Shaye Westlake was firmly ensconced in her happy place. Sous chef extraordinaire, she had a job she loved, on the island she loved, in the hotel kitchen she loved, beside the man she loved, daily. Even when said man got his head chef alpha on and barked out orders like a mafia don when they were slammed during dinner service.

Her lips curved into a smirk as her chef’s knife flew. While Del might be the boss in Due South’s kitchen, his loving wife often got her own way in the bedroom.

“What are you thinking about?”

Hands settled either side of her apron-covered waist, tugging her lower body backward until her bottom bumped against a hard male wall. She prided herself on professionalism in the kitchen, but it was nearly Christmas. So she slowly rotated her hips and was rewarded with a low, sexy growl beside her ear.

“I think I can guess,” Del said.

Fingers skimmed under the hem of her chef’s jacket and found skin, stroking sensuous little circles on her hip bones until she was the one growling. He nipped a spot on her exposed neck then soothed it with a soft kiss. “Finish up that prep and I think your boss will give you a fifteen minute taste of the good stuff in the pantry before dinner service starts.”

Shaye’s smirk expanded to a grin and she reached between them to grab his good stuff. Lucky him, he’d chosen to wear his loose chef pants today so she got a decent handful of the part of his anatomy that functioned as her favorite toy.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “Holy guacamole, woman—”

The kitchen’s back door swung open with a gust of chilly air and Shaye’s in-laws blundered inside. Shaye’s hand sprang open—fortunately, or else they could’ve been down a chef tonight—and Del took a giant step sideways, where he stood facing the counter and pretending to examine the prep work she’d already completed.

“Ah, the newlyweds have dragged themselves out of their marital bed to grace us with their presence,” Shaye blurted out as Bill fought the wind and slammed the door shut.

Her former boss and mentor grinned at her, his Westlake-blue eyes twinkling below the striped beanie pulled low over his head. “We’re headed back there for round two as soon as the carolers have gone home tonight.”

Beside her, Del gave an exaggerated shudder. “My parents doing it is a mental picture I don’t bloody need in my head.”

Once again a Westlake, Claire leaned against her husband and glanced up at him. “Bill, you’re embarrassing our youngest child. Couples over sixty don’t have sex, remember?”

Bill snorted, tucking an arm around her waist. “For his and our daughter-in-law’s sake, they’d better hope that isn’t true.”

“Did you want something, old man?” Del asked. “Other than to embarrass us with TMI about your post-wedding activities?”

Divorced for many years, Bill and Claire had remarried three weeks ago in a simple, fuss-free ceremony with only a few friends and family attending. Del’s older brother, West, had stood as Bill’s best man, their stepsister, Carly, took pride of place as solo bridesmaid, while Del had walked his mother down the aisle. There’d been plenty of laughter, more than a few tears, and loud boasts from Mrs. Taylor that her matchmaking prowess couldn’t be bested.

“Nah,” Bill said. “We’re off to Glenna’s for dinner and just wanted to rub your noses in our marital bliss.”

“Nice of you,” said Del. “Now you can leave.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at her son. “I’m sorry, were we interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” Shaye said smoothly. “We were just discussing Christmas dinner this year, and whether you’d be making your wonderful sweet potato casserole.”

“Oh.” Claire’s mock glare switched to a smile. “Would you like me to? So long as it doesn’t step on Glenna’s toes.”

“Why don’t you discuss it with her over dinner, Mom?” Del sidestepped to his mother and bent to kiss her cheek, subtly slipping his arm around her shoulders and angling her back toward the door.

Del Westlake—he had all the smooth moves.

“We get the hint. We’re off.” Bill winked at Shaye. “Just keep it in your pants, eh, son?”

Del followed his parents to the back door and locked it behind them.

“Where were we?” he said, leaning his back against the door.

With a grin hot enough to flash-fry every inch of her exposed skin, he folded his arms across his white chef’s jacket and gave her the sex you up eyeball.

“Keep it in your pants, Westlake.” She pointed the tip of her chef’s knife at him, determined not to outwardly react to the happy swarm of butterflies dancing around her lower stomach.

“Never had much luck with that, have we?”

He took a step toward her, and she set down the knife and snatched up a bowl of sliced red onions. She chose the largest onion ring and brandished it, ninja throwing star style.

“I’m armed and dangerous.”

He shot her another dirty grin and cupped himself, then took two more steps in her direction. “So am I, cupcake.”

“Count yourself lucky I don’t have any frosting on me,” she said, refusing to glance down at what she knew would definitely be armed and dangerous once she freed it from his loose chef pants. She was such a bad chef…a dirty, bad, unprofessional, horny chef.

And it was all her husband’s fault.

“Kinda wish you did,” he said. “We could take a walk down memory lane.”

Without breaking eye contact she lowered the bowl back to the counter in slo-mo, then hurled the onion. She didn’t pause to watch if it hit the bridge of his nose, which she’d aimed for, but spun on her comfortable kitchen clogs and made a run for the walk-in pantry.

Knowing her fellow dirty, bad, and hot as hell head chef would follow.

The pantry door slammed shut and Del caught her by the huge chest freezer. One minute she was laughing until her sides ached, the next she was groaning as her husband made short work of removing her chef pants and Santa-print panties, then lifted her onto the freezer’s lid.

“Please tell me you’ve not got a matching Santa-print bra on,” Del murmured against the flushed skin of her throat. “That’s just a bit weird, even for you.”

He slid his hands under her shirt and rucked it up until his fingers reached bare, braless skin.

His gaze jerked to hers. “And I say again, holy guacamole.”

Shaye leaned back and peeled off her chef’s top. “Happy early Christmas, Hollywood.”