by Tawna Fenske
Stop it. A classy foodie and a woman with a Tater Tot obsession? That’ll never happen.
Cami sighed and turned around. At least there was something to be excited about upstairs. She took the steps in a hurry, bounding into her apartment and yanking the oven door open. She reached inside and grabbed her baking sheet.
“Yeowch! Dammit!”
Oven mitts, idiot. Do you have to be so eager?
“Gimme a break, I’m no gourmet chef,” she said aloud. She dropped the cookie sheet on the counter and shook her burned hand. She needed to run it under cool water, but she could do that in a minute. The sooner she got the tots in the oven, the sooner she’d be able to pop one in her mouth, hot and crunchy, salty and steamy.
Nothing at all like mom’s health food.
Cami snatched a can of cooking spray and doused the sheet liberally. Grabbing the bag of tots, she upended it and spread them around in a neat, single layer. She rummaged through a drawer and found an oven mitt before prying open the oven door. Gingerly, she placed the sheet in the oven and closed the door with reverence.
She set the timer and sighed. 18 minutes. In just 1,080 seconds, she’d be in Tater Tot nirvana.
Only then did Cami realize her hand was flaming. She turned to the sink and switched on the faucet. As cool liquid pulsed over her palm, she thought about Paul in the river. The way his skin felt warm even in the icy water, his eyes laughing and unselfconscious even as water weeds tangled around their ankles.
She’d never kissed a man with a beard. What did that feel like?
Stop lusting after a client.
With a sigh, Cami reached for a water glass and filled it to the brim. Flipping off the faucet, she rummaged through the fridge for the lemon slices she kept stashed there. She sipped slowly, wondering if she’d ever take Paul up on his offer to visit the restaurant. She’d be out of her league food-wise, and then there were the calories—
Cami glanced at the oven. 14 minutes.
She took another sip of water and imagined the satisfying crunch yielding to a moist, hot interior and the heady fragrance of steamy potato. A gourmet chef would laugh at her junk-food obsession. Cami glanced back at the oven.
12 minutes.
She donned her oven mitt and pried open the door, craving a peek at them. Grabbing a spatula off the counter, Cami nudged them gently around the cookie sheet to make sure they browned evenly. Then she closed the oven door and set the spatula on the stovetop.
Bing!
Cami frowned at the oven timer. Really? The tots couldn’t be ready yet.
Bing!
Crap, the doorbell. She’d forgotten it had such a ridiculous tone. She turned toward the front of the house, reluctant to leave the tots unattended. Cami trotted to the front door, her bare feet making smacky sounds on the cork floor. She peered through the glass panel and sucked in a breath. Paul?
She flung open the door, shivering a little as they came face to face.
Well, more like face to chest. Holy cow, he was a big guy.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Paul said. “I forgot my wet clothes on the floor of your dressing room.”
“It’s okay,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to the kitchen. “I can—um—wash them and give them back to you at your next lesson.”
He snorted. “No way am I letting you do my laundry. The last thing I want is for you to get stuck handling my underwear. Not that—”
“It’s okay, Paul, really.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “You’re my fitness instructor, not my housekeeper. Just give me thirty seconds to run into the studio and grab my clothes. I don’t want to ruin your nice cork floor with my soggy shorts.”
Cami hesitated, then lifted her hand to wave him inside. That’s when she realized she was still wearing her oven mitt.
“Nice mitt,” Paul said, grinning at her hand. “Whatcha baking?”
“Um—” Cami said, trying hard to think of a lie.
Curried tofu bars, homemade granola with flax seed, nutritious squash . . .
“Um—” she said again, and waited for the ground to swallow her up.
…
Paul studied Cami’s face, perplexed by her reaction to such a simple question. Judging by her expression, Paul might as well have asked how many dead bodies she had stashed in her freezer. She stared at him in horror, her cheeks flushing pink as she pressed her lips together. He waited a few beats for her to answer, but she seemed to have lost her ability of speech.
Pity, that. Paul had grown rather fond of her voice in the two months he’d been taking her classes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” Paul tried.
“No, it’s okay,” Cami said at last. “If we go fast, I’ve got time to grab your clothes before my oven dings.”
“I understand. Timing’s important with baking, especially if you’re doing something like a soufflé or quiche loraine or any sort of baked prawn dish.”
“Er, right.”
“I’m actually not much of a baker myself,” he prattled on, feeling a little idiotic, but not sure how else to fill the awkward silence. “Cooking is more my thing. Sautéing, broiling, braising, grilling—”
“Let’s get your clothes,” Cami said. “Come on in, it’s easier if we go through the living room instead of through the outside door.”
She led him through a small space adorned with polished wood floors and bright throw-pillows. Her furniture looked cozy and inviting, and there was a scrumptious aroma filling the air.
“Wow, it smells really good in here,” Paul said. “Whatever you’re baking must be delicious.”
“It is,” Cami agreed, shooting a glance at the oven as they passed her small, open kitchen with an inviting little breakfast bar. Paul squinted at the oven timer. Six minutes. He didn’t see signs of food prep—no cutting board, no bowls, no bottles of olive oil or dishes of sea salt. What was she making?
“Right this way,” Cami said, leading him to the top of her spiral staircase. She opened the door and flipped on the light switch. “Just head on down and grab what you need. Want me to get you a plastic bag for your wet things?”
“That’d be great.”
Paul turned and stepped carefully down the spiral stairs, wondering what was making Cami so jumpy. She’d seemed so poised out on the water, her lithe limbs bending into positions Paul couldn’t imagine attempting without removing several bones and downing six muscle relaxants. What had changed between then and now?
Paul found his clothes right where he’d forgotten them—idiot—and scooped them up into a damp ball. He turned and stepped out of the dressing room, pausing to inhale the scent of the yoga studio. Sage and lemongrass? He wasn’t sure, but it was the same fragrance he’d breathed in when Cami toppled into the river, tickling Paul’s nose with the end of her braid.
It was a great scent—definitely sage and lemongrass. He’d just gotten a shipment of fresh sage at the restaurant this morning and planned to make a lovely cream sauce. He wondered if Cami would enjoy it, maybe served over pillowy-soft tagliatelle with a side of prosciutto-wrapped melon and a glass of crisp pinot grigio. He’d love to see her eyes light up as he lifted a forkful to her lips.
Dream on, buddy.
He pivoted and strode toward the stairs, moving quickly back toward Cami’s apartment. He planned to knock, but she’d left the door wide open. He rapped once on the frame before stepping over the threshold into the small living space.
“Hello?” he called, peering into the kitchen.
He spotted her next to the oven, and she whirled around like he’d pinched her butt. Paul’s mind veered a little with that thought, so he almost didn’t register she had something in her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and Paul’s heart twisted in his chest.
“Cami? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Her cheeks turned pink and puffed out. “Hot!” she yelped, fanning her mouth with one delicate hand.
Paul fought the u
rge to grin as he grabbed an empty glass off the counter and filled it with cold water from the tap. “A little over-eager with the hot food?” He handed her the glass. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve done that, I’d buy myself a wood-fired pizza oven.”
Cami took a few big gulps of water before glancing at him with something that looked an awful lot like guilt. “I think I melted my tongue.”
Paul smiled. “Sometimes that’s worth it, depending on how much you love what you’re eating.”
“It was worth it,” she admitted, and took another sip of water. “Got what you need?”
He nodded and held up his damp clothes. “Thanks again.”
“No problem. There’s a plastic grocery sack on the counter there for your wet things.”
Paul grabbed the bag and stuffed in his swim trunks and T-shirt. He shoved the whole thing into his duffel bag and glanced at the oven timer. Thirty seconds. Was that enough time to say something witty and charming to impress her?
You’d be hard pressed to do that in thirty years.
Paul sighed. “I hope you enjoy your dinner. You must be having something delicious.”
“My favorite.”
“Yeah? A secret recipe?”
“Secret.” She nodded. “Yes, definitely.”
“I have a few of those. Want me to tell you one?”
Her lips quirked in a nervous smile. “Then it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“No, but you might share yours.”
Cami glanced over her shoulder at the oven timer. “I don’t share.”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Now you’ve got me really curious.”
She turned back to him and frowned, nibbling the corner of her bottom lip. “Why do you care?”
He shrugged. “Just curious. I’m a chef, so I love everything related to food. I probably wouldn’t have cared much until you started being so secretive about it.”
Cami studied him for a moment longer, seeming to assess something. At last, she sighed. “You really want to know? Fine.”
She whirled around as the oven timer dinged. Grabbing an oven mitt off the counter, Cami flung open the oven with more force than necessary.
Paul frowned, feeling a little guilty at her response. “Cami, I was kidding. You don’t have to share your secret recipe and I don’t want to interrupt your—are those Tater Tots?”
She dropped the cookie sheet on top of the stove and folded her arms across her chest. It looked a little funny since she still wore the oven mitt, but she looked beautiful and defiant and strangely flushed.
“Tater Tots,” she confirmed with a nod. “At least two dozen, and I’m going to eat them all. Got a problem with that?”
Paul blinked. “Why would I have a problem with that?”
“Because. Because you’re a gourmet chef, and my mother is a health nut, and I’m gorging myself on junk food like a big, fat pig, that’s why.”
Her voice had risen two octaves, and Paul couldn’t figure out what was going on. Why was she so upset?
“Fat pig,” he repeated, trying to understand. “What are you talking about? And why would I care what you eat? Unless you’re a cannibal who’s circling me with a knife and fork, it’s none of my business.”
She bit her lip, her expression still weirdly tormented. She sighed and shook her head. “They’re my dirty little secret.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Tater Tots?”
“Yes. My guilty pleasure.”
“Frozen tots,” he repeated. “Of the tater variety.”
She nodded, her face flushed.
“Cami,” he said.
“What?”
He took a step toward her. “If that’s your dirtiest, guiltiest secret, you really need to get out more.”
Cami bit her lip and looked at the tots. Her arms were still folded tightly over her chest and Paul wanted to pry them apart and pull her body against him. He wasn’t sure what was going on with her, but clearly, she had a few food issues.
Paul could relate.
“They aren’t healthy,” Cami said.
“Great food sometimes isn’t.”
She snorted. “Tater Tots are hardly great food. They’re full of calories and preservatives and trans-fats.”
Paul snatched a tot off the tray and split it in half, gently blowing on it as Cami continued her lecture.
“They’re full of carbohydrates, and do you know how many grams of sodium are in each—”
Paul popped half a tot into her mouth. “Chew.”
Cami’s eyes were wide with surprise, but she obeyed. Her expression morphed from alarm to pure, unadulterated bliss. The muscles in her jaws flexed and clenched as Paul studied those beautiful cheekbones. Her long lashes fluttered as she swallowed and blinked at him.
Something twisted in his gut.
“Now the other half,” he said, and slid it into her mouth. “And I’m going to keep feeding these to you one-by-one until you stop yammering on about healthy eating and just enjoy the goddamn food.”
She chewed the Tater Tot and eyed him with something halfway between nervous energy and ecstasy. She glanced at the tray beside her, still loaded with steaming tots. She swallowed the second mouthful and shook her head.
“This is wrong,” she said. “I should be setting a good, healthful example, and you should be telling me to eat classier, nutritious food.”
“You have a lot of shoulds in your life, don’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
Paul grabbed another tot off the tray. “Want it?”
She shook her head.
Paul popped the Tater Tot into his own mouth and devoured it. “I see what all the fuss is about. These are delicious.” He grabbed another one and took a step closer. He held it close to her face, brushing her lips softly with the hot, crisp coating. “Now you want it?”
Cami reached for his wrist and tried circling it with her fingers, but her hands were too small. She grinned up at him—the first time she’d smiled since their feeding foreplay began.
“I want it,” she said, her eyes flickering to his with hunger and something that looked a lot like lust.
“You can have it,” he said, and offered her the Tater Tot, but she shook her head.
Surprised, he tried to draw his hand back, but Cami kept her grip on his wrist, then gave him a coy smile and parted her lips. Touching her tongue to his fingertip, she slowly drew his index finger deep into her mouth.
Paul gasped as Cami ran her tongue along the underside of his finger, making him mindless with gentle sucking pressure of the most exquisite mouth he’d ever experienced.
When she pulled back at last, they were both breathing heavy.
“More,” Cami said, and lunged for him.
Chapter Three
Cami wasn’t sure what got into her, but it was more than just the Tater Tots. As her lips found Paul’s, she felt a surge of something that went way beyond food lust.
She wanted him. Badly.
Solid as he was, she was surprised to feel him stagger backward when she threw herself against him.
“Ooof!” he said as Cami pushed him into the counter. He smiled against her mouth. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Cami felt a flicker of insecurity—had she gone too far?—but Paul didn’t give her a chance to go down that path.
“I love surprises,” he said, and kissed her hard.
“Good,” Cami said, and kissed him back.
His mouth was hot against hers, and he tasted like salt and cinnamon gum. She’d expected his beard to prickle, but it was surprisingly soft against her lips. She rubbed her cheek on his, enjoying the pleasant tickle.
Paul slid his hands up her bare arms and lingered there on her biceps for a few beats, his fingers stroking her heated flesh. Then he moved his hands around her back, engulfing her in the biggest, warmest embrace she’d ever known.
She broke the kiss and wriggled against him, savoring every point where their bodies touched. Her n
ose fit perfectly in the hollow of his chest, and she buried her face there and breathed him in.
“You smell like river water,” she murmured.
“You smell like Tater Tots.”
She grinned against his T-shirt. “My two favorite smells in the whole world.”
“Maybe we can market it as a men’s cologne.”
Cami tipped her head back, the urge to kiss him again stronger than her urge to nuzzle her face against his chest. Paul needed no further prompting and lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her again, more slowly this time. His tongue found hers, and Cami sighed with delight as he pressed his hand into the small of her back. She arched against him, her pelvis grinding against his thigh.
Paul kept his mouth on hers, placing a trail of kisses across her chin, down her throat, and into the warm hollow beneath her ear. Cami whimpered and threaded her fingers through his hair, feeling breathless and dizzy. A tiny part of her urged her to smooth the front of her shirt, thank him for stopping by, and usher him out before he had a chance to realize she wasn’t his kind of girl.
Most of her wanted to fuck Paul Hammond on the kitchen counter.
I’m going with that, she thought, and glanced behind her to assess whether the countertop was the appropriate height. If she pushed the coffeemaker off to the side and scooted the knife block—
“Your sister has your dimples,” Paul said.
Cami turned back, baffled. “I’m sorry?”
Paul nodded toward the refrigerator, and Cami followed his eyes to the photograph posted beside it.
A bucket of ice water splashed across her libido.
“You two look so much alike,” Paul said. “Of course, it’s obvious you got the better genes. Does that annoy her?”
There was a roaring in Cami’s ears, and she gripped the edge of the counter to keep herself upright. The smell of Tater Tots was heavy in the air, but it no longer filled her with lust.
She felt heavy with shame.
Cami licked her lips and gripped the counter harder.
“I don’t have a sister.” Her voice was high and tight, and Cami barely recognized it as her own. “I think you should go now, Paul.”