Chapter 5
SAM
The sexy brunette with long shapely legs strides past the doorway toward the restroom, head held high, confidence in every step. Despite the half dozen women crowding the kitchen window, she’s the only one I see.
I rarely do this. Actually, I’ve never done this.
I’ve never looked twice at a guest or even thought of one in a personal way.
Since becoming a celebrity chef—a title I still can’t stomach—my only rule has been clear: never cross the professional line.
I’ve never even flirted with the idea, let alone been tempted to break it.
But now?
In this moment, I find myself juggling both.
Beautiful women orbit my world more often than I’d like. And I say this not because I don’t appreciate and respect women—I do. Rather because to most, I’m not a person, just another item on the menu to taste and toss aside.
But this woman?
Sure, she noticed me—kind of hard not to given all the patrons flocking to the kitchen. Yet, she didn’t have that freakish predatory gaze I’ve had nightmares about.
A fan’s craving can be a void—an appetite without soul. They want a piece of you, not the person, just the shimmer, the fantasy they’ve built. It’s admiration stripped of humanity. All hunger, no heart.
Not her though.
She’s temptation in motion.
Lovely, yes, but more than that. Alive, alluring, and real. And we certainly shared a brief moment, or more like several, where our gazes collided. But she was always quick to look away.
Even still, there’s something unguarded in her expression. Something genuine. That’s what had me looking twice, stealing glances whenever I could.
Her vibrancy, her warmth.
That smile of hers lights up her whole face, bright and effortless, like the flare of an unforgettable sunset or the soft rhythm of falling rain.
She’s captivating.
I want to talk to her.
Know her.
Touch her.
Taste her.
My fingers tightly grip the edge of the counter. I have to have my wits about me, or at the very least, clear out the temptation. Maybe I’m just horny. It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, and the dry spell’s clearly messing with my head.
That has to be it. Still, I can’t stop imagining her beneath me, skin against skin, breath tangled with mine.
Shit. If I don’t cut it out, it’s going to be a long damn night.
Grin firmly in place, I snag the eager eyes and bright smiles of the two women waiting to meet me, clutching cookbooks as they stand patiently at the window.
Talking to them is part of the job. Flattering, sure, but it also pulls me away from the reason I’m here. To cook, to create, to share what I love most—food that not only fills people up, but also creates memories, makes them feel something.
Still, I’m damn lucky. If anyone told me years ago this would be my life, I would’ve laughed. Yet here I am, living the dream. And aware it could vanish overnight.
This industry is tough. People have a lot of choice as to where to dine, and keeping your place top of mind is a constant struggle. Not to mention juggling rising costs, wages, staffing headaches, vendors, and the thousand little details that make or break a service.
The two women who were dining with the captivating brunette approach the window.
Without hesitation, the sleek black-haired one with fierce energy cuts in front of the other ladies standing at the window.
Her blonde friend lingers behind, looking like she’d much rather be back at their table, or cleaning toilets for that matter, than here.
One of the ladies at the front huffs out, “Excuse me.”
Ballsy, I decide to call her, doesn’t flinch. She stares at me with what I’m guessing is her fuck me eyes.
Before the tension between these two escalates, I rest an elbow on the window and look to Ballsy. “If you’d kindly wait your turn, I’ll be right with you.”
I motion for her to step back then look to the redhead who is now back in front. Ballsy narrows her gaze on the woman and is about to clock Red when Blondie grabs her arm, whispering something inaudible.
Blondie’s posture and expression are terse and reproachful. Thank goodness one of them has some sense.
Still wary of potential trouble, I keep the charm flowing as I sign the cookbooks. Finally, the redhead and her friend go back to their table, and now it’s just Ballsy and Blondie.
Then she strolls past the kitchen. Again.
My body straightens instinctively, drawn toward her like tide to the moon.
“Olivia.” Blondie tugs the brunette’s arm to stop her mid-stride.
Olivia.
My heart stutters.
Deep, fawn-colored eyes, wild and wide, erratically dart around the room like she’s hunting an exit. Then, as if sensing my gaze, she regards me with an almost laser-sharp focus.
Everything slows. And I swear it’s the same for her.
Her breathing steadies. Her lips part. Eyes glint. She bites the soft curve of her bottom lip, and desire shoots through me, sharp and sudden. My cock twitches and I can’t deny I like the idea I’m affecting her in such a way.
Her gaze holds mine—dark, warm, endless. The air hums between us. Blondie says something to her, but it goes unanswered. We’re locked in. Oblivious to anything around us.
The order window was specifically created to make me accessible to the dining room yet keep the patrons out. And I’ve always liked it that way.
But now I want to smash the bricks to tiny little pieces, knock it down until there’s nothing but rubble between us. I want every inch of her in view.
“I’m Erin.” Ballsy thrusts her hand through the opening in the window without a care for what’s happening between me and her friend.
I don’t want to take her hand, break what Olivia and I have going, but in my line of work, being rude isn’t good for business. And call it a gut feeling, but friend or not, this one strikes me as the kind to start a scene.
Reluctantly, I peel my gaze from the object of my desire and half-heartedly shake the other woman’s hand, gifting her with the barest hint of a smile, then drop her hand like a hot pan, my gaze back to Olivia.
My hand drifts toward her. The pull to connect with her sharp enough to ache.
“I’m Sam, and you are?” It’s an excuse to hear her voice. I already know her name.
“Olivia.” The way she says it lingers, soft and melodic on her lips.
I take her hand, my thumb tracing the delicate skin at her wrist when a charge sparks through me, firing from my chest straight to my groin. Heat pools low as want tightens every muscle.
She returns the touch, her thumb grazing the back of my hand in slow, deliberate strokes. Neither of us pulls away.
Erin clears her throat, and Olivia startles slightly before glancing to her friend.
The moment fractures.
She slips her hand from mine and I already miss it. Olivia and Erin share a brief yet loaded silent exchange. The meaning is lost on me, though there is no doubt I’m the subject of said interchange.
Somewhat flustered, Olivia pulls her blonde friend forward. “Um, this is Tamsin.”
“Hi, Tamsin.” Extending my hand, I smile. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sam Beaulieu.”
The blonde blushes. “Hi, Sam.”
Erin rolls her eyes. “Can I get a selfie with you?”
“Ah, sorry, no selfies.” Next to autographs, selfies are the most requested, and I now refuse them. The last one I agreed to resulted in someone photoshopping me into a compromising position. It went viral in seconds. Lesson learned.
“Aw, seriously?” Olivia pouts. Her exaggerated expression suggests she’s playing it up for her friends. Or maybe for me?
Either way, it’s dangerously cute.
“That would be the best part—proof we were here. Well, the best part is the food; second best would be a photo with you.” She grins. Is she flirting? “You sure you won’t reconsider? Three beautiful women wanting to be with you?”
She is flirting.
Her pouting lips are lusciously tempting, and thoughts of sucking on her delectable bottom lip continue to assault me as my cock hardens. Sucking in air, I will it down.
Focus.
She’s bold and spirited, not brash like Erin. I like a woman with just enough spunk to leave me wanting more. With Olivia, I want more.
Although she’s a bit of a conundrum. At first, when Tamsin forced her to stop, she was skittish like an animal caught in a snare. Now, she’s playful, dare I say even enjoying herself. Eyes twinkling, the ghost of a sly grin teases her mouth.
“Are you sure you won’t take a selfie with us?” Erin pushes with a swift glance in Olivia’s direction. Her suggestion is immediately clear, and while not necessarily wise, I’m no fool. A selfie would be a chance to be nearer to Olivia.
I glance between them, two attractive but wildly different women, both waiting for my response. One is sexy and sophisticated, someone I’d like to get to know, and the other is a weird cross between sex kitten and barracuda. Erin seems willing to play any game to get her way.
“Okay, just one. With all of you.” Stepping out of the kitchen, I slide in beside Olivia, savoring the opportunity to touch her.
She casts her doe eyes my way and her grin falters, as she seems to realize the implication of this impromptu photo. We are close.
I cautiously wrap my arm around Olivia’s waist. “Is this okay?”
Uncertain, she glances at Erin, who encourages her with a wide smile and a nod. “Of course.” Despite the casual tone to her voice, the rapid flutter of her pulse says otherwise.
As if I’m one to talk. My heart hammers against my rib cage as her soft, inviting curves meld into my embrace. Her scent is scintillating, spicy like nutmeg or cinnamon with a hint of cocoa. Absolutely edible.
Tamsin sidles up on Olivia’s other side, and Erin claims my left.
She grips my waist tightly and my arm hovers uselessly over her shoulder.
Just another reason I refuse selfies—the proverbial copping a feel.
Unfortunately, more times than not, women use the occasion to touch the merchandise.
Mind you, I wouldn’t complain if Olivia were taking liberties with my body.