Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance

by Sophie Brooks

  His eyes raked up and down my body as I neared. I knew I was covered, for the time being. The top of the apron hid almost as much as a tank top—from the front, anyway. And the apron skirt went down to mid-thigh. I resisted the urge to try to tug the edge of it down farther.

  His gaze felt like an intimate caress on my skin. And while he was busy looking me over, I was doing some serious staring at him, too. He’d taken off his jacket, and his tight t-shirt outlined his muscles. He was seriously ripped, and for a moment, I forgot my nervousness and wondered if he’d ever cooked shirtless. I’d pay good money to see that. Probably pretty much every woman in America would, too.

  I stopped a few feet from him. He was still looking me up and down, his eyes sweeping over all of my five feet two inches plus the extra height the tall shoes gave me.

  “The high heels are a nice touch,” he said.

  I was too nervous to say anything, so I just nodded like an idiot. But still, points to me for not bolting. I stood my ground, feeling the cool air against my bare ass. I never ever thought I’d be nearly naked in a television studio. Wait a second. I was in a television studio. On a set that contained several dozen built-in cameras that were overhead, in the cabinets, on the appliances, and pretty much everywhere else. That could be bad. Really bad.

  “Umm ... the stationary cameras don’t turn on with the lights, do they?”

  “No, I had to turn them on with a separate remote.”

  What? Frantically, I put my hands behind my back, trying to literally cover my ass.

  He laughed. “I’m kidding. Take a deep breath and relax. I don’t bite.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. I cautiously moved forward, keeping my body angled toward him so that I’d be covered. I ended up hovering a few feet away from him.

  He was looking in my face now, one eyebrow raised. “You’d probably be able to see better on the telly back home at mum and dad’s place.”

  That got me. Every time he teased me about that, it made me see red. I was not a kid. I wanted to prove that to him almost as much as I wanted to prove my cooking skills. Emboldened, I closed the distance between us, stopping about six inches from his side. Then I thought about how tall he was, and how easy it would be for him to look over my shoulder and down to my ass. I eased back a few inches, a blush crossing my face.

  Still trying to act casual, I looked over the work station, being careful to only turn my head, keeping my body angled toward him. He’d set out all the things we’d need to prepare lamb.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” He handed me a knife. “Mind you don’t cut yourself while you’re doing your damnedest to keep me from seeing your backside.”

  Dammit. I knew I was turning red again. How was I going to make it through the entire cooking lesson if I was embarrassed even before he saw the parts of me that were actually bare? Hell, just being next to him was enough to do it. I’d probably be flustered and flushed even if I was wearing a head-to-toe snowsuit. He had that effect on women. At least when he wasn’t yelling.

  Slowly, I shifted. It was a bit of a compromise. I angled toward the countertop enough that I’d be able to work with the lamb, but I still managed to keep myself turned slightly away from him.

  He chuckled softly. “You were well-named. Shy Little Cheyenne. But it’s just a cooking lesson, love. Admittedly, it’s an unconventional one, but so what? We’re both adults, we can do what we like.”

  And he was right. It was just a cooking lesson—probably the best cooking lesson I’d ever had in my life. Chef Bryant talked me through the cuts of the meat he’d selected. He went over the benefits of various seasonings. He showed me all his tricks and secrets for prepping the meat. Even when he was telling me things I already knew, he somehow shed new light on the subject. He opened my eyes to techniques I’d never thought of before. And he was patient, even when I screwed up.

  After the first few minutes of the lesson, I forgot to focus on what I was wearing. After a few more minutes, I forgot to notice how hot he was, his hard, lean body towering over me. We just cooked. With his help, I made a perfect sear on the lamb. He showed me over and over how to judge when the meat was ready to be removed from the heat and how long it needed to rest.

  When we’d cooked yet another perfect leg of lamb, he cut off a few pieces, and we both had some. It was delicious. It was divine. It was the most seasoned, tender, amazing meat I’d ever tasted. When he wasn’t screaming at contestants, Chef Bryant was a phenomenal teacher. I half felt like running up to the dorms and telling the others that all it took to get Bryant the Tyrant to stop yelling was to take their clothes off. Though that might not have worked as well for Ken.

  Chef Bryant got two glasses of water as we continued to sample the lamb. He handed me mine with a shrug. “I’d like another Redback, but I don’t want to get pissed.”

  Chuckling, I said, “Aren’t you pretty much always pissed?”

  He frowned at me for a moment and then laughed. “In Australia, pissed means drunk. I don’t want to get drunk, but I’m fine with losing my temper. That’s what brings in the viewers.”

  “That’s not the only thing,” I said, my eyes sweeping over his rock-solid body before I could stop myself. Then, of course, I blushed.

  He flashed a crooked half-smile, one eyebrow cocked. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Shy Little Cheyenne was getting a little braver.”

  I was both embarrassed and pleased as I watched Chef Bryant scoop up another last bite and place it on his tongue. His eyes closed briefly in apparent appreciation of the flavor. “Abso-bloody-lutely perfect,” he said. “Think you can do it like that again? By yourself this time?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely,” I said, brimming with confidence.

  He smiled at that. “Then show me. From the start—you choose the seasoning, the meat, everything. Get yourself a new pan and get to it.”

  Eager to get started, I bent down, searching through the various pots and pans under the counter until I found the right one. I straightened up, set it on the stove top, then froze. Completely froze. I’d just bent over from the waist. I’d really just—I’d actually bent over, practically at his feet. Oh my god. He’d seen ... he would have seen ... pretty much everything.

  I turned on the heat and got the pan ready, not looking at him. I knew my face was currently hotter than the industrial stove in front of me. And my insides were churning with a strange mixture of humiliation and adrenaline. I finally got brave enough to shoot a quick glance up at his face.

  He was grinning a grin that could only be described as devilish. And completely unapologetic—he’d known what would happen when he told me to get a pan. “This is just like that old cooking show, only better. Now it’s in HD,” he said with a wink.

  I couldn’t look into his electric eyes any longer, so I looked down again. But he laughed and put an arm around my shoulder. Not in a lecherous way, but in a reassuring way.

  “Come on, it’s just for fun. You’re a beautiful girl and have nothing to be shy about. You’re getting a top-notch lesson, I’m getting a reminder of a youthful fantasy. As long as we’re both enjoying ourselves, what’s the harm in it?”

  Was I having fun? I’d been so nervous at first. But then I got caught up in the lesson, which had been amazing. Most aspiring chefs would probably do naked cartwheels for the chance for a private lesson with Chef Bryant. Hell, most women would probably do naked cartwheels for the chance to hear Chef Bryant read from a phone book. I had no doubt he could make even that seem sexy.

  “Come on. Prove to me you can do this by yourself,” he said, a challenge in his voice.

  I had to admit I was considering it. Besides, he’d already seen the part of me I’d been trying to hide. So perhaps I should go for it and make the most of the best cooking lesson of my life. “Okay,” I said.

  “Great. Go select the meat.”

  His words were mild enough, but there was a challenge there. This was a test. The refrigerator
was ten feet away, and there was nothing to hide behind. Unless I walked backwards, he’d be seeing some major skin again.

  I took a deep breath and pivoted. Deliberately, I put my hands at my sides and walked away from him. I kept my head high, my back straight. I placed one foot in front of the other. And I could feel his gaze on my ass every step of the way.

  Once at the fridge, I didn’t dawdle, but I still took enough time to choose a quality cut of lamb.

  At last, I turned back to him. Back to those magnetic hazel eyes and a sexy, crooked grin on his face. It was clear he liked looking at me. It was clear he was having fun. Amazingly, a smile broke out on my face as I walked back. I thought about what he’d said before. As long as we were both having fun, what was the harm in this?

  “Nice to see your smile, love.”

  I wondered if mine was half as gorgeous as his was. Probably not. He had such white, movie-star teeth. Like his eyes, they really stood out from his tan skin and dark hair.

  “Pick your seasonings next.”

  The jars of spices were in a cabinet across from us. I walked slowly to the end of the counter. Was I actually swaying my hips a bit more than I had to? Maybe I was. Jeeesh, what was getting into me?

  I opened the spice cabinet, well aware that my back was to him again, but more comfortable with it this time. I gathered up anything I thought I might need: rosemary, cumin, oregano, marjoram, sage, coriander, and some others.

  I turned around, and Chef Bryant quickly scanned the jars in my arms. “You’ll definitely need fennel,” he said.

  He was right, but I knew that wasn’t why he’d said it. I’d seen the fennel before, and it was on the top shelf, as he well knew. To get it, I had to stand on my tip toes and lean forward, stretching, reaching. That position made my ass stick out, and I could feel the flaps of the apron falling to the side, baring more of me to him. Which had been the idea, no doubt.

  I snagged the fennel and returned to a normal position keeping my bright red face carefully turned away from him.

  “And dill weed.”

  I grabbed that, too.

  “And maybe some nutmeg.”

  What? Were we cooking lamb or pumpkin pie? I peeked over my shoulder to see him pressed up against the counter, a grin on his face. And then I realized. The nutmeg must be on the bottom shelf.

  I turned and stared him down for a long moment, making sure he knew that I knew what he was doing. I raised one eyebrow, trying to emulate his cocky expression. I’m not sure it looked as sexy on me as it usually did on him.

  Maintaining eye contact, I moved to the edge of the counter across from him. I set down the spices and pushed them across. “Nutmeg,” I said, as if considering its merits. “An inspired choice.”

  Turning on my heel, I faced the cabinet again. I crossed my legs at my ankles and bent at the waist. The cold air hitting the backs of my thighs and ass was instantly neutralized from the heat I could feel from his eyes on my skin.

  I shifted to the right, then to the left, pretending to look for it. Finally, I straightened up. “I guess we’re out,” I said.

  When I turned back to him, he was no longer pressed against the counter. Maybe it had gotten too uncomfortable? Once back on his side of the counter, I couldn’t help but look at his jeans. Oh yeah. There was definitely a bulge in them—a rather substantial one, from what I could tell. It seemed only fair that I was turning him on. He’d been turning me on for years.

  I returned to the meat station and prepared as perfect a piece of lamb as we had together. I tried a bite and then offered him one. He chewed it and sighed in appreciation.

  “Absolutely perfect. Maybe you do have the right instincts for meat. Maybe it’s a matter of trusting them.”

  My smile went from ear to ear. “So what happens now?” I said as we cleared away a few of the pots and pans we’d used for the lamb.

  “Now, you get dressed, go the hotel, and fly home tomorrow.”

  My smile left my face as abruptly as if it had fallen off, and I gaped up at him. That was the end of the private lesson?

  I was standing before him half naked, and … and … he wanted me to leave? Humiliation and disappointment battled inside me. I couldn’t decide which was worse. But eventually, disappointment won out. It just seemed like such a let down after the sexy buildup.

  I threw my pride out the window and took a deep breath. “What if I don’t want to?”

  Chapter Five

  CHEF BRYANT STARED at me. “Is there something particularly wrong with Kansas? I’ve never been, but lots of people live there. Surely it must have some redeeming features.”

  “It’s great,” I said. “But it’s not here. With you.”

  He reached down and grasped my chin with his hand, tilting my face upward toward his. He studied me carefully as if trying to read my mind. “You’re going to have to leave eventually. This is a television studio, not a bed and breakfast.”

  “I know,” I said. “But not yet. I’m having fun, like you said. Aren’t you?” I couldn’t believe I asked that last part. This was a man who’d dated some of the most beautiful women in Hollywood. He could probably have a hundred naked women in his kitchen at the snap of his fingers. But it really had seemed like he’d been enjoying this.

  “Yes, it was fun,” he said, at long last, dropping his hand.

  “Could we keep going, then?” I ventured.

  “Another lesson?”

  “Yes. I mean, if you don’t mind, Chef Bryant.”

  He took a step back, looking at me speculatively. “For a second private lesson, the price goes up. My services are not cheap. I’ve got a living to make,” he said, with a wry smile. It was pretty funny stuff, coming from a multimillionaire, but I was more focused on what he might mean by the price going up.

  “Umm ... what will the price be this time?”

  “Let’s start with some ground rules. My kitchen, my way. That’s not just the bloody slogan of the show. That’s how I’ve always been. I was a tyrant in the kitchen long before they turned a camera on me. If you stay—you’re going to have to do as I say. No matter what that is. We’re talking grown-up stuff, love. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

  “I understand,” I said, hoping I did.

  “Are you sure you do? I like to be in charge and things can get pretty hot and spicy in my kitchen. You sure you’re up for that?

  “I am,” I breathed.

  “We’ll see. But let’s give you a safe word in case the heat level is too high for you. Let’s see ... what’s your least favorite spice?”

  “Anise,” I said without thinking.

  “Not a big fan of licorice? Okay, if at any point you want out, say the word “anise.” Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said, wondering what exactly I was getting myself into if he felt he needed to give me a safe word. But truthfully, I was dying to find out.

  “First rule,” he began.

  “I know. Your kitchen, your way.”

  He grinned. “That’s more of a universal truth. I was talking about specific rules. The first one is you will keep your legs spread at all times.”

  My heart skipped a beat and then doubled in tempo. “What?”

  “You heard me. Keep them open. I want those slutty little high heels at least two feet apart when you’re standing or sitting. Not when you’re walking, of course, that would look daft. Think you can handle that, Shy Little Cheyenne?”

  “Yes, Chef Bryant,” I said, almost managing to keep my voice from quavering.

  He looked at me pointedly for a long moment. Oh. Sheepishly, I took a step out to either side. I could feel air rush between my legs. I felt both slutty and super excited.

  “Excellent. Keep that rule in mind, or you’ll be punished. Rule number two: be professional. You’re a talented young chef, so act like one. Keep your mind on your task, and produce the highest quality dishes you can, no matter what you’re wearing or what I’m doing.”

  “What you’re doing?�
�� I echoed, a little faintly.

  He treated me to the evilest of smiles. “Oh yes. This lesson will definitely be hands on.”

  * * *

  My next lesson wasn’t any easier. Chef Bryant gave me twenty minutes to prepare a restaurant-quality entree for him, and I was doing everything in my power to make that happen. Or at least I was trying to. According to him, one of my weaknesses was not performing well under pressure. His solution to that was to set a timer for twenty minutes and then do his best distract me. As if trying to cook while remembering to keep my legs spread wasn’t distraction enough. As if standing next to Chef Hardbody wasn’t distraction enough.

  I’d started the veggies and seasoned the meat, but twice, after running for an ingredient, I’d forgotten to spread my legs when I got back to the workstation. Both times, he’d smacked my ass with a hard, rubber spatula. The man knew his cooking utensils—and he had good aim.

  Nevertheless, I was working too quickly to fixate on his sexy little dominance games. I was making filet mignon, medium rare like he liked it, with asparagus and a hollandaise sauce.

  I seared the edges of the thick steak, basting it constantly to keep it from drying out. He was crowding me, pressed up against my back. His arms rested lightly on my sides, as he leaned over me, watching what I was doing. He had big hands, and while his palms touched my sides, his long fingers curled around and brushed lightly against my breasts. No, that wasn’t distracting at all.

  The filet was almost done, so I turned off the heat and popped it in the oven to finish it off. I refocused on the veggies I was sautéing as a side. Chef Bryant’s body shifted behind me, and then his mouth descended onto my shoulder, his lips brushing past my neck. He kissed the side of my throat and shivers went up and down my spine. How was I supposed to cook when this gorgeous man who obviously had muscles to spare was practically wrapped around me? Even if his lips weren’t on my neck, the hard, insistent bulge in his jeans pressing against my side would have been a huge distraction. And I meant huge in a very literal way.