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3 (#ubf27d9e0-08e2-5cb6-82bb-055259d9af6c)
ARMS AND BACK muscles straining, a bead of sweat trickling down his chest, Heath raised himself into his last set of pull-ups. It was tempting to use the buzzing cell phone on the nightstand as an excuse to quit the workout, but after starting high school as the shortest, chunkiest guy in the freshman class, he took his athletic regimen seriously. Staying in shape required effort, especially for someone who worked with—and enjoyed the hell out of—food. He glanced down at the phone. Unless it was someone from the restaurant, and therefore a potential emergency, he’d call whoever it was back.
But then he saw Phoebe’s name on the screen, and he almost lost his grip on the bar.
Dropping to his feet, he snatched up the phone. “Hello?” So I’ll do an extra set of reps tomorrow. No big deal.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft, tentative. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
That depended. Was she calling to tell him she didn’t appreciate his meddling last night and that he’d better keep his hands to himself? “Just finishing up a workout.” He reached for his bottle of water. “What can I do for you?”
“Teach me to be sexy.”
Thank God he hadn’t opened the water yet. An announcement like that would have had him spluttering. His obituary in the AJC would read Restaurateur Drowns in Bedroom.
“Phoebe. Not to state the obvious, but you are sexy.”
“The word people use is cute.”
Stupid people, maybe. Not even a chef’s jacket and apron could hide those curves. And anyone who paid close enough attention to her mischievous smile would discover an alluring potential to misbehave. How did people miss it? Hell, he’d been trying to unsee it for months.
Maybe now he didn’t have to. For the moment, she was unattached. And he was no longer her employer.
“It’s not like I suffer from low self-esteem,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m attractive, and I’m talented in the kitchen. But I’m not...you know. Va va voom.”
“Did you not look in a mirror before you left the house last night?” For that matter, was she oblivious to how aroused he’d been when she kissed him back? He got hard every time he remembered the taste of her mouth beneath his, the feel of her fingers in his hair as she tugged him closer.
“Eye makeup and a low-cut dress are superficial window dressing. I want a more meaningful makeover. I want to be exciting.” She lowered her voice. “Seductive.”
A more seductive Phoebe. God help him.
“If I take Cam back,” she continued, “I don’t want to worry that I’m not enough to hold his interest.”
Cam. Right.
Heath had been so busy picturing Phoebe as a confident seductress that he’d momentarily forgotten this was all to prove a point to her ex. Which was your idea, genius. He could hardly fault her for taking him at his word. Hadn’t he offered to help in whatever way she needed? She was, after all, one of his best friends.
“You suggested we pretend to be dating,” she said, “and I thought that while we’re spending some extra time together, maybe you could give me pointers.”
It was like the lamb asking the wolf to help make her more delicious. The noble part of him truly wanted to help her; the other 99 percent of him was preoccupied by the possibilities. For months, working alongside her, he’d been a gentleman—or, at least, his version of one. There’d been some playfully naughty banter, but he’d kept his hands to himself. And now she wanted to put herself in his hands and have him teach her about sex?
If he was a better person, he’d warn her away. “Are you free for dinner?”
“T-tonight?” The way she stumbled over the word made him wonder if she was already rethinking her request, or if she was just surprised he’d agreed.
“Yeah. I—” Reality caught up to him. He couldn’t miss work tonight. They were hosting some celebs in town to shoot a movie. He wanted to personally ensure that everything went smoothly and that service was stellar. As hard as he’d worked to make Piri successful, he had no intentions of slacking off now. They needed the extra profits to help bankroll a sister restaurant. “Wait, tonight’s no good.”
“Not for me, either. Sundays aren’t as busy as Thursday through Saturday, when we have the dueling pianos, but the weekly wine tastings are growing in popularity. I’ve got an entire dessert menu pairing chocolate and red wine.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“That could work. I go in on Mondays, but after I get the desserts prepped, I can probably leave. It’s our quietest night. Or if you want to wait a little longer, I have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off.”
No, he emphatically did not want to wait. Part of him was still tempted to talk her into calling in sick and coming over tonight. Before she came to her senses. “Then, I’ll cook you dinner tomorrow. It can be after eight if you need to help with the dinner rush.” By nature, he was a night person, and working in the restaurant industry had amplified that.
“Or you could come to my apartment and I can cook,” she offered. “I owe you. After all, you’re doing me the favor.”
Debatable. “If I come over, can you guarantee my safety? That roommate of yours would probably stab me with a salad fork the first chance she got.”
“Good point. At your place, we won’t be interrupted.”
Private seduction lessons with Phoebe.
He couldn’t have imagined a better fantasy if he’d tried. And he had a very active imagination.
* * *
“UM...” AMY HUANG, the apprentice chef, darted a nervous glance at Phoebe and then looked back at the crystallized mess that was supposed to have been caramel sauce.
Dammit. Earlier, the top of a limoncello sponge cake had collapsed, now this. Embarrassment prickled along Phoebe’s skin, and her fingers clenched around the handle of the pan. She was supposed to be teaching Amy, not demonstrating a showcase of what-not-to-dos.
“Guess everything they say about Mondays is true,” Phoebe said lightly, trying to contain the annoyance she felt over her mistakes. “Why don’t you take a quick break and I’ll clean up?”
Amy’s expression was dubious. “I don’t think James hired you to do dishes.”
“If you want to get technical, he didn’t hire me to ruin perfectly good caramel, either.”
At that, the apprentice chef laughed. “Well, I would appreciate a few minutes to call my boyfriend. He’s out of town celebrating his birthday with his brothers.”
“Go.” Phoebe waved her away, trying not to succumb to a moment of cynicism. Was Amy’s boyfriend missing her, or eyeing other prospects? Were his brothers the type of guys who would respect a commitment, or the type who would try to convince the birthday boy that what Amy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her?
Not all men were heartless liars, she reminded herself. Take Heath, for example. He might date dozens of women, but she couldn’t imagine him deceiving one. He made no secret that he liked to have a good time—but there was more to him than that. He was an ambitious worker and a devoted friend. She was still a little surprised he’d agreed to put his own love life on hiatus to help her.
Surprised and nervous.
She wasn’t sure what to expect when she had dinner with him tonight, which probably explained the atypical mistakes she was making. She’d been distracted since she got here. Who are you kidding? She’d been distracted since she’d hung up the phone with him yesterday. The way his low voice had rumbled “you are sexy” had wound its way through her, as irresistible as the aroma of apple-cinnamon cake in the oven.
“Hey, there.” James joined her at the industrial sink. Of Norwegian descent, the big blond man was a cross between a Viking and teddy bear. From the concerned look on his face, it was clear he’d heard about her mishaps. She hated to fail him after he’d campaigned so long to hire her.
Despite the many times they’d joked about him stealing her away from Piri, she’d never once thought she would have to take him up on his offer of a job. She’d believed she and Cam were a lasting team—personally and professionally. Wrong on both counts.
It would take a long time to establish the same kind of rhythm with this kitchen staff that she’d enjoyed at Piri, but she loved James’s upscale bar and his infectious enthusiasm. Besides, she needed this job. Her side business in wedding cake orders and other specialty items was growing steadily, but it was nowhere near a full-time income.
“You want to head out a little early tonight?” James offered.
“Trying to get rid of me before I burn the place down?”
“Hell, yes. You’re only supposed to resort to arson for insurance when the business isn’t turning a profit. We’re actually succeeding.”
“No surprise there,” she said fondly. “Good concept, good location, great management.” The tapas plates were wonderful, and now that Phoebe was on board, the dessert selection of tasty traditional choices, like cheesecake and peach cobbler, also featured more creative dishes inspired by sweet liqueurs and cocktails.
Throughout the week, the bar offered something for everyone—from open-mic nights to the engaging “dueling pianists,” including James’s longtime boyfriend, to last night’s wine tasting, which paired vintages with bite-size appetizers designed to highlight the notes. A newly engaged couple had come in to celebrate with friends and toast their happiness. Phoebe had rolled out a special cake for them and, after witnessing how in love they were, it had been a struggle not to cry in the crepe batter when she’d returned to the kitchen.
“Don’t beat yourself up for having an off night,” James advised. “Gwen and I shouldn’t have bullied you into seeing Cam at that birthday party. It must have been awful. If Steve and I ever—” He broke off, wincing. “I can’t even think about that.”
“Me, neither. You guys are perfect together.” Then again, what did she know? There’d been a time when she’d believed that about her and Cameron, too. The pain of getting dumped was two-tiered, like the coconut wedding cake she was baking this week. First, there was the obvious pain of rejection and loss. But beneath that was a nagging feeling of stupidity, the questioning why she hadn’t seen it coming. She was starting to second-guess her own judgment.
Any more pastry catastrophes tonight and she might start to second-guess her culinary skills, too.
She sighed. “You know what? I will leave a little bit early. I have plans later anyway.” At the thought of what those plans entailed, her face heated. Part of her still couldn’t believe she’d followed through on her impulse to ask Heath for his help. But the request had been over the phone, from a safe distance. What would it be like to actually face him tonight? Nothing embarrassed the man, so there was no telling how explicit his pointers might be.
No problem, you’ve had years of experience with Gwen’s outrageous bluntness. True, but Gwen didn’t have Heath’s green eyes, or a deep voice that was as addictive as hazelnut truffles. And Phoebe wasn’t even going to think about his mouth or the way he kissed, like he knew all a woman’s secrets.
James gave a low whistle under his breath. “Wow, these must be some very rowdy after-hours plans for you to look that guilty. I take it Gwen has schemed something to cheer you up?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to dwell on her roommate’s dire warnings. “Nothing like that. I’m just grabbing a late dinner with Heath.”
“Heath Jensen? Nice.” He bumped her shoulder with his own. “But I’m a little miffed you haven’t mentioned until now that something’s going on.”
An automatic protest sprang to her lips, but she stopped herself from assuring him that she and Heath were platonic buddies. After all, the plan was for people to think there was something between the two of them, right? “I ran into him at the party Saturday,” she said. “And our encounter took a...surprising turn. I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure what will happen yet.”
James’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “Well, go find out.”
* * *
AS THE ELEVATOR slowly made the climb to what Heath jokingly called his seventh-floor penthouse, Phoebe tried to ignore the mirrored doors. Even though she’d changed out of her kitchen uniform of double-breasted jacket, elastic-waisted dark pants and pin-striped baker’s cap, no one was going to mistake her for a femme fatale. Her face, devoid of makeup, was still flushed from hours in a hot kitchen, and her loose bun was trying to escape its confines via frizz. The black skirt with dark metallic polka dots was cute, although a conservative length that stopped just above her knees; the loose blouse she wore over a copper-colored tank top was mostly shapeless. And her flat scandals screamed sensible.
As the doors parted, panic flitted through her. A plan that had seemed almost reasonable yesterday morning suddenly seemed insane. How could anyone make her a seductress? Gwen was right. This is a huge mistake.
Embarrassment churning in her stomach, she almost turned to go. She could call Heath from her car and tell him something had come up—work, or a headache, or alien abduction. But aren’t you sick of always trying so hard to avoid mistakes?
She’d spent the better part of her adolescence feeling like she was a mistake. Her mother certainly hadn’t planned to get pregnant as a teenager. The woman’s constant dire warnings, intended to keep her daughter from repeating her bad choices, had left Phoebe terrified of doing anything wrong. Phoebe had wanted to be the perfect daughter, to atone for her existence. And hadn’t she tried to be the perfect girlfriend to Cam? That sure as hell hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Anger heated her skin, and she ripped the blouse that suddenly felt claustrophobic over her head, shoving it into her shoulder bag.
Every time she put a dessert in the oven, she hoped it would turn out perfectly. But sometimes soufflés fell and crème brûlée torches led to fire extinguishers. Was that a reason to stop cooking?
The door swung open, startling her from her thoughts. Heath stood barefoot in a pair of dark slacks, his royal blue shirt untucked and rolled up at the sleeves. “I thought I heard the elevator.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you planning to come inside?”
She lifted her chin. To hell with being afraid—maybe it was time to start making some mistakes. “You bet your ass I am.”
4 (#ubf27d9e0-08e2-5cb6-82bb-055259d9af6c)
HEATH STEPPED ASIDE to let in Phoebe, assessing her mood. He’d heard the elevator in the hall ding almost five minutes ago, but no knock had followed. He’d assumed that meant Phoebe was having second thoughts, yet there wasn’t a trace of hesitation in her body language as she marched into the loft, her posture regal and her shapely arms displayed to full advantage by a silky tank top.
His apartment often impressed his dates. This would be when the oohs and aahs took place. Phoebe, however, had been here a dozen times. She didn’t gush over the skyline view through the floor-to-ceiling window or the gleaming hardwood floors or the blown-glass sculptures that added splashes of vibrant color against the white leather furniture. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—Heath couldn’t help noticing the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her top.
“Mmm. I love the smell of fresh basil.”
“Hope you like the way it tastes, too.” He led her to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a marble-topped counter. “My plan is to sear scallops and serve them alla caprese.”
Taking a seat atop one of the bar stools, she sighed happily. “It’s so decadent having someone cook for me. When you’re a chef, you’re used to doing the food preparation, not just at work but for family and friends.”
“Cam’s an executive chef. Didn’t he cook for you?” The question was an automatic response to her words, but he regretted asking. The last thing he’d intended was to bring up the guy who’d jilted her, not when she was looking so relaxed and happy.
“Frequently. But it was...” She paused, considering. “When he had me try new dishes, it was a matter of wanting my professional opinion on how to make his creation better. He called me his muse. It sounded romantic,” she said in a small voice. “But maybe it was just a glorified term for taste tester.”
For a second, Heath hated his business partner almost as much as he hated the self-doubt on Phoebe’s face. “Well, I don’t have any ‘creations’ I need to perfect. All I have is a limited culinary repertoire I use in a feeble attempt to impress women who turn me on.” He reached across the counter, tipping her chin up with his finger. “Gorgeous redheads, for instance, who kiss like pagan goddesses.”
She blinked at that, but then shook her head. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”
“Have you met me? I have no shame. I do, however, have excellent taste in wine. Can I pour you some of the pinot gris I have chilled?”
“Yes, please. In a really large glass.”
“Thirsty? Or nervous?”
“Trying to drown out my roommate’s voice in my head. Gwen thinks this is a terrible idea, my asking for your help.”
“Just because you asked doesn’t mean you’re committed to accepting it. You can leave anytime.” The words scraped against his throat—he wanted her here—but he made himself voice the disclaimer. He was willing to take advantage of the situation that had presented itself, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her.
“I know.” Her eyes locked with his.
Did she feel the same blast of heat that surged through him? The cold bottle of wine was a welcome respite. He poured two glasses, obligingly filling hers almost to the rim.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not just for the wine or dinner, but for all of this. It’s not like I can make Cam jealous by myself, right?”
“So you’ve decided you definitely want to win him back?” He reached for one of the skillets hanging over the kitchen island and smacked it down on the burner.
“I don’t know. My emotions are all jumbled up. But there was a married couple who came into the bar last week to celebrate their tenth anniversary—the man had the pianists serenade his wife with a song from their wedding. When I see people like that, part of me still imagines me and Cam ten or fifteen years from now. I thought he was my future.” She sipped her wine. “I suppose you never think about the future.”
“Sure I do. All the time.” He turned on the gas burner, then poured olive oil into the skillet. “Most of my waking hours lately have been spent thinking about scouting restaurant locations in Miami.” He’d made some excellent contacts over the past few years attending the South Beach Food and Wine Festival, and he’d identified several flourishing neighborhoods that might be a good fit for his and Cam’s second venture.
“I meant a romantic future,” Phoebe said. “Do you think you’ll ever want more than hot one-night stands?”
“Some of those are hot weekends. I can go longer than a single night.”
For a change, she didn’t blush at his teasing. Instead, she wagged her finger at him. “You aren’t as shallow as you let people believe.”
“Wanna bet?”
There was a stubborn glint in her eye, but rather than argue, she took another sip of her drink. “Maybe I spend too much time trying to plan for the future. Gwen thinks I need to live in the moment and...have adventures.”
He grinned. “What kind of adventures?” Knowing her roommate, Gwen wasn’t suggesting scuba diving or hot-air-balloon rides. Sex on a hot-air balloon, maybe.
Now Phoebe did blush, a rosy stain spreading across her face. She glanced past him at the stove, where oil hissed and sizzled in the pan. “You should turn down the heat.”
He obligingly flicked the control knob before adding the scallops. “I thought our purpose was to turn up the heat. You wanted to know if you could be more seductive, right? Exciting?” Those had been her exact words. Heath had the sudden urge to offer her all the excitement she could handle. “What’s the most exciting sexual thing you’ve done?”
“Lose my virginity? Although exciting isn’t the first adjective I’d pick to describe that encounter.” Frustration pinched her expression. “People like you and Gwen don’t get it—some of us aren’t exciting. That’s why I’m here.”
