Monica cuts me a glare. “Please, not this again, M.” Our dad gave us the nicknames M&M when we were little. For some reason, Monica became M and I became Mags.
“Why not this again? That’s the reality of it, isn’t it? Dad disappeared and got himself a new family. Then he took Zach and Desmond under his wing.”
“Stop talking about Dad like he’s a bad guy. He messed up, but Mom wasn’t perfect either, which you’d know if you gave Dad a chance to explain. Just talk to him, and—”
I narrow my eyes, cutting her off, then push my way through the entrance. There’s no way I’m letting her go on about what a great guy our dad is now. Having an affair is one awful thing, but starting a new family while completely abandoning the one that already exists? There’s no forgiving him for what he did to us.
I shake the negative thoughts from my mind as Gretta, Desmond’s assistant, beams at me when I approach. “Hey, Maggie. You ready for certification day?”
Already spun out of shape, I’m about to tell her exactly what I think about certification day when Monica pushes against my side and starts gushing about her excitement. I snort my disdain.
“What’s the matter, Maggie?” calls a deep voice from the front of the room. “Sad today’s your last day with me?”
My eyes snap to find Desmond Blake—full beard and man bun on point—in all his cocky glory, currently leaning over a countertop while chatting with another female student. Flirting, no doubt. It’s what he does. It’s why the class is filled with ninety percent women and a few grumbling husbands.
Last month when I first laid eyes on his hot, tall, Southern bod, I couldn’t peel them away. Our flirtation was on another level, but it didn’t last long. I came to find out his flirtation wasn’t reserved for me alone. The batting eyelashes, undress-me stare, wicked smile, and syrupy sweetness were all part of his schtick.
“It doesn’t have to be, you know?” he continues with a grin. “You could always come back next month.”
My laugh is instantaneous, bubbling up my throat before I can stop it. “The only way you’ll ever catch me in this kitchen again will be in your dreams, Desmond Blake. I’ll take my certificate and be on my way, thank you very much.”
“You’ll have to earn it first.”
The smug challenge in his tone can’t be ignored, and neither can the rattling in my chest as our fierce eyes meet. His are a sharp blue. Mine are a shade of light brown that the camera always loved. The mere fact that this guy can get under my skin is starting to bother me more than his bad jokes.
“Ignore him, Mags,” Monica says softly. “He just loves to get you all flustered. I think he likes you.”
I bark out a laugh and follow my sister to our side-by-side stations. “We’re not in kindergarten, M. Twenty-six-year-old men don’t tug ponytails and joke about your incompetencies. Real men will let you know they like you. They’ll call you on the phone, open your doors, compliment you for all the little things. Real men act like fucking gentlemen.”
Monica bites her lip around her laugh. “It’s good to see you still have your Southern roots.”
I smile at that, feeling warmth in my chest just thinking about back home where we grew up in Texas.
“Couldn’t shake these boots from me even if you tried.”
She grins, and for a split second, I forget that I’m supposed to be mad at her for dragging me here. At the end of the day, my sister is my best friend. She’s the only person who will ever understand the real me and where I came from. She’s the only one who could ever understand the hurt we shared together as young girls. And I would do anything for her, including suffering through another dreadful cooking class.
I look at the empty cooking station in front of me and know I need to suck it up. “All right, one last session of torture, and then you’re buying me a drink. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Hey, Maggie.”
I jump at the deep voice and turn to find Desmond resting against my cooking station with a wolfish grin. My entire body instantly heats. His bulky arms are clearly visible beneath his short-sleeved black shirt. His teeth are white enough to belong in a toothpaste commercial. And the man looks so good in an apron that I won’t be able to look away if I try. I don’t even attempt to.
“Desmond,” I greet with all the syrupy charm I can muster. “I can’t imagine what I did to deserve the honor of your close proximity.”
He tilts his head in a gesture that tells me he’s accepting my challenge. Banter. Insults. Witty comebacks. It’s our thing, which somehow makes this class a little bit more bearable.
“Just thought you should know, I looked you up online the other day. Monica mentioned you used to model, and I was curious.”
No. My heart rate spikes with fear of what he’s getting to. The amusement in his expression nearly confirms it all.
“And I found a very interesting video,” he continues, his arrogance starting to smell like a bad cologne.
Shit. I haven’t even told Monica about my fall on the runway, not that she would breathe a word about it to anyone. But she’s been so consumed in her own love life that I haven’t even attempted to broach the subject. In fact, I’d hoped that video would just disappear right along with my past.
But Desmond knows. Desmond looked me up online and found the fucking viral video. He surely had a laugh at my expense.
“Hope you got enough material for your spank bank because those days are behind me.”
“Oh, I got enough material all right, but not for my spank bank.” He chuckles. “I had no idea you were so viral. Why didn’t you tell us?”
He doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t call me out, but he says enough for me to know that he saw too much. Then he winks and backs away from my station like he didn’t just poke at one of my deepest, freshest wounds.
He points a finger at my shirt. “Don’t forget to put on your apron. Wouldn’t want you to ruin those fancy clothes.”
10 minutes later
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I shriek as Desmond walks away after setting a pinchy crawler at my workstation. With his little beady black eyes and long thick whiskers, the lobster looks more like a character from The Little Mermaid than a meal I’m supposed to prepare. I just know he’s going to start singing and dancing at any moment.
“Um,” I call out, not daring to look away from the moving critter. “It’s still moving.”
He glances at me from over his shoulder. “That’s what your boiling water is for.”
My peripheral gaze catches on my pot of boiling water, and I cringe. “You want me to kill Sebastian? Is Scuttle next?”
I hear his deep chuckle, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the longest whiskers I’ve ever seen. “If you’re referring to the crab in The Little Mermaid, then you’ve got your sea creatures confused.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not killing that thing either way.”
I knew we were cooking a seafood dish today from scratch, but I didn’t think Desmond was going to make us kill the damn ingredients first. I glance at an amused Gretta who is setting down the recipe on my stainless steel workstation.