Every single ingredient I need is laid out on my work surface like a giant jigsaw puzzle. The task ahead of me has made my breathing irregular and my palms sweat. Today is the ultimate test and Collin Stanworth is my Everest. All I have to do is remind myself not to look up at the summit. Just put one foot in front of the other. I have nothing to prove. It’s just another order to be made for another customer. And that customer is just another man . . .

Shit.

Collin Stanworth.

I shake like a leaf.

Just as I rip open a bag of flour, Vincent walks up to me and smiles. He is dressed in his finest Armani suit; charcoal gray, with a starched white shirt and crisp black tie. He smells like the men’s cologne section of a swanky department store and his tanned skin is flawless, setting off his rich dark eyes and pearly white teeth. He looks immaculate and so damn sexy—which doesn’t help at all. All I want to do right now is run away and jump into a nice snuggly warm bed with him while he plows his ten-inch cock deep inside of me.

That would be so good right now.

He smiles and gazes down at my preparations. “All set?”

“I think so.”

He pushes closer and runs his thumb over my heated cheek. “Hey, don’t sweat it. It will be fine.”

I study his eyes. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Baby, all the best chefs have to go through this at least once in their career. You may as well get it over and done with.”

My eyes shift down to the space between my boots. “It’s like a baptism of fire.”

“So embrace it. More importantly, have fun. No one’s died.”

I meet his eyes again and shoot him half a grin.

“Right,” he says, adjusting his tie. “I’ll let you get on with it. If you need help, call for Claude. Brian’s away today.”

“I won’t need help.”

Vincent looks around the kitchen, to see if anyone’s watching, before leaning down and planting a tender kiss on my lips. It’s subtle, no tongue, but incredibly erotic in its gentle sincerity. As our lips part I’m almost pulled along with him—a consequence of the powerful spell he has over me.

He winks at me. “That’s the spirit. Well, I better make sure the waiters are looking after our special guest.”

I nod once. It’s a nod of defiance, of faux courage perhaps.

As I start to get stuck in, with a new found resolve, Vincent smacks me on the ass.

I jump. “Hey!”

“Just think, when all this is done I’ll be driving my tongue between that gorgeous ass of yours. Make you cum over and over.”

Shocked, but very horny, my eyes trail down to his groin. His trousers are clearly tented.

I tut and whip his arm with a dish towel.

Chuckling, he walks away and starts through to the dining area of the restaurant.

It’s all on you now, Mel.

Cook.

Leave.

Fuck.

And let it be what it will be.

* * *

My cell phone pings, just as I pour the final flourish of raspberry coulis on the side of my plate.

Billy: Good luck. X

I take a deep breath, shove my phone back into my pant pocket, and walk over to the service counter with my dish.

My heart races a million miles an hour.

Placing my finished dessert down, I call service and wipe my forehead clean of sweat with the edge of my apron. A waitress glides over and gently picks the plate up. I shoot her a nervous smile but she doesn’t seem to notice.

When she pushes through the kitchen doors to the dining area, I race over and press my nose right up to the small round window.

The critic hardly reacts when the waitress puts my food out in front of him.

This is it.

I’ve done my very best.

A small part of me is pleased with my effort, but that’s the rub—it’s my effort and I’m not sure that will fly with Collin Stanworth.

I remember reading his reviews from the very first moment I decided that the chef’s life was for me. It was a sadistic pleasure of mine to see what rant he’d go off on next. Occasionally he’d pick out something he enjoyed about the food, but mainly it was a scathing written crucifixion: words that could make the most seasoned of chefs cry in despair. I used to find them funny to read, but now that I’m in the firing line—something I never expected in my wildest dreams—it suddenly doesn’t seem all that amusing.

Just as I start hyperventilating, Claude comes to a stop by my right. “All good?”

I nod, my eyes trained on Colin Stanworth through the boat cabin style window.

Claude places a hand on my shoulder and I jolt.

His brows meet. “Bit jumpy there.”

“Just nervous.” I blow out. “He looks so scary.”

“You’ll be fine. I think your pastry looked great.”

I snap my gaze to Claude. “You did?”

“At least an eight . . . maybe even a nine.”

My lips curl up slightly. “Thanks. That’s a huge compliment coming from you.”

“Well don’t get used to it. Complements are very rare around here. And don’t rest on those laurels either. You’re only as good as your last creation.”

I nod. “Yes, chef.”

As Claude walks away I turn my attention back to the small window, my breath fogging the thick glass.

Oh my god.

He’s examining the spoon. Now he’s . . .

Unable to take it, I run to the back of the restaurant and burst out through exit door to the alleyway.

I can’t watch him eat my food.

I feel sick.

My head spins.

He’s going to hate it.

Reaching into my apron pouch, I pull out a crumpled pack of Camels. I bought them from my night out with Billy. I’m not a smoker, unless I drink, but today I knew they’d come in handy.

Just as I light one up and take my first drag, Vincent walks out to the alleyway. His face stretches. “What are you doing?”

I freeze.

He motions to the cigarette that unattractively hangs from my bottom lip. I pull it away and throw it to the floor, stomping on it with the heel of my boot. “Nothing. I was just—”

“I never knew you smoked.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what was that?” He smirks. “A piece of celery?”

My face burns with embarrassment. I feel like a kid being told off for smoking behind the school gymnasium.

Slowly he walks over to me and places an arm around my shoulder. His touch is soothing and reassuring.

“I’ve told you before, it will be fine. Whatever Stanworth says in his review we can learn from it . . .” He levels his gorgeous gaze to mine. “Okay, baby?”

I nod. The way he calls me baby, and the way he looks at me somehow makes the stress melt way . . . all I can think is how much I want him, right now, out in this chilly, dark alleyway.

* * *

“Do you think he liked it?”

Vincent smiles and takes the key out of the ignition. “Maybe.”

I lean toward him. “Didn’t he say anything?”

“He never says anything. You’ll have to wait for his write up I’m afraid.”

I lean back on the passenger seat and sigh. “I bet he hated it.”

“We’ll just have to see.”

Just as I feel the days frustrations form as tears in my eyes, Vincent draws his thumb across my hot cheek. Instinctively I lean into his palm and meet his gaze. My lips pucker and I can feel the familiar throb of lust beat at my core. That’s the good thing about sex, it makes you forget.

His eyes are full of hunger and I can tell he’s trying hard to resist.

“Kiss me,” I beg him.

He leans forward, his minty breath blowing hot against my trembling lips.

Just before our mouths touch, he straightens up and sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

He jerks his chin over my shoulder and I turn my attention to the passenger window. Mom is standing on the porch, trying to look into the car.

“You better go and tell her how it went,” Vincent says.

I switch my focus back to him. “But I don’t know how it went. You won’t tell me.”

“Because I don’t know.” His lips stretch into a full, sexy smile. “You’ll find out soon.”

“What shall I tell her then?”

“Tell her how you think it went. That’s good enough.”

I look down at my hands. “I think it was a disaster.”

“And I think you need to learn how to believe in yourself.”

I meet his gaze again and for a brief moment I don’t care if mom sees me kissing this beautiful man.

“Go,” he says, before I have the chance to lunge for him. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Talk?”

He winks at me. “And the rest.”