Opposites Attract: The complete box set

by Higginson, Rachel

  But now that we were here, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. His actions in the interview had been enough to squash the weird sexual tension I felt earlier today.

  “Which is it, Swift? Yes or no? Is there something else you want to talk about?”

  He sat down on the edge of his desk, his long legs spreading out to both sides of me. We suddenly felt too close. I wanted to move back, but there was nowhere to go in his tiny office.

  I reached for sarcasm, the lifeline to sanity. “I think you being a selfish asshole covers it.”

  He smiled, and it was so genuine and significant, aimed so wholly at me that it took everything in me not to smile back. I mean, damn, his smile was a weapon.

  He hid them so well. Deprived the entire world of that face looking that perfect. But when we were alone? He whipped it out like it was no big deal. Like I wouldn’t automatically melt into a pile of goo. Like he couldn’t get away with whatever he wanted because all he had to do was smile.

  “You drive me crazy, you know that?” he asked, his voice soft, teasing.

  I held my arms more tightly around my waist. “Good.”

  His eyes twinkled, catching the affection from the smile. “We’re even, see?”

  This was a trick. It had to be. Because I should have already stormed out of the office with my middle fingers thrown in the air for good measure. Instead, I found myself leaning against the door, my shoulders relaxing, my scowl fading, my entire body warming to him. “How do you figure?”

  “I drive you crazy. You drive me crazy. Win-win.”

  “I don’t think you know what that means.” My eye twitched when his smile stretched and I realized I’d walked into a trap. “Yeah, but you should know better. You’re the boss.”

  He leaned forward. “That is the problem, isn’t it?”

  My righteous anger melted into confusion. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m the boss.”

  “That’s been clearly established. Believe me.” I stared at him. “Wait, what?”

  He stood and towered over me. My heart stopped. He took another step towards me. My heart jumped into a sprint, racing as fast it could go, beating frantically against my poor, fragile breastbone.

  “The problem is that I’m the boss.” The back of his hand brushed the underside of my jaw. “Otherwise, we could do something about the way we drive each other crazy.”

  Now I couldn’t swallow and my stomach doing somersaults was making me dizzy. I blamed all of this on him. Somehow my voice still came out breathy, forgiving, perplexed. “How could we do that?”

  His head dropped so he could whisper in my ear. “Use your imagination.” I leaned into him, hating the tickle and savoring the feel of him all at once. He took a step back, depriving me of him too soon. “But I can swear to you, I’d find a way to work your name in. And I’m fairly confident you’d remember to use mine.”

  Was he serious? Sex? He was talking about sex?

  What the ever-loving what?

  He sat back down on the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest again, smug and arrogant and so fucking full of himself.

  Nope. This could not stand.

  He could not do an interview like that, work me into a frenzy like this, smile at me, and then do whatever the hell he just did and get away with it.

  I decided I needed to teach him a lesson. And put my libido out of its misery.

  Stepping into the space between his legs, I gripped his coat collar with two hands and leaned forward until my mouth was an inch above his. “Don’t be so sure of yourself.” The wickedness in my plan pulled a smirk from me and I savored the way his breath hitched, and his body went rigid. He had expected me to walk away.

  Or run away.

  See? He’d underestimated me again.

  I let my mouth brush over his. “It’s not a given that’d I’d remember your name, chef. You might turn out to be totally forgettable.”

  “Not a fucking chance.” His voice was low, hoarse.

  I wasn’t sure who moved first. Whether it was him or me or both of us crashing together all at once in a tangle of lips and tongue and teeth. His hands were on my waist, pulling me closer, holding my body against his, searing me with the same heat that had branded my lips.

  He tasted like coconut, and his lips were surprisingly cool to the touch like he’d just finished taking a drink of something cold. For as rock hard as the rest of his body was, his lips were the opposite. Lush and pillowy and too addicting.

  Our kiss was frantic, unfamiliar and wild. I couldn’t get enough of him. The more I kissed him, the more I wanted. The more I needed.

  And the more we practiced, the better we got too. I learned the contours of his mouth, the tilt of his head, the sound he made in the back of his throat when I sunk my teeth into his full bottom lip. God, this man.

  His mouth moved from mine to trail kisses along the curve of my jaw, the length of my neck, the spot just behind my ear. And down so he could nip at my collarbone and do wicked things with his tongue to the hollow of my throat.

  I shivered, a full body tremble that he caught with his arms wrapped around my waist. He laid his head on my breasts, holding me to him in an embrace that felt part genuine and part fear. I looked down at the top of his head and couldn’t help but whisper, “What are we doing?”

  He pulled back and grinned at me. “I think it’s pretty obvious.” He pressed a lingering kiss to the underside of my jaw. “But I can show you again if you’re still confused.”

  I set my hands on his shoulders, holding him at a distance. “Wyatt, this is crazy.”

  His smile was less sure this time, but just as powerful. Maybe because it was nervous… insecure… maybe because it wobbled and sort of fell and hit me right in the chest. I wanted to bring it back in full. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him to me, making sure he never looked uncertain again.

  That wasn’t who he was. He was confident to a fault. Cocky and fearless; completely sure of himself.

  So, this vulnerable version needed to go away before it completely slayed me.

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “But maybe not so crazy either.”

  I braved those brown eyes, dark with the secrets of what we just did. “What do you mean?”

  His arms tightened around my waist. “I mean… it feels inevitable. I know things are complicated since I’m your boss, but it had to happen eventually, right?”

  Maybe sleep deprivation had broken his brain. None of his words were making any sense. “Why eventually?”

  He glanced at the ceiling, already getting frustrated with me. I nearly smiled at how quickly the bliss of kissing wore off. We would be back to bickering in no time.

  “I don’t understand why you keep saying that. What had to happen eventually?”

  His sigh was frustrated and annoyed. I tried to suppress a victorious smile. “This goddamn tension between us, Kaya. It’s been building and building and building. Eventually it was going to come to a head.”

  I glared at him, irrationally angry that he was downplaying what happened here. I knew it made no sense. I was the one trying to convince him that nothing significant had transpired between us. But I was a female and therefore allowed to be fickle at least once a day. “That’s what you think this was? Sexual tension coming to a head?”

  His rumbly chuckle chased another shiver down my spine. “No, this was more like a compression leak.” His hands moved down my hips, to the backs of my thighs where he gripped me beneath my ass. He tugged me toward him and I had to grasp his shoulders for balance. “We haven’t even begun to release the real pressure.”

  I laughed, even though inwardly I was freaking out. “Wyatt, we’re not doing this again.” A slow smile spread across his mouth. I pushed at his shoulders, but even I had to admit I barely put any effort into the protest. “Wyatt, I’m serious,” I insisted. “This was a mistake. We’re smart enough to know not to repeat our mistakes.”

  “You
kissed me,” he said, totally catching me off guard.

  “What?”

  “Tonight. Right now.” His eyebrows jumped, insisting that he was telling the truth. “I wasn’t going to kiss you, but you practically threw yourself at me.”

  “You’re blaming this on me?” I was too shocked to be pissed. Although I knew that would come later. Right after the shame and embarrassment.

  Or maybe before.

  It was hard to tell at this point. There were too many emotions clamoring for first place.

  His head cocked back and his hold on my waist went slack. “I wasn’t blaming you,” he said. “I was… crediting you.” His eyes flashed with something that looked too much like hope and I wanted to take back my words and swallow them just to erase that look on his face.

  But I couldn’t. I was too worked up, too out of my depth. As much as I liked to pretend I loved spontaneity, what I really loved was predictability and obviousness. I hated change. And I hated not knowing what happened next.

  That was one of the reasons I loved cooking so much. I knew what would happen. I had the variables calculated and my processes in place. If I cooked a specific size protein for a certain number of minutes, it would turn out exactly how I wanted it to. If I used x amount of spice with x amount of other spice, I would get a very consistent flavor profile.

  Sure, there was some change and I couldn’t predict the future no matter how hard I tried. But for the most part, I could get pretty damn close.

  And that was important to me.

  I’d run from a past that had been way too predictable, but I hadn’t left that girl behind completely. She still lurked inside me, a shadow of a past I desperately wanted to forget. But I couldn’t. And I couldn’t completely forget the girl I used to be either.

  “I don’t want the credit,” I told Wyatt. My eyelids slammed shut, hiding the shame for my cruel words. I took a step back and Wyatt let me go.

  He was going to be pissed. The man did not handle rejection well. I knew this from working with him. This would wound his pride, chip away at his testosterone. He’d hate me forever now.

  So, I drove the nail into the coffin and let go of this delicious, wonderful, totally unexpected moment of insanity. It was better this way. “I don’t want you.”

  Only his smile turned genuine again. His eyes twinkled and darkened, beckoning all at once. His hands rested on his desk, his fingers curling around the edges. He stretched his body back all cocky arrogance and self-satisfied man. “Liar,” he taunted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a dirty liar, Swift. You fucking want me.”

  Red. I went red. From head to toe, including my vision. “I don’t want you.” I stepped forward and pointed a finger directly in his face. “I seriously don’t want you.”

  He sucked in his bottom lip and let his silence speak for him.

  “You’re out of your damn mind.”

  He remained silent.

  “I honestly can’t believe you. Or how you could even come to that crazy conclusion! What have I ever done to give you any indication that I want you? I was being polite, asshole. Nice. I didn’t want to wound your poor, fragile ego.” I yanked open the door, but before I walked through it I had to turn around and say, “Tomorrow morning you’re going to feel embarrassed about all of this. And I’m not going to feel bad for you, Shaw. This is what you get.”

  I turned my back on him and that’s when he decided to speak. His voice still low, he asked, “And what if I want more of it, Kaya? Then what?”

  I looked back at him over my shoulder. “Then find somebody else.”

  He shook his head and mouthed one word. “No.”

  My body finally reacted the way it should have a half hour ago and I ran from the building like the hounds of hell were chasing me.

  If I thought his barely there kiss a few days ago was bad, that was nothing compared to the torment a full on make out session put me through. I tossed and turned for hours, replaying every second of the night.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d done to lead Wyatt on. And then every single interaction between us seemed obvious and fraught with sexual tension. Hadn’t I bitten his finger? How else was he supposed to interpret my actions?

  And, God, was he that far off?

  Alone, in my room, with nobody to face and no one else to answer to, I had to be honest with myself. Of course, I wanted Wyatt and I had imagined us together. I had noticed his body, his mouth, the way he would casually touch me every once in a while. I had played around with the idea of how good we would be and how he would totally rock my world in every sense of the phrase. But that was a natural reaction to what he looked like. That wasn’t my fault! He was objectively attractive.

  I was reacting to him as any woman in my position would react to him.

  When I rolled out of bed in the morning, he’d sent me an email. There was no subject or personal message other than a link that led to another interview.

  The interview had gone live last week on a more popular website than Epissessed called Cocktails and Carnivores. It was a national site and didn’t have the promise of local gossip, so I didn’t check it often. I read through it three times before I believed the words on the page.

  “How has the transition gone?” they’d asked him.

  His reply? “Unbelievably smooth. Honestly, I expected a fight. Killian was made in that kitchen and I feel totally unqualified to fill his absence.”

  “You must be doing something right,” they’d said.

  “It’s the staff mostly,” he’d answered. “Especially my sous chef. Kaya Swift. She’s stayed strong through the entire overhaul, giving the kitchen confidence to do what it does best—cook good food. I’d be completely lost without her.”

  I swallowed my tongue. Or nearly did. That should have been enough. That would have been enough to shut me up about the Epissessed interview. But they’d gone on.

  “She sounds special,” the interviewer had commented.

  And in print, in type, right there in front of me, from a reputable website that claimed Wyatt had verbalized these exact words, said, “She is.”

  So that was basically the sound of my entire world collapsing. Or exploding. Or altering entirely.

  Wyatt was full of surprises lately.

  It was probably time I decided if I liked those surprises or if I wanted him to get the hell out of my kitchen.

  Ten

  “You look like hell.”

  My lip curled at Dillon as I slid across from her in the vinyl-cracked booth. “Good morning to you too.”

  “I mean, clearly something’s up,” she went on. Not the least bit apologetic. “Are you feeling all right? Do you have the flu?”

  “No flu.”

  “It’s cancer then.” She leaned forward, sliding her hands toward me over the Formica tabletop. “Oh my God. You have cancer. Don’t’ worry, friend, you also have me. We’re going to fight this, K. Fight it with all we got.”

  I threw my hands in the air before she could touch me. “Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

  She grinned at me. “Nope.”

  “You’re obnoxious.”

  Her expression didn’t falter. “Yeah, but that doesn’t count because you love me.”

  “I’m reconsidering actually.”

  She stuck out her tongue and handed me a menu at the same time. Saturday mornings we always grabbed brunch at the Blue Pelican. It was this hole in the wall dive that served the best corned beef hash on the planet.

  “This is how I know I’m right,” she murmured. “You’re so grumpy today.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you knew you were right by how I looked?”

  She waved a hand at me. “I was giving you a hard time. I mean… your eyes are a little bloodshot today, but the eyeliner helps. It looks good on you. You never wear it.”

  Staring hard at the menu in front of me, I didn’t comment. I didn’t usually wear makeup to work
, especially not eyeliner. I was more of a waterproof mascara and hydrating primer kind of girl. But Dillon was right about my eyes. And the bags underneath them. Also, how my hair had decided to misbehave and get all wild on me—even with half of it knotted on the top of my head. I was a mess today.

  “It’s okay,” I relented. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m exhausted.”

  “You need a night off.”

  I smirked at her. “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “You’re all…” She made hand gestures that put her at a cross between a zombie version of Frankenstein and a chipmunk having a seizure. “Tightly wound.”

  She had no idea.

  The waiter stopped to take our order. Dillon got the roasted tomato and poblano egg white mini quiches and I got a cup of coffee.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” our regular server, Dan, asked.

  “Um, maybe the oatmeal? With the berries and brown sugar.”

  Dan’s eyebrows raised, but he didn’t comment. Dillon wasn’t as kind.

  “Oh my God. It is cancer.”

  “Shut it.”

  “Oatmeal, Ky? Oatmeal? How bad is it? Stage four? Stage five? Oh my God. Is it stage ten?”

  Staring at my gorgeous, talented, super ditzy friend, I wondered whether to bring up Wyatt now or tackle her severely irrational fear of cancer. “I think cancer only has four stages. I think stage ten is dead.”

  She pounded a dainty fist on the table. “That’s not the point!”

  I needed to put her out of her misery. That was the kind thing to do. But I couldn’t seem to get the words to leave my mouth. They sat on my tongue, making it numb and immovable.

  Rip the Band-Aid, Kaya. Tear that motherfucker right off. “Wyatt and I made out last night.”

  She slumped back against the booth and blinked at me. She didn’t even have to say a word. I felt her judgment fill the small restaurant like helium in a balloon