The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile. “Let me get this straight. You’re cool with us drinking but not expressing our creative liberties through our fashion? You should really make up your mind.”
Desmond shakes his head and blows out a breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter because you’re disqualified.”
I squint to focus a little harder on his sexy mouth, which made absolutely no sense. “Come again.”
“If you think I didn’t notice you use your sister’s lobster, then you’ve underestimated me. And I don’t see any bread, which guarantees you won’t have a finished meal in the next twenty minutes. So…” He backs away before turning completely. “No certificate.”
My jaw falls in shock. I don’t think I can call it disappointment. I have never loved this class. So why am I pissed the hell off?
“Come back next month if you want to take this class seriously,” he says as he walks away.
Rage fills my body, causing my muscles to launch forward in his direction. “Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” I step around him, causing him to stop walking. “Look, I may not be your star pupil, but I deserve that certificate.”
“Oh yeah?” He leans in closer, and I’m fully aware that every eye in the room is on us now. “How so?”
I let out an outraged breath. Is he serious? “Because, Desmond, I’ve put in the time. I made the damn dish. I did everything except kill the poor lobster.”
“Yet you’d eat one?”
I growl in frustration. “It’s not the same thing.”
He shrugs. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I have rules, and I stick to them. If you can’t prepare a gourmet meal from scratch, then you can’t take home the certificate. Simple as that. What do you care anyway? You don’t even want to be here.”
“But I have been here. Every damn Saturday for the last three months.”
“The good news is you don’t need to retake all three months. One month will do.”
“What?” I screeched.
He rights his shoulders. “That’s the deal.”
“You’re such a prick.”
The corner of his mouth tips up as he backs away. “I’ve been called worse.”
It’s official. I may have disliked the guy before, but now I fucking hate Desmond Blake.
When One Door Closes
Desmond
Maggie was the first one to leave class, and I would be lying to myself if I denied the fact that I hated to see her walk away. She’s a feisty one, enjoyably so. Getting a rise out of her has become the highlight of my Saturday classes. When I first laid eyes on the bronze-skinned vixen with sun-kissed hair three months ago, I couldn’t stop sneaking glances. She was the definition of gorgeous: tall, slender yet curvy frame, bold stare, full pouty lips. She looked like one of the girls on my pinup calendar from when I was in high school and far too curious for my own good. But it became clear after a few short weeks that whatever charm I’d initially had on her had already waned.
The more I learned about the former LA model was enough to keep my disappointment short-lived. For one, Maggie hates my kitchen with a vibrant passion. Two, she dresses like she’s expecting a runway show to pop up at any moment. Three, the permanently poised look about her tiptoes the line between arrogance and class. Nothing would be wrong with any of the above if it didn’t come with a flashing neon sign that screams disrespect for me and the cooking school I practically built with my own two hands.
“Hey,” Gretta, my assistant, says as she rushes over to me with a flushed face.
“What’s up?” I mumble without looking up. I have my camera poised in my hands, and I’m snapping pictures at every angle imaginable of my finished ravioli dish. One day, I’ll do something with all these photos, but for now, I like to take the best ones and hang them on the walls of Edible Desire.
“Is it okay if I jet? I’ve got this school thing that I can’t miss.”
I look around at the mess left behind by everyone and let out a frustrated sigh. What can I say? No? “Again? The materials for the new shelving finally came in, and I was going to work on the storage closet tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Her face appears crestfallen, like she’s genuinely sorry, which she might be. But she’s not sorry enough to avoid repeating the same behavior day after day. “I can come in tomorrow to clean everything.” Her eyes float around the room, and I can practically see the dread buried beneath her expression.
I wave her away while pulling the camera and strap over my head and setting them gently on the front counter. “I’m not letting the mess sit for a day. Just go. Good luck. Maybe warn me next time?”
She lets out a relieved breath and nods. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
She rushes off, and the front door closes, leaving me alone to finish my photo session before I pick up a rag to start cleaning. Lucky for Gretta, I’m in a good mood. I usually am after I get done with a class. It’s just like that feeling I used to get in high school after winning a football game, when the adrenaline was so high, I couldn’t sit still even if I tried.
Who would have thought I would trade in my football gear for an apron? Certainly not me. In high school, I was the ultimate jock. I was the guy chicks stood in line to date despite my frequent spikes of anger and bad reputation for getting into fistfights. And usually, it was me who started them.
Looking back, I didn’t have a calm bone in my body until my football coach swooped in and taught me how to release my negative energy on the field. Coach Reynolds gave me a fresh start, a home, and a family. I’ll forever be grateful for the way he helped me carve a path to my future. Unfortunately, the man who saved me was the same man who abandoned Maggie when she was younger.
The chime on the door dings, and I curse myself for forgetting to lock up after Gretta left. I’m never going to finish cleaning this place if I can’t control the interruptions.
“Looks like you need more help around here.”
I look up to see Maggie’s sister, Monica, approaching me with a smile.
I return her smile with an amused one of my own as I start to wipe down a workstation in the front of the room. “Looks like you’re right,” I say without looking up again. I’m already dreading what Monica came here to talk to me about. Surely, it has everything to do with her sister. Maybe if she sees that I’m busy, she’ll go easy on me. “What’s up?”
“It’s about Maggie.”
I bite down my retort while she continues. I’ll need to tread this conversation lightly. Monica is dating my best friend, Zach, so I have a soft spot for the girl, one that doesn’t mix well with her troublesome sister or my anxious mood.
“I know you two have this… tension, but are you sure you can’t look past the whole lobster thing? She really wanted that certificate today.”
“Well, then she should have done the work.” My retort is snappier than I meant it to be, but as much as I love getting under Maggie’s skin, she sure gets under mine too.
“Really?” Monica challenges. “Is it really so bad that she didn’t want to kill a lobster? I think it’s kind of sweet.”