In a white apron, collared shirt and black slacks, he is the crowning jewel not just in his elaborate kitchen, but at the entire party. Brett and Elsie’s joint Bachelor-Bachelorette party just two days before their wedding is nothing without the chef-du-jour.
My man. Mr. Party Host. Mr. Hot-Cock.
Mr. Cooks-like-a-Five-Star-Chef-and-Looks-Too-Good-to-be-fucking-True.
He looks down at the overly happy animal in my arms. “I’m guessing this is my sous chef.”
I can’t help but laugh, my fingertips still scratching behind Tank’s ears. “Sure. If you want a side of drool with your dishes.”
Heath glances at the gravel gray dog, who barks with delight at my touch. “Lucky bastard,” he growls, his eyebrow lifting.
“Jealous?”
“Very much so. Hell, I haven’t gotten a chance to touch you like that all day, Ms. Keats. It’s hard when I’m slaving away in the kitchen. But I see I’m not the only one whipping up his own creations.”
A secretive smile splays on his full lips, a hint of something devilish in his stare. I don’t get to prod any further into Heath’s cryptic riddle because Marilyn comes rushing into the kitchen, her blue gaze scanning the room, before, at last, landing on the pretty Bully pup at my feet. She frowns down at the animal, and he lowers his ears, knowing instantly his mistake.
I cover a smile with my hand.
“Tank Barkington Sparrow.” Her voice is a high-pitched scold. “You come here right now and stop causing trouble.”
I tug the too-cute troublemaker by his collar towards his puppy-mother, escorting both out of Heath’s large kitchen.
Cooking isn’t the only thing Heath does well. And before Marilyn showed up, he was just about to show me his first notable feat, the “I-want-to-fuck-you” look written all over his beautiful face.
I sigh as soon as we’re out of sight, on some level secretly grateful that Marilyn’s here. I pull her to a quiet corner, just as Tank takes off again, his heavy nails scratching against the cherry mahogany-hued hardwood.
I grab her tiny elbow, leaning in.
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“What?” She hisses. “No, Vi. Of course not.”
I huff. “Because he’s been giving me a weird look all day. This strange staring thing.”
“Probably because you look seriously edible,” she declares, tilting her head.
I look down.
I did try to look nice tonight. If not for the party, then at least for Heath. In a red velvet number and matching shoes, I’d wanted to look the part for a star-studded event like tonight.
But it was hard. Especially when there were so many beautiful people in the vicinity, from TV to tattooed wealth and more. And especially when my waistline was widening.
My body was slowly changing every day. I exhale, the nerves singeing from my fingertips to my toes.
“Just tell him,” Marilyn whispers. “He’s going to be happy to hear this.”
“Is he?” I hiss back. “He’s just moved all of his stuff back. He’s finally settling in as head of the firm after your father officially retired. We’re finally making headway on the Jackson case. I don’t know if he’s ready for this…”
Marilyn raises one perfectly waxed brow. “Don’t know if he is ready or you?”
“Okay, yes. I don’t know if both of us are ready.”
That much was true. With my ex-husband Jeffrey, having a baby was more of a business decision than anything else, a plan to move forward when the “time felt right.”
With Heath, everything felt fucking right…and it scared me half-to-death. I hated to admit it.
When you loved someone so much it hurt, when all the pieces of you became complete the moment your “person” came into your life, you couldn’t imagine that somehow the universe wouldn’t conspire against you.
Because you were too in love, too damned happy and too cursed for so long for the world to let you have your Happily-Ever-After.
It’s an irrational fear, I know…that suddenly feels too real. My chest squeezes.
As it does, the sound of Wham!’s Careless Whisper comes floating from behind the closed doors of Heath’s massive kitchen. I roll my eyes, glancing over at Marilyn who giggles.
His taste in food? Phenomenal. His taste in music? Sometimes made me suicidal.
Clearly, I wasn’t done teaching him the right eighties classics yet.
I grin at Marilyn. “I’ve got to go. Who knows what we’ll hear next?”
I spin back into the kitchen, my gaze scanning over the small feast he’s created, the myriad of sauces and soufflés he’s managed to whip up in a couple of hours. My mouth starts to water. I can’t tell if it’s because of the meal…or the man, and I glance appreciatively at both, watching as Heath grins, his deep brown eyes never leaving my face as he swipes a finger through a thick brown sauce, bringing it to my face.
“You should be proud,” I comment. “Everything here looks amazing.”
“Everything?” He presses. I smile, sauntering closer.
He reaches out for me, and I sink helplessly into his touch. I tilt my head upwards, cupping the five o’clock shadow around his face, and just as I start to pull him towards me, he shakes his head, extending a sauce-covered finger to the tip of my lips before speaking, his husky tone turning into a silk-laced growl. He touches the skin along my bottom lip.
“Taste.”
And it’s the only word it takes.
I suck gently on the tip of his finger, savoring the dark flavor. It’s a delight on my tongue, sweet to the taste, and as my tongue flicks out to try more, Heath lowers his mouth, descending on mine, turning my brain into mush.
His kiss is soft at first—a tease of what’s to come. With the sweet sensuous acidity still on my mouth, I let Heath’s soft tongue stroke my own, needing his flavor more than anything else in the world.
I sigh, stepping out of his kiss. “Now’s not the time, Heath…” I whisper.
“Actually,” I watch as his autumn-colored eyes glow, “this is striking me as exactly the right time, Ms. Keats. I know something that tastes much better than anything in here…” He leans in, nipping my ear. “And it’s located right between those sexy thighs.”
I shiver, shaking at the knees as he inclines forward, kissing my neck. The kisses don’t stop there. They trail to my collar and before I know it, Heath is lifting me onto his quartz counter, his fingertips skimming under the skirt of my red dress, his hands reaching for my panties. He lifts my hips before sending the pieces of silk sailing.
His fingers descend to the middle of my thighs.
The noise from the rest of the party is just outside the kitchen’s double doors, and I glance hesitantly at them, my vision going blurry as Heath strokes a finger against my slowly soaking slit, his thumb circling my clit as I gasp greedily under his touch. My mouth can barely move.
“We-we can’t do this. Not here.”
He chuckles. “That’s why I set you on a separate counter from the food.”
“No, not here,” I whimper as his hands stroke and wind. “I mean, here. In the kitchen. Where anyone can walk in at any moment.”
“It’s my kitchen. And I’m the chef.” He bites the dip near my neck, his teeth digging deeply. I moan out loud, and he keeps going. “No one has been in here all night. Except you. And I watched you lock the door behind Marilyn because of Tank.” He grins again. “Violet, this is my domain. My house. All these damn hangers-on should be glad I’ve let them in. Especially since this is about Brett and Elsie. And no one else.”