things first, powder those before you package them.”
“Fuck!” She leaned her head back, strands of red escaping her messy topknot. “Your dick is melting my brain.”
Fuck was right, and he couldn’t resist the sheen of sweat dappling her neck—and returning a little of the torture. Leaning close, he ran his tongue up the side of her throat, tasting that sweet sweat and delighting in the goose bumps that lifted in his wake.
“You’re a mean man, Mr. Rafferty.”
He scoffed. “I’m the mean one?” He slid a hand over her bare ass under the shirt tails, squeezed a cheek as he pressed his aching dick against her hip, then, in what felt like his single greatest act of self-control, drew back and handed her the sifter full of powdered sugar, pretending like he didn’t want to drop to his knees, spread her cheeks, and taste the other sweetest part of her.
“As for your calendar,” he said, “you’re meeting with the Render magazine photographer on Friday morning to discuss the photoshoot. ”
Confident Colby disappeared. Lowering her chin, she fixed her gaze on the rote task she could do with her eyes closed. “We don’t even know if I’m going to be a finalist.”
“Colby.”
No response. Just more sifted sugar, bordering on too much for the little cakes.
He slipped a curved finger under her chin and lifted it, forcing her gaze to his. “You’re on the long list. You’ll make the short one. You need to decide what you want to shoot, what you want to feature as a James Beard finalist.”
Horror and panic streaked across her face. “You’re asking me to pick my favorite child.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Make good choices.”
Her answering pout was hilarious.
For the beat of two seconds.
And then her plump lower lip was all he could see.
Taking it between his teeth all he could think about.
Her breath stuttered and his gaze shot up, meeting molten hazel.
She’d dodged his kiss on New Year’s Eve, and he’d followed the unspoken rule of this thing between them ever since, but right then, she looked as desperate as he felt to throw out the rulebook.
A beat later, that same look of horror and panic streaked across her face and then a virtual wall went up between them, Colby stepping back and returning to her madeleines.
And to the very last thing he wanted to talk about. “So, are you gonna see Dr. Silver Fox when you’re in the city? If you’re going in tomorrow, you’ll have the evening free.”
He hip-checked her over to the ribbon and began bundling cakes in wrappers. “This is the second time I’ve stood him up.” He handed the first pack to her. “I’m not sure he’s gonna answer if I text.”
She made quick work of the bow, the motion practiced and fast. So fast that she was done before he had the next bundle ready, leaving her time to snatch his phone off the counter.
“Colby,” he warned, his hands too covered in powdered sugar to do anything more.
She shushed him. “Let me work my magic.” She set the perfect little baggie of cakes off to the side, away from their assembly line, then zoomed in with the camera, taking a social media worthy shot of the bundle of joy against the white tile backdrop.
She narrated the accompanying message as she typed.
“Apology madeleines. More where these came from if I can have another chance tomorrow night?” She hit Send before he could remind her it was too late to be sending a text.
Didn’t seem to matter, an answering ding coming right back.
She angled the phone so he could see the screen. Talking to my sweet tooth, the message from Miles read. Dirty. I’m off shift at eight.
She handed him the phone, victory painted all over her face. “Think he likes blackberries too?”
He laid a hand over hers. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t have to, but I want to because I want you to be happy.”
Except he already was, right there in the kitchen with her.