A Taste of Temptation

by Heather McGovern

  Trevor wrinkled his brow. “Why? What was the theme for the original location?”

  “Some circus or fair theme, I don’t know.”

  Devlin and Trevor both groaned.

  “It was going to be more casual but they’ve scrapped that.”

  Great. What the heck had she missed?

  With a dramatic lean, Dev propped his elbow on the arm of the chair. “Help sounds like code for we need to come up with the whole thing on our own.”

  “We’re getting paid a lot of money to emergency host their annual fund-raiser,” Roark pointed out.

  “It’s going to take a lot of work in a short period of time.”

  Roark scrolled through his phone. “We’ve got almost two whole weeks.”

  “Oh, then plenty of time.” Dev smirked.

  “We’ve pulled off a lot more with less.”

  One thing hadn’t changed in their family. Dev still baited Roark, and Roark nibbled every time.

  Sophie grabbed what little bit of information she’d managed to pick up. “In what way do they want us to help with the theme?”

  Roark avoided looking at Dev. “They want us to suggest theme ideas and create an event space that suits the theme and new location, along with providing the staff to work the event.”

  She drummed her fingers against her lips. “Mmm, I’d ask Anna and Madison for suggestions on themes. That seems like it’d be right up their alley. Find out how many people the Chamber expects now and I can get you a number on staff we’d need that night.”

  “See?” Dev smirked. “Do everything.”

  Roark still didn’t look at Dev, but he fought not to grin at his snark.

  A big change from years past.

  “I’m meeting with the Chamber’s board this week and, Dev, I think you should come with me, since you’re so in tune with predicting what they want.”

  Dev made a show of slumping back, but everyone in the room knew he loved being included.

  “Now, unless anyone has anything else.”

  No one spoke up and Roark stood, signaling the end of the meeting.

  The remainder of her day swept past in a rush of phone calls, a meeting with their maintenance guy and Trevor, and putting out a fire—figurative this time, not literal—for one of the housekeeping staff when they accidentally washed a guest’s headphones in a bundle of bedsheets.

  Actually, for a Monday, her day was going astonishingly smooth. Right up until the moment she ran into Wright.

  Literally, not figuratively.

  She rushed around the corner of the laundry area and struck a solid six-foot-two-inch man-wall.

  The air whooshed from her lungs as she ricocheted off Wright’s chest. With a hand out, she caught herself, grabbing the door frame as he snagged a hand around her waist.

  “I’ve got you.”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  As soon as she had her footing, he jerked his hands away like she was boiling water. “I was down here grabbing a clean chef’s jacket.”

  She glanced down at his empty hands.

  “But I can’t find one. What are you doing down here?”

  “I told Vivian I’d see if we had some sort of linen table cover for a side table in reception.”

  Easily the most inane conversation she’d ever had with Wright, except for the time they debated, for almost an hour, which was better, Sun Drop or Mountain Dew.

  Still, it was better than not conversing at all.

  “I know we have more jackets for you down here somewhere.” She stepped around him.

  “And I saw something that’d probably work to cover a side table.” He joined her in searching the shelves and baskets.

  As they searched through layer after layer of cotton in cream, ivory, and stark white, she snuck a glance his way.

  He was less tense than last night, his expression not quite as strained.

  She’d never say it, but stress wasn’t such a good look for Wright, and he’d seemed pretty stressed lately.

  Every other look was fine on him.

  Better than fine. Even when he got really pissed off, that was still a hot look, but tension and fretting made him squint and he scrunched his nose up.

  Okay, so stress wasn’t a horrible look on him either, but it wasn’t his best.

  Last night he’d insisted they get a beer together soon, making official the fact they were speaking again.

  And apparently they’d made some silent agreement never to discuss their kiss, ever again.

  Seriously. They weren’t going to talk about kissing each other? How did you not talk about lip locking your best friend?

  Guess she’d find out.

  Wright hadn’t mentioned when this beer would be. Weekends were out. They both worked late hours on weekends.

  This was assuming they’d actually go out at all. He could’ve just said that to be nice. A metaphorical “let’s grab reconciliation beers” and stop acting weirder than a cross-eyed cat around each other.

  No. They were going to have beers together, dammit. And she wasn’t going to overanalyze her motivations or insistence. She missed Wright too, plain and simple. Missed him a lot.

  She wanted to hear his goofy laugh and be the cause of it. She longed to listen to him be a smart-ass about Dev and watch him finish half a pint in one long swallow, then try not to burp or at least hide it because he tried so hard to be a gentleman . . . except when she got him to eat dessert straight from the pan.

  Only she could get him to break out of that mold.

  With her, he’d still be chewing one bite while spooning out more, cherry glaze staining his lips as he unabashedly tried to outeat her.

  She missed being around Wright because together they could be themselves. He was the one person who made her feel good in her skin.

  “You find it?” Wright turned and his gaze clashed with hers.

  She’d been too busy staring at him to look for whatever it was she was supposed to be looking for. “I . . . um . . . I can’t find anything.”

  He shrugged and tugged on a bundle of linen. “Don’t worry about it. I may have an extra chef’s jacket in my locker.”

  Mmm. His chef’s jacket.

  She had an odd, probably slightly twisted, thing for him in that jacket.

  He had double-breasted white ones, with black buttons and cuffed sleeves. In the summer, the white was a crisp contrast to his tan skin and muscular forearms.

  Wright had great arms. Even as a friend she could admit that.

  Though her thoughts on his arms couldn’t really be classified as friendly.

  “I did find some tablecloths.” Arms outstretched, he held them toward her. She closed the distance and tried to take the bundle from him, her tugging meeting resistance.

  Wright wasn’t letting go.

  “I . . .” He lowered his gaze.

  His pause made her stomach somersault.

  What was he going to say that made him hesitate? They’d never hesitated when speaking to one another before.

  Was he finally going to bring up kissing her? They were alone, in a quiet room, free from interruption.

  And she was terrified.

  She wanted him to broach the topic of their kiss, and she prayed he didn’t. What would she say? There was no correct response. If he apologized for the kiss, it meant he was sorry, and she didn’t want him to be sorry. Sorry for his timing, sorry for being an ass afterward, sure. But now that they were free agents, no boyfriends or girlfriends between them, and he’d apologized for what he’d said . . .

  “Remember what I said about grabbing a beer?”

  Of course she freaking remembered. “Yes.”

  “What about tomorrow? Tuesdays aren’t too busy at the restaurant. I can get out of here at a decent time. Want to grab beers tomorrow night?”

  “That sounds . . .” Perfect. “That should work.”

  Wright’s grin was a knee-melter. Brilliant teeth, eyes all puppylike and pleased.


  Damn him.

  She hadn’t crushed hard on him since high school. She’d outgrown all of that ages ago, and sure, there was that momentary lapse of reason when she’d first moved back home from college and ogled him more than she should, but she’d moved past it.

  She wanted them to be friends again, but she couldn’t get that kiss out of her mind. How were they supposed to go back to being the way they were BK? Before Kiss.

  Wright released his hold on the table linens, and she had half a mind to bury her face in creamy cotton and scream.

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking about that night? Stop thinking about him in that way?

  She’d been doing fine for years, until he came along, touching her the way he’d touched her that night, saying all the words she longed to hear and then kissing her like no one else ever had.

  Damn him.

  She shouldn’t think of him in those terms. Kissing terms and touching terms, and how good he looked in his chef’s jacket . . . or how good he’d look with no shirt on.

  In the weeks after their kiss, she’d lie in bed, reconsidering dozens of their interactions, holding them up against this reality where Wright McAdams was someone who would kiss her. Might actually be interested.

  She imagined their exchanges going in totally different directions.

  Like the time he’d helped her chase down Beau when the dog bolted out of the lobby.

  In reality, he’d bumped against her good-naturedly, telling her to keep a grip on the crazy dog.

  What would’ve happened if, instead of simply taking the leash from Wright, she’d let their fingers brush? Let her hand linger on his skin. Then Wright would keep hold of the leash in one hand and grab Sophie with the other. He’d pull her into his arms and they’d make out like something from a movie.

  She’d fall asleep with her legs squeezed together against the tingling, and wake up wondering if she was slowly going insane.

  “Soph?” Wright waved a hand in front of her face.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” She turned and all but ran from the laundry area. Her pulse pumped, her breath coming in quick pants.

  Constantly thinking about his kiss, how solid and smooth he’d felt under her fingertips, was torture. And the kiss was a fluke. They were moving on.

  No more thinking about Wright in those ways.

  He was a guy and her friend. Period.

  By the time she reached the reception area, she’d worked up a sweat and was breathing heavy.

  “Are you okay?” Vivian, their newest employee and front desk attendant, took the tablecloths from her. “I told you I would fetch these. You’ve got enough to do around here.”

  Sophie stared, only hearing every other word over the rushing in her ears.

  Had she just run up a flight of stairs in about ten seconds?

  “Here. Have some water. You look a little pale.” Vivian guided her to one of the chairs behind the reception desk.

  “I don’t mean it in a bad way.” Vivian tried to backtrack. “But you look like you’re going to pass out.”

  Sophie took a sip of water from the glass she offered, scrubbed her hands over her face, and stood. She had no time for dramatics, and that’s all this was.

  So what if she’d occasionally daydreamed about Wright? It made sense that the kiss and arguing had her rattled. She hadn’t thought clearly for weeks, with good reason. But things would go back to normal now.

  No more daydreams about his eyes or the chiseled cut of his arms, or the breadth of his back as he bent over a mixing bowl. They would go back to being who they were before, and she’d get on with her life.

  “I’m fine now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. I have to get back to work.” Hands on her hips, she turned to Vivian.

  Vivian mirrored her posture. “Me too.”

  Sophie headed toward Roark’s office, more certain than ever that the past month’s events were an anomaly. Nothing between her and Wright had really changed.

  Chapter 4

  Everything had changed.

  Wright stared at the large pan of dinner rolls, still hot and steaming from the oven. He’d forgotten to melt the butter to brush over the top before serving, and he’d forgotten to make the marinade for tonight’s chicken dish.

  He never forgot to melt butter or make marinade. He’d gone from exceptional chef to a bumbling amateur, all because tonight, he was taking Sophie out for drinks.

  Drinks. That was all.

  They’d had drinks together a million times.

  His well-run life was crumbling like dry cake. First he tried to burn out an oven, baking half-ass pies, now he had no melted butter.

  “What the—?” He threw his hands up as he rushed around, putting butter on to melt.

  He’d always been a messier—though he preferred the word “passionate”—chef, but he was competent.

  If he weren’t, he couldn’t have pulled off the meals for Honeywilde’s rock-star wedding. He couldn’t pull off the weekend rush at the inn, and he sure as shit wouldn’t be pulling in offers from New York.

  Wright let out a rough sigh.

  New York City.

  His problem wasn’t only Sophie, though she took up more than her fair share of his attention.

  In a million years he would’ve never believed it, except today he’d talked to the man himself.

  Evidently, word traveled fast when you got featured in national magazines and celebrities with a lot of pull went around bragging about your food.

  Recently he’d heard from Charleston and Asheville, but today, he got the call from the Big Apple.

  A city known for its dining and some of the greatest chefs in the world, and an investor wanted Wright. They made him an offer and agreed to let him think things over.

  They understood it was a big move.

  Working at Honeywilde made him happy enough, but every chef in their right mind dreamt of an opportunity like this. He’d been with the Bradleys for years now and started to wonder if he was even capable of anything else. Maybe all he could manage was being a chef at an inn.

  Then Madison and her wedding happened, and the world unfurled before him.

  Shit, he had a lot of thinking to do. And he needed to get his act together. Quick.

  He needed to concentrate on what he was doing in the here and now, not get distracted by thoughts of New York, or of her.

  They were only having beers. This wasn’t a date.

  “You need a hand, boss?” Marco, his new sous chef, handed him a brush for the butter.

  “Yes. Please. If you’ll go ahead and plate the salads, we’ll get this order out.”

  Thank God for Marco. It’d taken some convincing to get Roark to hire him, but at the rate Honeywilde was growing, he was desperately needed.

  Luckily, during the remainder of dinner, Roark didn’t burn anything, nothing fell apart, and all of the food went out perfectly. It wasn’t until they were cleaning up that tonight’s plans rose again and slapped him across the face.

  He had to play it cool with Sophie.

  Be normal. No awkward pauses or lingering gazes. That was weird between friends.

  He was a grown man and she was a grown woman; he had no reason to act like a silly teenager.

  With drinks, he hoped to reclaim more of their casual chemistry. Just two pals being pals. Friends who could talk about whatever. All of the temptations that’d started dancing through his mind had no place with them tonight.

  Tonight was a fresh start, and he wasn’t going to let his wayward thoughts get in the way.

  “Hey.” Sophie stood in the kitchen doorway, holding it open with her hip.

  Arms crossed, she still looked inviting. She’d changed into jeans and a fitted shirt in deep green, enhancing her coloring and shape. Her hair was down, her eyes bright.

  “You ready?”

  “Almost.” He looked away. “I brought some clothes to change into. Give me ten minutes?” So he woul
dn’t smell like the kitchen.

  “I’ll wait for you at the bar.”

  Unlike the Bradley siblings, he didn’t live at the main inn. All of his belongings weren’t right here under one roof. He had an apartment in town that allowed him to get away from work and served the double purpose of driving his parents insane.

  If you insist on staying in Windamere for the foreseeable future, selling yourself short at that inn, you could at least invest in a house.

  They were both proponents of his big-city opportunities and cared very little about hearing Wright debate the matter.

  You have the chance to move on to bigger and better things. Take it.

  His father repeatedly badgered him about seizing the opportunity. Particularly if opportunity meant getting away from Honeywilde—and the Bradleys.

  His family’s dislike of Devlin, and therefore the entire Bradley family, was no secret.

  They were convinced Dev was a bad influence on him growing up and even now, never guessing their sweet little Wright was equally mischievous, but better at hiding it.

  Wright washed up, tugged on some jeans and a T-shirt, and thanked his lucky stars that Roark Bradley, whose family his parents loved to look down on, saw fit to employee him years ago.

  Right out of culinary school, Roark gave him a job. Kept him on, even when times were so tight they barely made payroll.

  Honeywilde was home. His insides twisted as he stuffed his dirty clothes in his backpack. Leaving here wouldn’t be easy.

  But he didn’t want to think about that now. Now he had to deal with Sophie.

  He hurried to find her at the bar. Steve, the restaurant’s bartender, was already gone, as was everyone, since it was after ten o’clock on a Tuesday night.

  “You ready?” He’d already lifted his hand to rub or pat her shoulder, but withdrew at the last second.

  Were they doing that again? Maybe he should stay hands off for a while. They were touchy-feely before, but dammit if he didn’t second-guess every single action now.

  If he squeezed her shoulder, would she think he was going in for a kiss again?

  The self-scrutiny was going to drive him insane.

  Sophie turned on her stool. “Ready if you are. You driving or shall I?”