I nodded. As I lifted myself up and down, reveling in how good it felt, I knew he was right. This was my world. This was where I belonged. And when this amazing night was over, I was going to find a way to get my own kitchen. To be the one in control. To be able to say my kitchen, my way.
“That’s it, love. Just like that,” he said. His hands landed on my hips again, steadying me, but not guiding me. The time for that had passed. I was in charge, and it felt powerful. Amazingly powerful.
His hazel eyes were open wide, staring intently at me, so I brought my hands to my breasts, cupping them, lifting them, squeezing them. He groaned and his cock swelled inside of me, stretching me even further. Emboldened, I rode him harder, pinching my nipples, pretending my hands were his.
“Faster, love,” he panted, and he pushed a finger between us, finding my clit. He managed to maintain contact as I bounced up and down, riding him harder, pushing us both toward the brink.
Faster, harder. I leaned forward a few inches, and his cock hit a new spot inside me. Up, down. I tugged at my nipples, feeling proud when his round eyes got even wider, watching me hungrily. Deeper, harder. We moved together, racing toward a shared climax.
His finger dug into my clit, pressing, rubbing, flicking, and a wave crested over me. I arched my back, screaming out. A second later, his hips bucked under me, his hands clamping down on me. Holding me there, he spasmed inside me as I clenched around him. The sensation was too much yet just right at the same time. It felt like it went on forever, us locked together, me screaming, him growling with pleasure.
At last, he released my hips and I collapsed on his chest, both of us panting too hard to speak. I felt his softening cock slip out of me, but his arms wrapped around me before I could mourn the loss.
I rested my face against the smooth, hard chest that was rising and falling underneath me. He stroked my hair and my back gently.
In his arms, it was easy to relax and relish the moment. To feel his ripped body under mine. To feel his strong arms around me. It felt damn near perfect.
I hoped I’d never forget the way it felt to be in his arms.
Chapter Nine
… SIX MONTHS LATER …
“Happy Birthday!”
Blinking in surprise, I emerged from the walk-in freezer and glanced around the kitchen. Most of my staff was there, the line cooks, the sous chef, the pastry chef, and some of the waitstaff. How had they known it was my birthday?
“For you, my dear,” said Dante, the maitre d’. He handed me a glass of champagne and everyone lifted their own glasses. “To Cheyenne, the youngest and the best head chef Fantabulous has ever had.”
“And the only head chef Fantabulous has ever had,” I said, smiling as I raised my glass. The champagne was crisp yet sweet. “Thanks everyone. It means a lot. Now get back to work,” I said with a grin. People laughed and smiled good-naturedly, knowing I was mostly kidding. But the dinner service was about to start, and I needed all hands on deck.
A few others came by to wish me well before going to their stations. They knew how busy we’d be an hour from now, and they all had their jobs to do. My job was to make sure everyone in the kitchen was doing what they were supposed to. I wanted to keep a special eye on Maria tonight. She was new, and she’d been hit or miss at the fish station so far.
As I walked around, checking in on everyone, checking everything, I couldn’t help but think how much my life had changed in the last half year. Most nights I was far too busy to get introspective, but birthdays were a good time to take stock.
After my elimination from Kitchen Tyrant—and my amazing night with Chef Bryant—I thought that was the end of that chapter of my life. It had been a magical evening, but afterwards, it was time to return to the real world. One that unfortunately didn’t include incredibly handsome, sexy, and wealthy celebrity chefs.
Though I hadn’t seen Chef Bryant since then, he hadn’t been completely absent. He’d texted the day after my return to Kansas City, wanting to make sure I’d gotten back okay. And I’d sent him a few messages about my search for a head chef position.
Around the time I’d been interviewing at various restaurants in the area, the eighth season of Kitchen Tyrant aired. At every interview I went to, the restaurant owners wanted to talk to me about the show. They all wanted to know if I’d won, but of course I couldn’t tell them. When I’d first heard about a new restaurant called Fantabulous opening in a trendy area of downtown Kansas City known for its nightlife, I was thrilled at the chance to interview for it. But as I’d explained to Chef Bryant in a text message, the timing was really awful. My interview was scheduled for two days after the episode in which I was eliminated.
But the very next day, I received an overnight package that contained a glowing letter of recommendation from him. I’d taken it to the interview, and after three meetings and two cooking demonstrations, I got the job.
As much as I missed Chef Bryant, I hadn’t been able to watch any of the episodes of this season of Kitchen Tyrant. I told my family and friends that I just didn’t want to see myself on camera, but that wasn’t the real reason. It was him I didn’t want to see. I mean, yes, I wanted to see him, quite badly, but not like that. Not on a television set the same way everyone else in the country did. I preferred my memories of the real man to the persona he played on his show.
Lately, however, we’d been texting less than usual. Since starting here as head chef three months ago, I’d gotten a lot busier. It was a mad house to serve so many customers night after night. And I insisted on the highest quality. After all, I’d learned from the best in the business.
Chef Bryant seemed pretty busy, too. He’d mentioned once that there was the possibility of a special season of Kitchen Tyrant next year in which some former contestants like me might be invited back. My heart had leapt at the idea of another chance to see him, no matter how brief.
But now that our texts had cooled off a bit, I wasn’t sure that he still wanted me to be on the show next year. Which was probably for the best. Yes, I still thought about him every day—and definitely every night—but he was in Hollywood, and I was in the real world. At some point, I’d need to move on, maybe even start dating. But I couldn’t imagine ever meeting anyone who could compare to Chef Bryant. And right now, the thought of meeting someone else was pretty painful when I’d already met the man of my dreams.
Once the dinner service started in earnest, I didn’t have time to think about him, or my birthday, or anything except food preparation—at least until Dante burst into the kitchen.
“Chef Cheyenne!” he called, his hands waving and his voice acrobatic with excitement. Usually, his exuberant demeanor was confined to the dining area, where he oversaw the greeter and the serving staff, attended to influential restaurant patrons, and assured that everything in the front of the house ran smoothly. His arrival in this agitated manner must mean something big.
“Cheyenne, ma chérie … you’ll never guess who’s in the dining room!”
Uh-oh. “Is it the critic from the Star? You said he wouldn’t be back again for months!” For a moment, I panicked. Were the tablecloths properly ironed? Did everything in the dining room look perfect? And oh my god, I’d better take Maria off fish immediately. I’d cook it myself.
“No, no, it’s not him. Besides, his first review was positively glowing. But never mind that—you’re not going to believe this, but it’s a celebrity chef! Right here at Fantabulous!”
My pulse rate tripled, but outwardly I remained calm. At least I think I did. At least I wasn’t openly trembling with fear and excitement, as Dante was. “Which one?” I said, fighting to keep my voice neutral.
Dante started to respond, but I cut him off before he got the chance. “Is it the British one?”
“No,” he said, practically bouncing up and down on his heels.
“The tattooed one?”
“No, even better, it’s—”
“The naked one?”
“N
o,” Dante said. “Though that would be fun! It’s your old pal, Chef Bryant.”
My mouth went dry, and I had to work hard to swallow. Finally, I managed to say, “Bryant the Tyrant? Here?”
“Yes. He looks even better than he does on TV. And that accent is almost as delicious as your salmon with sun-dried tomato pesto, and that’s saying a lot. Maybe all those supermodels he dates are a ruse. Do you think there’s any chance he’s secretly gay?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not,” I said, faintly. “Did you get him a good table?”
“He wanted a booth in the corner, probably to avoid the female diners who looked more interested in eating him than our specials tonight. Shameless hussies. Do you think he’ll give me his autograph?”
“Dante.”
“Right. I am the ultimate professional,” he said, looking like a child who’s been told he could open his Christmas presents early. “Do you think he knows you’re here?”
“He’s probably just passing through town on business,” I said, but actually, that was rather doubtful. Chef Bryant owned several insanely successful restaurants in Los Angeles, New York, and London. It seemed rather unlikely he had business in the Midwest. But if he wasn’t here for business …
“Make sure he gets the very best service,” I said, cutting off that thought. “Use Alan as his server, he’ll be great.” Claire was on the floor tonight, and she was even better than Alan, but she was also tall, blonde, and gorgeous. No way was I sending her to Chef Bryant’s table. “Make sure everything is perfect,” I said.
“Of course I will.”
“Sorry, I’m a little flustered. I can’t believe he’s here.”
“Don’t be. You run an excellent kitchen. You’re going to make us proud. You’re going to make him proud.”
I sincerely hoped so. I grabbed a wine menu and quickly skimmed down the list. Only the best would do for Chef Bryant. “Here,” I said, showing my selection to Dante. “Send him a glass of this. Tell him … tell him compliments of the chef with apologies that we’re currently out of Redbacks.”
Between the wine and the food, Chef Bryant would be busy for a while. But at some point after he ate, I’d see him. Even as nervous as I was, I couldn’t wait.
Chapter Ten
A LITTLE AFTER nine, I entered the dining room. I ran my hands down my clothes, then stopped when I realized it was just a nervous gesture. I’d donned a fresh chef’s hat and coat, and my black skirt, tights, and heels below were free from stains and crumbs. I didn't wear heels in the kitchen, but I sometimes put them on before entering the dining area. So I wasn't wearing them for him. Or at least not just for him.
I spoke with the couple who was celebrating their 20th anniversary and told them about the special dessert we’d prepared for them. While I talk to them, my arm around the back of the wife’s chair, my mind was miles away… specifically, in the corner booth. I wasn’t looking directly at him, but I was aware of his presence.
It was still hard to believe he was here. In the Midwest. In Kansas City. In my restaurant. As I moved to the next table, and I saw a trio of women approach him, brandishing pens, clearly asking for autographs. I tried not to stare as they flirted with him. One, a tall brunette in black leggings and a shimmery, silver crop top bent down and whispered something in his ear, probably letting him see straight down her shirt to her navel. Irritated, I scanned the room trying to determine which table the three women had been at and wondering if it was too late to over-salt their meals.
Moving on, I talked to more customers, got their opinions on the specials, received their kind words—and retained very little of what was said to me. Finally the three women moved off. I propelled myself forward, taking one shaky step after another.
Chef Bryant stood when I neared, and I was overwhelmed all over again by how amazing he looked in person. He was good-looking enough that he came across as hot as hell on TV, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. I tilted my head up, relishing how much taller he was than me, even with my increased height from my heels.
Every inch of him was masculine perfection, from his broad shoulders to his powerful, muscular arms. His black jeans showcased his strong thighs in a way that made me want to drool. Me and pretty much every other female in the dining room, as far as I could tell. He was also wearing a black shirt, and a suit jacket, of all things. That wasn’t his usual style but of course, it looked fantastic on him.
All powers of speech deserted me as I closed the final few feet. He bent his head, and I froze, not sure if he was going for my lips or my cheek. He ended up doing some kind of double kiss, one on each cheek, though he was definitely not European. Maybe it was supposed to be a Hollywood thing?
Grasping my hand in both of his, he squeezed gently. “Nice to see you, love.” His broad Australian accent made me feel as if everyone else’s enunciation was sorely lacking. It felt like I’d been waiting far more than half a year just to hear him call me ‘love’ again.
He gave a final squeeze and released my hand, sitting back down. He gestured to the seat across from him in the booth, but I shook my head. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”
He nodded. He knew how this worked.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said, fighting against the four words that wanted to escape my lips: why are you here? I shifted my weight from one foot to the other—realizing only too late but that was a dead giveaway that I was nervous. Not nervous of him exactly, but nervous about myself.
It was overwhelming, being in his presence again. I was thrilled to see him, but I was still in shock at having him appear out of thin air like this. And a small voice in the back of my mind wondered how I might feel when he was gone again.
Chef Bryant, on the other hand, was the picture of confidence. He leaned back in his seat, his long legs sprawled under the table reaching out almost to my feet. Following my gaze, he looked down also, zeroing in my high heels. “Don’t tell me wear those when you cook,” he said, his eyes flicking back up to mine.
“No, just sometimes when I greet the customers.” I couldn’t help answering his smile, it was so infectious. “Especially when I know there are tall customers in the dining room.”
He chuckled. “Pretty much everyone’s tall compared to you.”
I had to look away, it was too intense, looking at him straight-on. It was like staring into the sun. I glance at the plates in front of him instead. He’d ordered the most expensive item on the menu, a steak and lobster combo. He’d also gotten several desserts, but it looked like he only tried a few bites of each. I suddenly felt like a student, standing in front of her professor, wondering if he was pleased with her performance.
He he took a sip of coffee, and gestured with the cup. “What kind of a name is Fantabulous?”
Dammit, I wished my brain would start working. I needed a fun, flirty, comeback, but nothing sprang to mind. What was it about this man that could make all my brain cells disappear with one flash of his sexy smile? I had to say something. “It’s a combination of fabulous and … and … ” Damn, what was it? “And fantastic.” Yeah, that was it. I clearly needed to get my mind in gear. There was still the rest of the dinner shift to get through.
“Well, made up word or no, it aptly describes the food. My compliments to the head chef.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, looking at the ground. I’d just accepted words of praise from a dozen other customers without turning into a blushing school girl. Why couldn’t I do the same from him? But his opinion meant more to me than anyone else in the restaurant business. He was my mentor, my idol, my crush.
He set his cup down and leaned his head back, studying me. “Feels a bit strange to have to look up to see you.” Before I could figure out how to respond to that, he continued. “Are you free later?”
Yes, proclaimed every cell in my body. “Yes,” my mouth echoed. My pulse instantly doubled, but outwardly I tried to remain calm. “But it’ll be late. We don’t e
ven close until eleven, and then we have to get everything set up in the kitchen for tomorrow, and the cleaners come and—”
“I know the drill,” he said dryly. I blushed again. Of course he did. He’d spent years working in restaurants. He owned several of them.
“Do you want me to meet you somewhere when I’m done?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll come back here.”
“Sounds good,” I said, casually uttering the understatement of the year. “Enjoy your desserts.” I turned and walked back toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes on me. For the first time, I wondered how many other eyes had been on us as we chatted. Dante’s, almost certainly. Probably the waitstaff’s too. I hoped they would be long gone by the time Chef Bryant returned tonight. I had a feeling we were going to need our privacy.
* * *
It was almost midnight, and nearly everyone else had left. Only a few cleaners remained—I could hear them vacuuming out in the main dining room. The kitchen had been returned to pristine condition. It was neat and orderly. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck.
It wasn’t like I wasn’t excited. Of course I was. But I just wished I knew what it meant. I’d thought I’d never see him again. I’d resigned myself to never seeing him again. We lived in different worlds, and mine was the real one. His was make-believe. Private jets. Movie premiers. Hanging out with actresses and models. Dating actresses and models. Having paparazzi follow him everywhere he went.
As strange as it had been to meet the real man behind the celebrity during the night I’d spent with him, it was even stranger to meet the real man in the real world. Why was he even here? Was this just an intercontinental booty call?
A loud rap made me jump. I hurried over and unlocked the deadbolts at the door used for kitchen staff and deliveries. And there he was. Even in the dim light from the back parking lot, his piercing eyes stared into me from under dark, rugged brows. Holy crap, how could anyone who looked that hot truly exist?
Hot Shot: A Bad Boy Romance Page 7