I press Vincent’s doorbell and shuffle back a few inches, bracing myself. I feel stupid for making something so simple but, aside from a few merger ingredients, there was nothing in the house. Hopefully I’ll get a free pass when I explain the situation.

The seconds seem to drag as I wait idle on Vincent’s porch. A small part of me—the cowardly part—wants to chuck my food over the hedge and run back to the sanctuary of my bedroom; just hide away and forget this whole thing was ever in the cards in the first place. Mom’s lectures would probably grate on me for a while, but at least I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in front of America’s most famous celebrity chef.

Before I can make my escape, the front door opens. “Melanie.”

I shoot Vincent an awkward smile.

He checks his wristwatch. “Didn’t we agree you’d come by at five?”

“Yes, but I—”

“You’re half an hour early.”

He pulls the front door open and motions me inside. Just as I begin to push through, he stops me and looks down at my feet. “Shoes off.”

Holding onto my plate of food makes it hard to bend down, so I slip off my canvas pumps with my feet. When my gaze meets his again he shoots me a warm smile, which quells my nerves a little.

“I just had the floors laid down today,” he says. “Cherry rosewood.”

I smile back at him like the star-struck fan I’ve always been. I still can’t wrap my head around the bizarre reality that Vincent De Luca has moved to our leafy, boring, neighborhood, and I certainly can’t believe he’s about to taste my food.

When we hit the kitchen, which has units only half fitted, I scan for a space to put down my offering. The kitchen is littered with boxes. Vincent briskly walks past me and lifts off a heavy looking one from the corner of a dusty countertop.

“Here,” he says.

I quickly shuffle over and place the dish down. As I remove the top plate from my food, Vincent rummages around inside another box.

Standing back, I wring my hands together. I can barely look at him as he pulls out a fork from the box and studies my dish.

He huffs. “Didn’t I say no fish?”

My mouth parts, but before I can speak he digs the prongs of his fork into a piece of salmon—catching a piece of side salad along with it.

My heart beats wildly as he opens his mouth for the first bite.

Straightening up, he slowly chews. His face is blank of emotion—it’s the same poker face he’s famous for on his show. One of two things normally happens soon after he tastes a contestant’s work: one—he stares back at the hopeful chef and bursts out with a glowing review of their masterpiece, or, two—he shouts his head off and throws the plate across the entire length of the TV studio kitchen.

My teeth grind as I wait for one of the outcomes.

Setting the fork down on the side of the plate, his gaze focuses in on me. I recoil slightly and my shoulders jam up. Then, without batting an eyelid, he starts over to the kitchen sink and runs himself a glass of water.

Is that it?

No comment?

No crazy outburst?

Won’t he at least tell me it sucks?

Turning to face me, he sips on his water and sighs.

Here it comes . . .

“I’m going for a shower,” he says.

My stomach drops. What the—?

He jerks his chin toward a closed door at the back of the kitchen. “That leads to the garage. You’ll find the refrigerator in there. I have a few steaks stored on the lower rung. You’ll also find some ingredients for a red wine sauce inside a box labelled ‘restaurant.’ I want you to prepare me a steak while I’m in the shower. Bloody. Make sure the sauce is the right consistency and also make sure you season it properly. No fancy stuff. Just a classic piece of meat cooked well”

I squint.

He looks down at my plate of food and sighs again.

“Was it that bad?” I ask, the words falling from my lips in one quick stream.

“Bland.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, dishing up a piece of Salmon you haven’t cooked doesn’t really show me your skills.” He picks at his mouth, removing a small shred of lettuce. Holding it up to the light he examines it, sneering.

My gaze falls to the floor and my cheeks burn. I feel so small.

As he starts out of the kitchen, he briefly stops and turns his head back to me. “I’ll be twenty or so minutes.” He brushes down his black t-shirt, which is covered in dust and plaster. “Remember, Melanie, make sure the steak is rare . . . understood?”

I nod, feeling like a child in elementary class.

* * *

“Finished?”

When I turn around my heart almost stops. Vincent stands at the kitchen door. All he’s wearing are a pair of baggy jogging pants. The waistband is low and is just about held up by the sharp, muscular cuts of his wasp-thin torso.

His body is tanned, lean, and coated in shower mist. His jet-black hair is messy and wet, and the smell from his velvety skin—zesty soap and expensive cologne—is divine. For just a split second I forget all about my taste test and gawp at the hunky specimen before me.

How can someone almost my dad’s age look so ridiculously hot?

Feeling myself staring just a little too much, I swiftly divert my gaze down to my steak challenge.

He walks over. “Ready for me to taste?”

I nod and blush slightly. The heat in my cheeks is from witnessing his chiseled body and not just the heat of the pan I’ve slaved over.

He rounds the countertop, running a small towel through his wet hair.

Picking up the sauce I prepared, which I presented in a tiny jug I found in his garage, he pours it liberally over the steak.

I’m actually pretty pleased with the consistency of the jus—it looks nice, thin, and rich in color.

Setting the jug of red wine sauce down, he scoops up the knife and fork I placed by the plate and tears away a small piece of meat.

Holding the fork up to the light, like he did with the lettuce earlier, he scrutinizes the beef from all sides. He still has his poker face on.

I try to control my heavy breathing as he opens his mouth and places the piece of steak on his tongue.

A few chews later, and still no flicker of emotion on his handsome face, he takes the plate over to a small trash can by the sink.

I bite on the cuticles of my nails. I was sure that was cooked just right.

He stays mute for a while, running another glass of water with his back turned to me.

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I need to know one way or the other. This is so demoralizing. “Well then?”

He glances over his shoulder at me, seemingly startled by the impatience that’s now in my voice.

I lower the volume. “I mean . . . was it okay?”

His lips twist to the side and he shrugs. “Not bad.”

Turning fully around to face me, he brings the glass of water up to his lips. My eyes involuntary fall down to his rippling abs. His cut six-pack almost looks fit to burst out of his tanned, ageless skin.

His body is ridiculous. The waistband of his jogging pants rides so low that I can see tufts of pubic hair, and I swear he’s half erect—either that or his flaccid cock is huge.

He clears his throat. “Can you start next Monday?”

My eyes snap to his. “Really?”

A slight smile pulls on his generous lips. “Really. To be honest, Melanie, you’re a bit of a godsend.”

My brows meet. “Am I?”

“Saves me from placing an ad in the local paper. You will be shadowing our pastry chef.”

My cheeks flush and the room almost spins. My worst thing to cook, ever!

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah . . . yes, thank you. I’m just . . . it’s been a long day.”

He smiles, fully this time, showing off perfect straight white teeth; teeth I want to lick like the freak I am.

“I understand,” he says. “I’ll see you out.”

Walking from the kitchen to the hallway, I am a jumbled-up bag of emotions: I’m so happy to be given a shot, but I’m also petrified of being exposed. Even Barbara’s daughter, who is only ten, can make better cakes and pastry than me. I’m also fighting with my attraction to Vincent. Sure, I’ve often played with myself over the fantasy of him in my mind’s eye—the dominance he displays on his TV show acted out on me—but I never expected his body would look quite as sexy as it does. The only clue I had that he keeps in shape is his muscular arms when they pop out of his trademark starched white tee. Now I’ve actually seen his torso naked, he’s even more gorgeous than I gave him credit for.

He overtakes me in the hallway and opens the front door for me.

I swipe a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I brush past him and out onto the porch.

“Melanie?”

I turn. “Yes, Mr. De Luca?”

“I’ll be away for a few days. I might not see you until your first day. But don’t worry, I’ll send you the address—”

I cut him off. “I know where it is . . . Middle Street.”

“Yeah, that’s right. How did you know? The location of my new restaurant is supposed to be a secret until opening night.”

“I saw the ‘for sale’ sign come down last week. Put two and two together when you moved to the neighborhood.”

He smiles. “Ah, I see. Well, see you at work then.” He holds out his hand.

Trying to calm my raging heartbeat, I take his hand in mine and almost feel my legs give way. His hand completely engulfs mine. It feels warm and surprisingly smooth.

“Congratulations, Melanie.”

I stare into his dark, brooding eyes and smile. “Thanks, chef.”