The Flirtation Game: Castle Ridge Small Town Romance

by Allie Burton

  Which was why he had to make it right. Right by Parker and the hotel. Right by Isabel and her position. Right by the other kitchen staff members.

  He bent his elbows until the weights almost touched his shoulders, trying to get his mind back into the workout.

  When he’d seen Isabel on New Year’s Eve, his teenage lust had struck. He’d been attracted. More than attracted. She’d been cute as a kid, and sexy as Sinful Chocolate Layer Cake as an adult. He’d wanted to kiss her. She’d disappeared, and he’d been afraid to ask his sister. Until she’d reappeared in his kitchen and he couldn’t resist taking a second taste. She’d been open to the idea. Until she’d learned he’d stolen her job.

  A door creaked open. The cameraman must be coming back for more shots. If Michael ignored him, maybe he wouldn’t feel so exposed.

  He angled his head toward the mirror. Isabel reflected back, wearing another of those tight skirts and silky blouses. Her eyes widened, staring at him. Redness rose on her cheeks. She licked her lips, as if she’d wanted to take a bite.

  His manhood hardened.

  She didn’t realize he saw her watching. Advantage Michael.

  He flexed his pecs and lifted the weight higher. He wanted her to be impressed with his physique. Hearing you looked good didn’t mean as much coming from a faceless fan or a date who was using you for your notoriety. Knowing Isabel thought he was attractive pumped up his pride.

  She didn’t move. Only watched. She licked her lips again.

  His groin ached. Not from the physical effort. He lowered the weight, lifted it again. He performed for her, and even though it wasn’t a sexual act, he was turned on. He rested the bar. “Like what you see?”

  Her mouth dropped open. Her flushed cheeks went redder. She gripped the edge of the door, wavering. “Um, I… Um.”

  Satisfaction pumped through his bloodstream, and the high from the exercise was increased. Sitting up, he grabbed the towel again, and slowly wiped his face, neck, and bare chest. He dropped the towel across his lap, covering the evidence, because he’d made the rules and now he had to stick with them. Didn’t he? “What’s up?”

  Besides his shaft.

  “I, um, didn’t realize you were…um.”

  “Half-naked?” Pleasure she was flustered, raced through him. He’d thrown off her flirter-game. He didn’t want to be another flirtation.

  Peering at the floor, each of the muscles in her face pulled taut. “Working out.”

  Silence filled the room. She lifted her gaze. Appreciation shone in her expression.

  He liked that she liked what she saw. “Something you…wanted?”

  Me. Me. Me.

  “Yeah, I…” The practiced flirt wasn’t so practiced anymore. She didn’t throw back a sexual innuendo. She acted awkward.

  Pleasure, not the sexual kind, lightened his burden. He enjoyed the fact she was different around him. Uncomfortable and out of her element.

  “I wanted to thank you for the shoes.” She held up an open shoe box with bright-pink kitchen clogs. “They’re cute.”

  He’d left the box by her locker first thing this morning. The shoes were stylish and practical. Not the ugly black everyone else wore. One of his co-workers, a female chef with her own show, had started a line of fashionable kitchen clogs and chef coats not available to the public yet. He knew Isabel would love them, and he’d contacted the chef yesterday morning and expedited the delivery.

  Before he’d met Edward.

  Standing, Michael swaggered forward and peered into the box, hoping his sweat didn’t stink. “I wouldn’t want you to be unstylish, in case another one of your suitors stops by.” He clenched his fingers, wanting to slap his hand over his mouth. He hadn’t meant to sound jealous.

  “Sorry about Edward. He’s not a suitor, and it won’t happen again.” Her big emerald eyes peered at him. Openness and honesty shimmered.

  Michael shifted, unsure if he could believe what he saw.

  “You can date whoever you choose.” If she chose to date losers, it was none of his business. He had rules to follow. “I don’t want them in the kitchen.”

  She licked her lips. A zing charged, prodding his manhood into action again. What was wrong with him?

  “I haven’t seen Edward in weeks. I’m not sure what he was thinking, coming into the kitchen.” Her brow scrunched in confusion. “Some guy he met gave him shots and egged him on…” Trailing off, she must’ve noticed where Michael’s gaze had landed.

  He couldn’t help it. He saw her scrumptious lips moving, remembered the kiss on New Year’s Eve, wanted more.

  Through the silence in the small gym he heard his pulse racing. The blood rushed in his veins, sending it to his unthinking head.

  “Thank you for the shoes.” Her mouth moved again.

  Tempting.

  He leaned in closer, drawn to her lush lips. “You’re welcome.” He spoke quietly.

  She tilted forward to hear. Their mouths were only an inch apart.

  An inch to ecstasy. Another perfect kiss.

  Her tongue drew across her top lip, moistening the pink skin. Teasing. Typical Isabel. She lured him in like every other guy, except he didn’t want to be like any other guy.

  She closed her eyes, expecting a kiss.

  His heart thudded. She was so close. Tension sizzled between them, an invisible cord, pulling him closer. One more taste wouldn’t hurt.

  He placed his mouth against hers, caressing the softness. His lungs tightened. Only their lips made contact, and yet desire flamed through him like a grease fire. He wanted more. He wanted to tease her lips apart and taste her. He wanted to press her body against the wall with his own. He should’ve known a simple kiss wouldn’t be enough.

  Opening his eyes so he could maneuver into a better position, he caught the reflection in the mirror. The cameraman stood at the locker room door, filming.

  His racing heart stopped. The sweat on his back chilled and he shivered. “Oh, hell.”

  * * *

  Isabel’s eyes flew open at Michael’s harsh voice. Anguish ricocheted through her chest, bouncing back and forth, an agonizing echo. “What?”

  His body tensed in front of hers. “You need to leave.”

  “What? Why?” The kiss had been perfect. What had caused him to stop?

  Stepping back, he scanned the area, paranoia written on his face. “I told you. No relationships.”

  “You started it.”

  He blamed her for the kiss he’d initiated.

  “And I’m ending it.” He took hold of her arm and her feverish skin responded.

  “What? Why?” Confused and unsatisfied, she resisted.

  He tugged her, not even allowing her to glance back. Forcing her out the door, she turned at the last second. His grim expression harshened with determination. His lips hard and firm. He glared and slammed the door closed.

  Shocked, she didn’t even get a chance to respond. Her mind swirled. Confusion, hurt, and unrequited passion blended through her system. He’d started the kiss. He’d enflamed desire in her. He just didn’t want to break his stupid rules.

  She tried the knob, and when it wouldn’t open, she kicked the door. How dare he throw her out similar to an unwanted fan or paparazzi? She couldn’t be pushed around. She knew what she wanted. She knew he wanted her.

  What if they didn’t work together? The image of her resume sitting on her desk at home flattened her mood.

  Or what if she got him to change the rules?

  The thought spun through her, rekindling her desire. Desire for him. A desire there since high school. She curled her lips into a devious smile and danced into the kitchen office. She changed into her chef’s coat and her new pink kitchen clogs. Her mind plotted ways to entice. He’d accused her of being a flirt, and she was going to use those talents to go after what she wanted.

  Michael.

  What stirred and whirled for him was different than anything she’d felt before. Flirting was only the beginning. />
  Chapter Ten

  Michael peeled apart the lobes of the foie gras with his thumb and the spine of a Petty knife. The delicate maneuverings took practice and concentration. It was important not to puncture a vessel, because blood could stain the delectable tan meat. The job was even more difficult when his own blood vessels pounded with frustration.

  Frustration about the almost-kiss, about Isabel’s sexual innuendos, about her wearing the unsexy pink clogs, shredded through him. He had to remember no relationships at work. She might not know it, but they were on display for the world to watch.

  Cameras, cameras, cameras.

  Each word pulsed and pulverized at his temples.

  Cameras had captured their sensual kiss in the workout room. Captured the ways she reached across him while they worked. Even now, the cameras captured the sexual tension sizzling in the kitchen. How could they miss the palpable force in the room?

  Jorge would edit the rough film and make it appear worse than it actually was. Michael knew what modern technology could change and fake. He knew they could take close-ups from one shot and contrast them with another. And knowing the producer, he’d make what happened seem cruder.

  His hand shook and the knife slipped, puncturing a vessel. The lobe was ruined. Ruined like his life.

  Stop being so melodramatic, Marstrand. You’re playing right into Jorge’s hands.

  Isabel scooted behind Michael and grabbed a saucepan, her front pressed against his rear in a backward spoon. Scorching fire erupted in his body. A torch of desire. He scooched in closer to the counter to avoid contact.

  During a slight lull in the first turn, she took a kitchen towel and dabbed her forehead and cheeks, and down her neck. Slowly, she undid the buttons on her chef’s coat, doing a striptease.

  His body temperature spiked. She was a tease. And he couldn’t stop his body from responding. Clenching his muscles, he tried to slow his response. She was playing with him. She wasn’t toweling off efficiently. She was toweling off slowly and sexually. He salivated, wishing he was the towel, wanting to stroke her and wipe the perspiration from her body. He pressed his lips together, trying not to show his lust or his anger at her actions. Pivoting away, he took a long swallow of water.

  At the beginning of the second turn, the most busy and crazy time, she took a copper pot and slapped him on the butt, saying, “Shake your sexy ass.”

  He froze. The slight vibrations from the smack increased in magnitude, traveling from his backside to his brain. He stood right by a hidden camera. Visual and sound for the audience’s viewing pleasure.

  Acidity tasted on is tongue. When Isabel found out about the reality show she’d hate him, and she’d hate him even more if he allowed her to make a fool of herself on national television. Even though he was leaving town, he cared about her reputation. He cared about her.

  He froze again while his mind processed and churned. Of course, he cared about Isabel. She was his sister’s best friend. Nothing had changed after a couple of kisses. Nothing.

  “Chef, great news.” Parker’s uptight expression said the exact opposite. He posed casually in the kitchen doorway, afraid to come in.

  Michael groaned internally. He needed good news, but didn’t think his friend was delivering it.

  The kitchen staff continued with their preparations. Pans fired, vents hummed, plates clattered.

  Parker’s mouth tightened. “A restaurant reviewer from a skiing magazine is our guest tonight.”

  Michael blew out a long, slow breath while thinking about the good news. Ripping the next ticket off the rack, he couldn’t read the order because his gaze glazed. “Normally, a reviewer gives days of notice so a chef can order the best produce and meat.” He blew out another long breath, trying to calm himself. “Normally, a chef has hours to prepare the menu to showcase the food. Normally, the kitchen staff and waiters are informed so they are performing at their best.”

  Parker’s eyes widened to the size of saucepans. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Didn’t realize you were being manipulated?” Grinding his teeth, Michael stepped forward to speak quietly. “Manipulated by Jorge.”

  Parker blanched. “He just told me.”

  A couple of curious glances swung toward their semi-private discussion.

  Michael backed off, knowing it wasn’t the owner’s fault. They were both being exploited by the producer and the network. He needed to sit down with his friend—out of camera range—to explain what the reality show wanted to make high ratings. The network wasn’t looking out for the best interests of the restaurant. If Parker understood, maybe he’d help accomplish the goal of being boring.

  “Attention.” Michael used his this-is-urgent tone. “I’ve been informed we have a very special guest ordering.”

  “Here’s the order.” Parker’s voice cracked.

  The poor guy must’ve finally realized how important this review was going to be to his restaurant and his future. That agreeing to accept the entire cost of a kitchen remodel and Michael’s salary from the network had been a deal with the devil.

  “Ordering…” Michael read off the reviewer’s complicated order. An order involving every person in the kitchen. An order testing their timing and their skills. An order that included the most delicate of fish and the most complicated sauces.

  His nerve endings flashed and charred. Anxiety and adrenaline sparked into action. He swiveled to Isabel, whose wide eyes showcased her surprise. “I want you to prepare the monkfish.”

  She smashed her lips together, concern evident in her glistening gaze. “Me. Why?”

  He believed in her. And if she was going to become head chef when he left, she’d need to have confidence in herself. “I’ll walk you through.”

  Gone was the flirtatious actions and jaunty smile. She was serious and concerned. “But—”

  “No buts.” He took hold of both of her stiff upper arms. “You can do this. Prove to Parker you can do the job of head chef.”

  Her eyebrows screwed closer together. “Why don’t you do the monkfish? It’s the main part of the reviewer’s meal.”

  “Because I’m trusting you.” He held her gaze, the color morphing from mossy green to sharp emerald.

  The kitchen had become quiet. The staff stared, as if they were watching a docudrama or telenovela. He choked on an ironic laugh. He dropped his hands, releasing her to do the job he knew she could. “Let’s get to work.”

  The staff moved in an organized chaos, each of them understanding something significant was happening. Calls of “behind you” and “hot pan” rang out. The chop, chop, chop of vegetables being cut, the sizzle of meat being seared, the clinking of utensils on the counter and pots. The symphony of sounds brought back past memories of cooking in a real kitchen. Not a closed studio kitchen. The excitement of making a perfect meal, of pleasing a diner’s palate.

  The reason he’d wanted to be a chef in the first place. Creating an amazing meal and watching the food being enjoyed.

  “Should we send out complimentary appetizers for the reviewer?” Alfred asked.

  “Definitely not.” Michael refused to appear gauche.

  “Appetizers are always a good idea.”

  “We don’t want the reviewer to think we’re rattled.” He picked a piece of mackerel near the head of the fish. The tail cuts were always too thin.

  “We don’t need no stinking appetizers.” Tony didn’t miss a beat of prep work while joking. He worked beside Maria in perfect poetry.

  “How’s this, Chef?” Isabel showed him the monkfish.

  “Good. Make sure you dry the skin completely before seasoning from height, like a light snowfall evenly covering the surface.” The smells of caramelization soothed Michael’s nerves.

  With a furrowed brow, she placed the fish on the plancha, holding the piece down so it didn’t buckle, and got an even sear across the surface.

  Perfect.

  He didn’t need to worry about her.

  T
imers rang out.

  “To the pass.” He smeared a patch of carrot purée on the delicate china to begin plating.

  Pans were placed on the pass one after the other in sequence. He arranged the pasta prepared by Tony, and the vegetables, artistically. Isabel slid the monkfish next to the final plate on the pass. The fish was crispy to the tap and coated evenly in a crust.

  Nodding, Michael slid the spatula under and placed the fish in the center of the serving plate. With one last inspection, making sure the entire meal was soigne, he called for the waiter to deliver.

  When the waiter left the kitchen with the order, his head lowered for a second in contemplation. His shoulders relaxed. “Great job, everyone! The reviewer is going to love the meal. You did an excellent job.”

  The kitchen went silent, and then applause broke out. The staff was unable to control their enthusiasm. They slapped each other on the back, and Isabel went around hugging everyone. Joy sung through his veins. Joy to be part of this, to belong to a group who’d worked toward a goal and accomplished it.

  He’d never had this same sensation of euphoria cooking on TV. The job was lonely and alone. No one enjoyed the taste of his food. The production staff rarely ate what he cooked, too worried about their L.A. diets.

  Isabel swung back toward the pass. Her skin glowed. Her eyes twinkled. And her huge smile communicated her happiness. She loved the challenge and had excelled.

  Her arms wrapped around his waist as they had with every other member of the staff. For him, the hug felt different. Closer, more meaningful. Her warmth radiated beneath his clothing, through his skin, and into his chest. Her smell of vanilla and cinnamon intoxicated.

  He returned the embrace, letting the hug last and linger and luxuriate. He wanted to remember the touch and the feeling. Wanted the hug to last forever.

  Forever.

  An impossible word. He didn’t do forever. Not when he planned to leave Castle Ridge. Not if he wanted to use his popularity with his female fans to get another cooking show.

  Cameras.

  The word taunted him. He broke off his hold and stepped out of the hug, losing her heat. “Cut the celebration short. Let’s finish the rest of the dinners and get cleaned up, then we can celebrate.”