I PACED AROUND the small restroom at the back of the set, wondering what the hell I’d done. Was I out of my mind? Had I really offered to strip down for Chef Bryant and participate in a half-naked cooking lesson? That was insane. Even more insane than quitting my job and appearing on a reality cooking show. And look how that had turned out.

A quick glimpse in the mirror at my tear-stained face took temporary precedence over other concerns. I was a mess. At least fixing myself up was something I could do without triggering a crisis of conscience. Quickly, I tiptoed out and grabbed my purse and suitcase. Chef Bryant was setting things up at the meat station and didn’t see me.

Back in the restroom, I washed my face and redid my makeup, going a little heavy on the eyeliner and mascara. May as well vamp it up if I was going to dress like some sort of kitchen concubine.

I stripped off all my clothes, doing it quickly without allowing myself to think too much. However, I did spare a brief moment to be thankful that every part of me that should be shaved was.

The first apron I tried on was comically huge. The lower half wrapped all the way around behind me, which covered my ass completely. That would’ve been nice, but the top part of the apron was so large it gaped down practically to my waist. Even when I adjusted the strap that went around my neck, it was still much too big. It covered my breasts about as well as a tent would.

Two other aprons in the pile I’d grabbed on the way back to the restroom were the same way. The last one was a child’s apron—it said so on the label. Holding my breath, I tried it on.

If I’d been clothed underneath, I would have said it was a perfect fit. But in light of the present situation, I twisted and turned, looking in the mirror, trying to see how much of me was bared.

My breasts were mostly covered. Sure, you could see a little side boob, and some cleavage if I bent over, but it wasn’t too blatant. Really, it wasn’t much worse than a low-cut blouse. But the back was where the problem was. The sides of the apron only wrapped partway behind me. I could feel a five inch gap back there, showcasing my butt cheeks. I supposed that was what I’d agreed to, but still, it freaked me out.

Then again, I could be careful to never turn my back to him. Maybe the point of this indecent proposal was for me to prove my dedication to cooking by showing my willingness to do this, not necessarily to provide a free peep show. Besides, think of what I’d be gaining. A private cooking lesson with a world-famous chef. A world-famous chef I’d dreamed about for my entire adult life, in fact.

I took one last look in mirror. Could I really do this? The thing was … I was starting to think that maybe I could. At this point, I didn’t have much to lose. Due to the events earlier today, my pride and self-worth were already at personal lows, so they couldn’t drop much further. And if there was anything I could do to regain some confidence in the kitchen, I probably should try it. Plus, spending more time with the man I’d had a crush on for years, even under such dubious circumstances, seemed a much better alternative than walking out the door and never seeing him again.

I tied the apron in the back, trying to make a big floppy bow that would hopefully cover part of my ass. Then I dug out my tallest heels from my suitcase. I was so short that I always had a pair of high heels nearby. I didn’t normally wear them in the kitchen, but I’d worn them during the initial interviews.

Steeling myself, I walked out of the restroom, head held high. I was determined to pretend that this was a normal situation and that I was dressed in my usual chef’s whites. Hell, the apron was actually white. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure that every part of my uncovered skin was bright red. The mirror had shown me that my face certainly was.

My first shock was that the kitchen was lit up. Well, the big stage lights weren’t on, but all the regular overhead lights were. I faltered for a moment. I sure would’ve preferred the relative darkness we’d shared before. But I supposed that was impossible. We certainly wouldn’t have been able to cook that way.

Chef Bryant was at the meat station, a couple of pans on burners before him and several prime cuts on the counter next to the stovetop. He looked up at the sound of my shoes clicking on the concrete floor.

His eyes raked up and down my body as I neared. I knew I was covered, for the time being. The top of the apron hid almost as much as a tank top—from the front, anyway. And the apron skirt went down to mid-thigh. I resisted the urge to try to tug the edge of it down farther.

His gaze felt like an intimate caress on my skin. And while he was busy looking me over, I was doing some serious staring at him, too. He’d taken off his jacket, and his tight t-shirt outlined his muscles. He was seriously ripped, and for a moment, I forgot my nervousness and wondered if he’d ever cooked shirtless. I’d pay good money to see that. Probably pretty much every woman in America would, too.

I stopped a few feet from him. He was still looking me up and down, his eyes sweeping over all of my five feet two inches plus the extra height the tall shoes gave me.

“The high heels are a nice touch,” he said.

I was too nervous to say anything, so I just nodded like an idiot. But still, points to me for not bolting. I stood my ground, feeling the cool air against my bare ass. I never ever thought I’d be nearly naked in a television studio. Wait a second. I was in a television studio. On a set that contained several dozen built-in cameras that were overhead, in the cabinets, on the appliances, and pretty much everywhere else. That could be bad. Really bad.

“Umm ... the stationary cameras don’t turn on with the lights, do they?”

“No, I had to turn them on with a separate remote.”

What? Frantically, I put my hands behind my back, trying to literally cover my ass.

He laughed. “I’m kidding. Take a deep breath and relax. I don’t bite.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. I cautiously moved forward, keeping my body angled toward him so that I’d be covered. I ended up hovering a few feet away from him.

He was looking in my face now, one eyebrow raised. “You’d probably be able to see better on the telly back home at mum and dad’s place.”

That got me. Every time he teased me about that, it made me see red. I was not a kid. I wanted to prove that to him almost as much as I wanted to prove my cooking skills. Emboldened, I closed the distance between us, stopping about six inches from his side. Then I thought about how tall he was, and how easy it would be for him to look over my shoulder and down to my ass. I eased back a few inches, a blush crossing my face.

Still trying to act casual, I looked over the work station, being careful to only turn my head, keeping my body angled toward him. He’d set out all the things we’d need to prepare lamb.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” He handed me a knife. “Mind you don’t cut yourself while you’re doing your damnedest to keep me from seeing your backside.”

Dammit. I knew I was turning red again. How was I going to make it through the entire cooking lesson if I was embarrassed even before he saw the parts of me that were actually bare? Hell, just being next to him was enough to do it. I’d probably be flustered and flushed even if I was wearing a head-to-toe snowsuit. He had that effect on women. At least when he wasn’t yelling.

Slowly, I shifted. It was a bit of a compromise. I angled toward the countertop enough that I’d be able to work with the lamb, but I still managed to keep myself turned slightly away from him.

He chuckled softly. “You were well-named. Shy Little Cheyenne. But it’s just a cooking lesson, love. Admittedly, it’s an unconventional one, but so what? We’re both adults, we can do what we like.”

And he was right. It was just a cooking lesson—probably the best cooking lesson I’d ever had in my life. Chef Bryant talked me through the cuts of the meat he’d selected. He went over the benefits of various seasonings. He showed me all his tricks and secrets for prepping the meat. Even when he was telling me things I already knew, he somehow shed new light on the subject. He opened my eyes to techniques I’d never thought of before. And he was patient, even when I screwed up.

After the first few minutes of the lesson, I forgot to focus on what I was wearing. After a few more minutes, I forgot to notice how hot he was, his hard, lean body towering over me. We just cooked. With his help, I made a perfect sear on the lamb. He showed me over and over how to judge when the meat was ready to be removed from the heat and how long it needed to rest.

When we’d cooked yet another perfect leg of lamb, he cut off a few pieces, and we both had some. It was delicious. It was divine. It was the most seasoned, tender, amazing meat I’d ever tasted. When he wasn’t screaming at contestants, Chef Bryant was a phenomenal teacher. I half felt like running up to the dorms and telling the others that all it took to get Bryant the Tyrant to stop yelling was to take their clothes off. Though that might not have worked as well for Ken.

Chef Bryant got two glasses of water as we continued to sample the lamb. He handed me mine with a shrug. “I’d like another Redback, but I don’t want to get pissed.”

Chuckling, I said, “Aren’t you pretty much always pissed?”

He frowned at me for a moment and then laughed. “In Australia, pissed means drunk. I don’t want to get drunk, but I’m fine with losing my temper. That’s what brings in the viewers.”

“That’s not the only thing,” I said, my eyes sweeping over his rock-solid body before I could stop myself. Then, of course, I blushed.

He flashed a crooked half-smile, one eyebrow cocked. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Shy Little Cheyenne was getting a little braver.”

I was both embarrassed and pleased as I watched Chef Bryant scoop up another last bite and place it on his tongue. His eyes closed briefly in apparent appreciation of the flavor. “Abso-bloody-lutely perfect,” he said. “Think you can do it like that again? By yourself this time?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” I said, brimming with confidence.

He smiled at that. “Then show me. From the start—you choose the seasoning, the meat, everything. Get yourself a new pan and get to it.”

Eager to get started, I bent down, searching through the various pots and pans under the counter until I found the right one. I straightened up, set it on the stove top, then froze. Completely froze. I’d just bent over from the waist. I’d really just—I’d actually bent over, practically at his feet. Oh my god. He’d seen ... he would have seen ... pretty much everything.

I turned on the heat and got the pan ready, not looking at him. I knew my face was currently hotter than the industrial stove in front of me. And my insides were churning with a strange mixture of humiliation and adrenaline. I finally got brave enough to shoot a quick glance up at his face.

He was grinning a grin that could only be described as devilish. And completely unapologetic—he’d known what would happen when he told me to get a pan. “This is just like that old cooking show, only better. Now it’s in HD,” he said with a wink.

I couldn’t look into his electric eyes any longer, so I looked down again. But he laughed and put an arm around my shoulder. Not in a lecherous way, but in a reassuring way.

“Come on, it’s just for fun. You’re a beautiful girl and have nothing to be shy about. You’re getting a top-notch lesson, I’m getting a reminder of a youthful fantasy. As long as we’re both enjoying ourselves, what’s the harm in it?”

Was I having fun? I’d been so nervous at first. But then I got caught up in the lesson, which had been amazing. Most aspiring chefs would probably do naked cartwheels for the chance for a private lesson with Chef Bryant. Hell, most women would probably do naked cartwheels for the chance to hear Chef Bryant read from a phone book. I had no doubt he could make even that seem sexy.

“Come on. Prove to me you can do this by yourself,” he said, a challenge in his voice.

I had to admit I was considering it. Besides, he’d already seen the part of me I’d been trying to hide. So perhaps I should go for it and make the most of the best cooking lesson of my life. “Okay,” I said.

“Great. Go select the meat.”

His words were mild enough, but there was a challenge there. This was a test. The refrigerator was ten feet away, and there was nothing to hide behind. Unless I walked backwards, he’d be seeing some major skin again.

I took a deep breath and pivoted. Deliberately, I put my hands at my sides and walked away from him. I kept my head high, my back straight. I placed one foot in front of the other. And I could feel his gaze on my ass every step of the way.

Once at the fridge, I didn’t dawdle, but I still took enough time to choose a quality cut of lamb.

At last, I turned back to him. Back to those magnetic hazel eyes and a sexy, crooked grin on his face. It was clear he liked looking at me. It was clear he was having fun. Amazingly, a smile broke out on my face as I walked back. I thought about what he’d said before. As long as we were both having fun, what was the harm in this?

“Nice to see your smile, love.”

I wondered if mine was half as gorgeous as his was. Probably not. He had such white, movie-star teeth. Like his eyes, they really stood out from his tan skin and dark hair.

“Pick your seasonings next.”

The jars of spices were in a cabinet across from us. I walked slowly to the end of the counter. Was I actually swaying my hips a bit more than I had to? Maybe I was. Jeeesh, what was getting into me?

I opened the spice cabinet, well aware that my back was to him again, but more comfortable with it this time. I gathered up anything I thought I might need: rosemary, cumin, oregano, marjoram, sage, coriander, and some others.

I turned around, and Chef Bryant quickly scanned the jars in my arms. “You’ll definitely need fennel,” he said.

He was right, but I knew that wasn’t why he’d said it. I’d seen the fennel before, and it was on the top shelf, as he well knew. To get it, I had to stand on my tip toes and lean forward, stretching, reaching. That position made my ass stick out, and I could feel the flaps of the apron falling to the side, baring more of me to him. Which had been the idea, no doubt.

I snagged the fennel and returned to a normal position keeping my bright red face carefully turned away from him.

“And dill weed.”

I grabbed that, too.

“And maybe some nutmeg.”

What? Were we cooking lamb or pumpkin pie? I peeked over my shoulder to see him pressed up against the counter, a grin on his face. And then I realized. The nutmeg must be on the bottom shelf.

I turned and stared him down for a long moment, making sure he knew that I knew what he was doing. I raised one eyebrow, trying to emulate his cocky expression. I’m not sure it looked as sexy on me as it usually did on him.

Maintaining eye contact, I moved to the edge of the counter across from him. I set down the spices and pushed them across. “Nutmeg,” I said, as if considering its merits. “An inspired choice.”

Turning on my heel, I faced the cabinet again. I crossed my legs at my ankles and bent at the waist. The cold air hitting the backs of my thighs and ass was instantly neutralized from the heat I could feel from his eyes on my skin.

I shifted to the right, then to the left, pretending to look for it. Finally, I straightened up. “I guess we’re out,” I said.

When I turned back to him, he was no longer pressed against the counter. Maybe it had gotten too uncomfortable? Once back on his side of the counter, I couldn’t help but look at his jeans. Oh yeah. There was definitely a bulge in them—a rather substantial one, from what I could tell. It seemed only fair that I was turning him on. He’d been turning me on for years.

I returned to the meat station and prepared as perfect a piece of lamb as we had together. I tried a bite and then offered him one. He chewed it and sighed in appreciation.

“Absolutely perfect. Maybe you do have the right instincts for meat. Maybe it’s a matter of trusting them.”

My smile went from ear to ear. “So what happens now?” I said as we cleared away a few of the pots and pans we’d used for the lamb.

“Now, you get dressed, go the hotel, and fly home tomorrow.”

My smile left my face as abruptly as if it had fallen off, and I gaped up at him. That was the end of the private lesson?

I was standing before him half naked, and … and … he wanted me to leave? Humiliation and disappointment battled inside me. I couldn’t decide which was worse. But eventually, disappointment won out. It just seemed like such a let down after the sexy buildup.

I threw my pride out the window and took a deep breath. “What if I don’t want to?”