A LITTLE AFTER nine, I entered the dining room. I ran my hands down my clothes, then stopped when I realized it was just a nervous gesture. I’d donned a fresh chef’s hat and coat, and my black skirt, tights, and heels below were free from stains and crumbs. I didn't wear heels in the kitchen, but I sometimes put them on before entering the dining area. So I wasn't wearing them for him. Or at least not just for him.

I spoke with the couple who was celebrating their 20th anniversary and told them about the special dessert we’d prepared for them. While I talk to them, my arm around the back of the wife’s chair, my mind was miles away… specifically, in the corner booth. I wasn’t looking directly at him, but I was aware of his presence.

It was still hard to believe he was here. In the Midwest. In Kansas City. In my restaurant. As I moved to the next table, and I saw a trio of women approach him, brandishing pens, clearly asking for autographs. I tried not to stare as they flirted with him. One, a tall brunette in black leggings and a shimmery, silver crop top bent down and whispered something in his ear, probably letting him see straight down her shirt to her navel. Irritated, I scanned the room trying to determine which table the three women had been at and wondering if it was too late to over-salt their meals.

Moving on, I talked to more customers, got their opinions on the specials, received their kind words—and retained very little of what was said to me. Finally the three women moved off. I propelled myself forward, taking one shaky step after another.

Chef Bryant stood when I neared, and I was overwhelmed all over again by how amazing he looked in person. He was good-looking enough that he came across as hot as hell on TV, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. I tilted my head up, relishing how much taller he was than me, even with my increased height from my heels.

Every inch of him was masculine perfection, from his broad shoulders to his powerful, muscular arms. His black jeans showcased his strong thighs in a way that made me want to drool. Me and pretty much every other female in the dining room, as far as I could tell. He was also wearing a black shirt, and a suit jacket, of all things. That wasn’t his usual style but of course, it looked fantastic on him.

All powers of speech deserted me as I closed the final few feet. He bent his head, and I froze, not sure if he was going for my lips or my cheek. He ended up doing some kind of double kiss, one on each cheek, though he was definitely not European. Maybe it was supposed to be a Hollywood thing?

Grasping my hand in both of his, he squeezed gently. “Nice to see you, love.” His broad Australian accent made me feel as if everyone else’s enunciation was sorely lacking. It felt like I’d been waiting far more than half a year just to hear him call me ‘love’ again.

He gave a final squeeze and released my hand, sitting back down. He gestured to the seat across from him in the booth, but I shook my head. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”

He nodded. He knew how this worked.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said, fighting against the four words that wanted to escape my lips: why are you here? I shifted my weight from one foot to the other—realizing only too late but that was a dead giveaway that I was nervous. Not nervous of him exactly, but nervous about myself.

It was overwhelming, being in his presence again. I was thrilled to see him, but I was still in shock at having him appear out of thin air like this. And a small voice in the back of my mind wondered how I might feel when he was gone again.

Chef Bryant, on the other hand, was the picture of confidence. He leaned back in his seat, his long legs sprawled under the table reaching out almost to my feet. Following my gaze, he looked down also, zeroing in my high heels. “Don’t tell me wear those when you cook,” he said, his eyes flicking back up to mine.

“No, just sometimes when I greet the customers.” I couldn’t help answering his smile, it was so infectious. “Especially when I know there are tall customers in the dining room.”

He chuckled. “Pretty much everyone’s tall compared to you.”

I had to look away, it was too intense, looking at him straight-on. It was like staring into the sun. I glance at the plates in front of him instead. He’d ordered the most expensive item on the menu, a steak and lobster combo. He’d also gotten several desserts, but it looked like he only tried a few bites of each. I suddenly felt like a student, standing in front of her professor, wondering if he was pleased with her performance.

He he took a sip of coffee, and gestured with the cup. “What kind of a name is Fantabulous?”

Dammit, I wished my brain would start working. I needed a fun, flirty, comeback, but nothing sprang to mind. What was it about this man that could make all my brain cells disappear with one flash of his sexy smile? I had to say something. “It’s a combination of fabulous and … and … ” Damn, what was it? “And fantastic.” Yeah, that was it. I clearly needed to get my mind in gear. There was still the rest of the dinner shift to get through.

“Well, made up word or no, it aptly describes the food. My compliments to the head chef.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled, looking at the ground. I’d just accepted words of praise from a dozen other customers without turning into a blushing school girl. Why couldn’t I do the same from him? But his opinion meant more to me than anyone else in the restaurant business. He was my mentor, my idol, my crush.

He set his cup down and leaned his head back, studying me. “Feels a bit strange to have to look up to see you.” Before I could figure out how to respond to that, he continued. “Are you free later?”

Yes, proclaimed every cell in my body. “Yes,” my mouth echoed. My pulse instantly doubled, but outwardly I tried to remain calm. “But it’ll be late. We don’t even close until eleven, and then we have to get everything set up in the kitchen for tomorrow, and the cleaners come and—”

“I know the drill,” he said dryly. I blushed again. Of course he did. He’d spent years working in restaurants. He owned several of them.

“Do you want me to meet you somewhere when I’m done?”

“No,” he said. “I’ll come back here.”

“Sounds good,” I said, casually uttering the understatement of the year. “Enjoy your desserts.” I turned and walked back toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes on me. For the first time, I wondered how many other eyes had been on us as we chatted. Dante’s, almost certainly. Probably the waitstaff’s too. I hoped they would be long gone by the time Chef Bryant returned tonight. I had a feeling we were going to need our privacy.

* * *

It was almost midnight, and nearly everyone else had left. Only a few cleaners remained—I could hear them vacuuming out in the main dining room. The kitchen had been returned to pristine condition. It was neat and orderly. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck.

It wasn’t like I wasn’t excited. Of course I was. But I just wished I knew what it meant. I’d thought I’d never see him again. I’d resigned myself to never seeing him again. We lived in different worlds, and mine was the real one. His was make-believe. Private jets. Movie premiers. Hanging out with actresses and models. Dating actresses and models. Having paparazzi follow him everywhere he went.

As strange as it had been to meet the real man behind the celebrity during the night I’d spent with him, it was even stranger to meet the real man in the real world. Why was he even here? Was this just an intercontinental booty call?

A loud rap made me jump. I hurried over and unlocked the deadbolts at the door used for kitchen staff and deliveries. And there he was. Even in the dim light from the back parking lot, his piercing eyes stared into me from under dark, rugged brows. Holy crap, how could anyone who looked that hot truly exist?

Wordlessly, I stepped back, letting him in. He’d traded his suit coat for a black leather jacket, and it made him look all the more dangerous. Not a danger to my safety, but to my sanity. Callum Bryant was the most desirable man I’d ever laid eyes on and he was right here. Right now. It would be dangerous to let my mind think too far ahead.

He set a leather bag on a counter and walked further into the kitchen, leaving me following in his wake. For a moment, it was like I didn’t exist. He was in business mode, examining the layout of the kitchen, the appliances, the freezer and storage area. This was Chef Bryant the professional, not the celebrity or the heartthrob.

Finally he spoke. “Good setup. Good flow. A little crowded over by the freezer, but otherwise … a good, solid layout. How long have you been open?”

“A little over three months,” I said.

“And how’s it working out for you?”

“You tell me,” I said, caught in his mesmerizing gaze.

“The steak was a perfect medium rare. Good sear on it. The lobster wasn’t bad considering you’re about a thousand kilometers from the nearest bloody ocean.”

He had a point there. He was leaning against the counter now, his hands folded across his chest. With his leather jacket, black jeans, and boots, he looked more likely to roar off on a motorcycle than to create culinary magic. Yet he was the best in the business.

“And the desserts?” I asked. “You seemed particularly interested in those.”

Chef Bryant shrugged. “I was curious about what kind you’d include on the menu.”

I thought about it and realized that I’d never prepared any desserts for him before. His cooking show was more about entrees and the side dishes that went with them. “So, how’d I do?” Not that I made all the desserts personally, but I was the head chef. I was responsible for everything that left this kitchen.

“The first one I tried was too rich for my taste,” he said. “Though maybe that’s what they like out here in the middle states.”

Ignoring the implied dig about the tastebuds of Midwesterners, I asked, “Which one was that?” He just raised an eyebrow, turning the question back to me. Again, I had the sense that I was a student being graded by my professor. “The strawberry savarin.”

“Exactly. But the cheesecake was excellent. Light, tart, and the cranberry-raspberry compote was well done.”

“And the vanilla bean crème brûlée?”

“Perfection,” he said, his eyes sweeping across my body. I’d changed into a fresh shirt, a crisp white button-down, but kept my black skirt, tights, and heels. “Tasted almost as good as you do.”

A gasp escaped my lips as my heart forgot how to beat. Damn, that wasn’t good. After a long moment, it began again. I think. I wasn’t sure. I was only truly conscious of his sexy words echoing in my ears.

He grinned. “Good to know that underneath the confident and competent head chef, there’s still a bit of Shy Little Cheyenne left. She was a lot of fun.”

That made a smile steal onto my face, too. That night had been many things, but fun was at the top of the list. It had been the most incredible experience of my life. And now he was here. And even though it had been over six months since I’d seen him, suddenly it felt like no time at all.

He held out his arm and I went to him, pressing against his side as he pulled me close. I looked up at him, and he kissed me lightly on the top of my head. “Happy Birthday, love.”

“How’d you know?”

“It was in your file at the show,” he said, making me wonder what else had been in my paperwork. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

I shook my head. Food was the last thing to on my mind at the moment. But apparently not on his.

“Let’s see what we can do about that.”.

* * *

Watching Chef Bryant cook a meal in my kitchen was a surreal dream come true. He’d picked me up and deposited me on the counter, my legs dangling over the edge. Being carried so easily by him brought back memories, and I had to stop myself from automatically parting my legs, which had been one of his rules the last time we’d been in a kitchen together. One of several sexy rules.

Now he was sautéing some chicken and mushrooms, and for once my attention was not on his appearance. His every move was precise, measured, and necessary. Not a single motion was wasted. If the cooking shows I normally watched on TV were entertaining, this reached the next level. It was like culinary porn. I could have watched him all night.

When the chicken was ready, he removed it and the bulk of the mushrooms, leaving a layer of liquid and small mushroom pieces in the pan. When he reached for a flat wooden spatula, I knew he meant to deglaze the pan. For that, he’d need cooking wine or broth.

“Over in that cabinet is—”

“I can find my way around any kitchen in the world, love,” he said, and I blushed. And then I shut up and let the world-famous chef cook a meal for me. Which still struck me as completely surreal, but I wasn’t complaining. Far from it.

Crossing one leg over the other, I watched him finish up the meal, some kind of balsamic chicken dish. And when he was done, he poured the extra sauce over the chicken, mushrooms, and rice. The smell was heavenly and suddenly made me realized that I was hungry for more than just the tantalizing man in front of me.

The first bite of chicken melted in my mouth. It was delicious. Utterly incredible. He’d divided it up into two bowls, and I had a feeling I’d eat every bit of mine. It was too damn good to let nerves get in the way. Plus, he’d poured us some wine. He hadn’t been kidding about knowing his way around any kitchen. All I’d had to do was to sit there and try not to drool as I watched him work.

As we ate, we talked about the restaurant. I told him about my trouble getting someone who could work the fish station, and he told me about some of his new ventures. A restaurant in San Francisco he was considering buying. A new show in the works. Yet he still listened to my concerns. He had a few suggestions for how I could help Maria get up to speed.

My memories of our night together mostly focused on his alpha male side, but I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it when he opened up. When he proved he was a real person, not just an untouchable fantasy.

“That was wonderful. Thank you,” I said, setting my bowl down. I’d all but licked it clean.

“I remember how exhausting it can be after a dinner service. Exhilarating but exhausting. I thought you could use a meal.”

That’s not all I needed, I realized. But I still couldn’t quite get over the fact that he was here. “You didn’t come all this way to cook me a meal.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then why?”

“Maybe I missed my favorite China doll,” he said, and I blushed again, reflecting on when he’d called me that during the night we’d shared.

“Maybe,” I said, looking up at him through my lashes, hoping there was more.

“Or maybe I thought you might need another cooking lesson. But I can see that’s not the case,” he said, and I froze, wondering what he meant by that. “You’ve done well here, so you don’t need another cooking lesson.” He eyed me speculatively before continuing. “But maybe you might want one.”

He was standing only a foot or two away from me, but it was too far. I reached out and grasped the neckline of his dark shirt. Closing my fingers around it, I gave a little tug.

He came forward, and my legs parted automatically, giving him space to press up against the counter between my knees. Now his tempting lips were only inches from mine. But before I could allow myself to taste them, I met his piercing eyes straight on. “Maybe I do,” I said. And this time, I didn’t need to tug, his head was already descending toward me. Closing my eyes, I felt his warm lips meet mine as I squeezed my arms and legs around him.

It was even better than I remembered. Chef Bryant buried one hand in my hair as his mouth ravished my own, his tongue tracing my lips and pushing past them. I clung to him with ever fiber of my being, and a moment later, he lifted me off the counter, his hand sliding underneath me.

We didn’t once break contact, not even when I felt the wall behind my back, his hard body pressing me against it. I pulled his head in closer as he deepened the kiss. With my legs around him and my back to the wall, he no longer needed his hands to support me. He grabbed my wrists, sliding them up along the wall, pinning them above me, held in place by his forearm. His free hand smoothed my hair off my neck and his talented lips worked their way along my jawline.

Damn it felt good. Tilting my head back, my eyes still closed, I moaned. After all this time, after six long months, he was here, and he was everywhere, his arm pinning my hands over my head, his mouth on my neck, his erection pressing against my core. I could feel the heat even through several layers of clothes.

“Did you miss this?” he murmured, his words muffled by my throat.

“Oh yes,” I breathed back.

“Good. You’ll get some more after the cooking lesson.”

“Mmm …” I moaned. Then my eyes flew open. “Wait, what?”

He released my hands and eased back, forcing me to bring my legs down.

“It’s time for your cooking lesson.”

“But you said I didn’t need one.”

“I said you might want one. And you agreed.”

“But … but, why don’t we skip that and just go to my place. It’s about ten miles from here. Or twenty kilometers, as you would say.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I should give you a metrics lesson instead of a cooking one.”

“I can do cooking conversions. Just not distance,” I said, grumpy because he was no longer kissing me. “Please … I don’t want a lesson right now. I just want you.”

“Wow. Perhaps I should stop calling you Shy Little Cheyenne. But okay, we’ll skip the lesson and go straight to the tests.”

“Tests? What tests?” I suspected that I’d be having trouble following this conversation even if all the blood in my body hadn’t just rushed between my legs. “Why are there tests?”

“So I’ll know if you deserve a punishment or a reward.”

Oh god. “What’s the punishment? No wait, what’s the reward?” Was it wrong that I was equally curious about both?

“You’ll find out,” he said. “But first, I brought something for you.”