Coming to a stop on his drive, Vincent sits idle in the driver’s seat and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

“Are you okay?” I quietly ask.

“Fine,” he says, smiling slightly. “You?”

I look down at my lap. “Tired.”

“Yeah, me too.”

After sitting quiet for a few moments more, I lift my gaze to him. “Vincent, I—”

“Want a drink?” he interrupts.

My cheeks flush.

“To celebrate,” he says, “surviving the first night.”

I glance over at my house for a second, and then nod my approval.

He exits the car.

Feeling nervous about following Vincent into his house so late at night, I look across the street toward Mrs. Thorn’s house. I wouldn’t want to become the gossip of the whole neighborhood. Luckily there’s no sign her. Normally she’s peering through her window blinds whenever something out of place occurs.

Vincent opens the front door and motions me inside.

When we get to the kitchen, he throws his car keys down on the dining table and unloosens his tie. “I have a wonderful Pinot Grigio in the garage. 2006. Best of the year.”

“I don’t really drink wine,” I tell him, slowly sitting down on a chair at the dining table.

“Ridiculous. Any chef worth their salt should appreciate a good wine. Maybe that’s why your Jus was so bad.”

I grin. I guess I deserved that.

When he comes back from the garage with the wine, I push to my feet and search around for some glasses in the cupboards above the stove.

“You won’t find anything packed away yet,” he says.

Shuffling over to a box on the far corner of the room, he pulls out two small champagne flutes. He studies them before blowing away dust. Turning to face me, he smiles.

He looks impressive in his tailored suit, even though it’s now a little crinkled from a busy night. He’s handsome, mature, and undeniably sexy. TV doesn’t do him justice.

“Do you bring all your chefs over after opening night?” I tease.

“Only the good ones,” he parries back.

“Then I must be an exception.”

He locks his gorgeous brown gaze to me. “You could say that.”

I blush and turn away from his intense stare.

Is he flirting . . . ?

God, who do I think I am? Why would Vincent De Luca be flirting with me?

He sets the glasses down on the kitchen countertop and pops open the wine with a bottle opener. The cork flies off and lands on the tiles by my tired feet. Pouring us both a liberal helping, he moves close to me.

The heady scent from both the wine and his expensive aftershave makes something stir deep inside. The feeling is inexplicable—only a few hours ago he was verbally tearing me apart—but something in my core comes to life.

“Cheers,” he says, holding up his glass toward me.

“Cheers.” We both hit our glasses together and take our first sip.

Vincent pulls back and licks his lips, examining the wine. “Wonderful. What do you think?”

I gnash my teeth together as the wine hits the back of my throat. “Sour.”

He laughs at me.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to sip it. Savour it. Not knock it back like a can of Dr. Pepper.”

I chuckle and take a second sip, slower this time . . . for his benefit rather than my own.

“Much better,” he says.

Almost drowning in my attraction for him, I step back a few inches, set my glass down, and take a sharp breath. Either the exhaustion I feel after tonight, mixed with the wine, or the way his eyes seem to devour me, is doing something really strange. I feel dizzy.

His brows meet. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I paw at my temples. “Just tired.”

He places his glass down. “I guess you are. Look, Melanie, I just want you to know that I think you did an incredible job tonight.”

“You do? But . . . you shouted at me.”

“You’ll soon get to know that I can be quite a shit in the workplace. But like I told you earlier, it’s nothing personal. I have high standards. It’s only because I want the very best for my staff, especially my chefs.”

Suddenly, all that pressure, the images of me driving a carving knife into him, burning the steak on purpose just to piss him off, vanish.

He grins. “You should have seen some of the heat I got in Jean-Luc’s kitchen.”

My eyes widen and I smile—Jean Luc: a name that will go down in the history books. He owned his first Michelin star restaurant at just twenty-one. Paris. Capital of food . . . and love.

“What was he like?” I ask.

Vincent’s face turns serious.

I narrow my gaze. “Did I say something wrong?”

His lips curl slightly. “No. It’s just . . . I miss him. He was like a father figure to me.”

I look down at my feet. “He was a genius.”

“The best.”

Silence creates a wedge between us. I only know Jean-Luc through library books and old archive clippings on the internet, but Vincent grew up with him. Without Jean-Luc Vincent would have possibly never made such an impact on the scene.

Suddenly, Vincent straightens up. “Right, this wine won’t finish itself.”

I look at the time on my phone. “I don’t know, it’s kinda late—”

“Bullshit. At least help me finish this off. Remember, a chef who doesn’t drink a little wine shouldn’t be in the kitchen.”

With little resistance, and, quite frankly, wanting to spend time with him, I give in and raise my glass for a refill.

* * *

Vincent sees me to the door. “You’re doing the lunch service tomorrow, okay?”

I nod and hiccup at the same time.

He laughs.

The scene is interrupted when we both spot Mrs. Thorn’s porch light come on.

“You better get home,” he says.

“Before curtain twitchier comes out,” I add, swaying and feeling pathetically drunk after only three glasses of white.

“Curtain twitchier?”

“That’s what mom calls her. She’s always looking out of her window spying on everyone.” I pause before reaching up and planting a kiss on Vincent’s cheek.

Immediately I regret it. He stares at me, his face stretched.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I did that . . . shit.”

He places a finger gently to my mouth, which catches me completely off guard.

“It’s okay,” he softly says. Bending down, he gives me a kiss on both cheeks, slow and almost lingering, before looking back into my eyes. “That’s the continental way.”

I stare at him and our eyes only part when he notices Mrs. Thorn’s front door open. “Go on,” he whispers. “Save yourself from the twitchier.”

I follow his gaze across the street and laugh.

“Good night, Melanie.”

I look back into Vincent’s sexy, brown eyes and smile. “Good night, chef.”

“What did I say about calling me that out of work?”

I shrug and stumble away, drunk and happy.

How I wish I could stay with him all night.