“It’s not a problem,” Beck said, but his voice sounded like he’d been gargling gravel. “At least, it won’t be once someone fucking notices we’re missing and comes to find us.”
“Someone will come,” Skye said, feeling like she was trying to soothe a savage beast. Should she sing? No, that wouldn’t help. “In the meantime, where are you?”
“I’m fine,” he said again, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t, and everything inside Skye went on red alert.
“Okay, but maybe I’m not,” she said, letting a tremor into her voice. “I’m getting really cold, and a little freaked out, and it would help if I knew where you were so I don’t feel like I’m going crazy and talking to myself.”
That got another snort out of him, but this time it sounded like simple laughter, and Skye let herself grin. “Come on,” she coaxed. “I promise not to bite.”
“That’s not much of an incentive,” he commented, but in the next instant, she felt his large, strong-boned hand slide around her fingers in a solid grip.
Despite herself, a tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying melted from her shoulders, as if she’d been holding the sun salutation pose for long, deep-breathing moments and had finally relaxed out of it at his touch.
His palm was sweaty and chilled, which surprised her, even considering how weird he was acting. She’d seen Henry Beck face down a trio of switchblade-happy street kids, their mean, gouging landlord, and her own mother, and he’d never flinched. But somehow, being locked in this freezer with his soon-to-be-ex-wife was really getting to him.
Trying not to take it personally, Skye said, “So. You didn’t used to be claustrophobic.”
He stiffened and, predictably, tried to pull his hand away. But Skye had, in fact, anticipated that reaction, and she kept her grasp on his fingers snug and secure, and went on talking.
“I know, because if you’d been claustrophobic when we had that apartment on Stockton, you would’ve had to be on medication just to walk through the front door.”
Beck relaxed a little, some of the rigidity going out of his forearm, and Skye risked stepping a little closer to the radiant heat of his big body.
“That place was tiny,” he said in a gruff, remembering voice. “And the only window was in the bathroom, way up high over the shower.”
“You didn’t seem to notice the close quarters back then.”
“Maybe I was too busy thinking about other things.”
Skye swallowed hard. Now she was remembering, too, and it occurred to her, as Beck’s voice slid into that deep, caressing tone, that she hadn’t always felt so take-it-or-leave-it and unconcerned when it came to sex.
In fact, in those two years she and Beck were together, she remembered being vitally concerned with sex—at all hours of the day and night, in every position their fevered brains and youthfully flexible bodies could come up with.
Trying to stay on topic, she shot back, “I don’t think so. This is new. So what gives?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
Time for a different tactic. “Okay, then. What are you making for your signature dish?”
That got her a frustrated growl, the kind that vibrated through her ribcage as if someone had struck a tuning fork.
“Don’t want to talk about that, either, hmm?”
He shifted, his body too big to move without shifting air currents. “I just … I don’t know what they’re looking for. I can cook any kind of fish, any way they want. But I don’t have a signature. I’m not some celebrity chef with a catchphrase and a line of condiments for sale. I’m a glorified line cook, and damn proud of it.”
Feeling her way, Skye said carefully, “I don’t think ‘signature dish’ has to mean something that people associate with you, like a brand. I think it means … a dish that exemplifies what you love about cooking. Your style, your ability to use ingredients and showcase them … it’s more about what you’re trying to say with the dish than the dish itself.”
He was quiet for a long moment while Skye felt an embarrassed flush heat the tips of her ears. At least they were warm.
“That actually … that helps,” Beck said, sounding endearingly awkward. Skye fought down the urge to give him a squeeze. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Now what else should we discuss? I know … how about your sudden claustrophobia?”
Beck jolted, his leather boots squeaking against the floor of the cooler with his sudden movement. “I’m not talking about that.”
“Well, I think you should talk about it. How else are you going to get over it?”
She felt a tug on her hand that pulled her off balance, the darkness of the space around them robbing her of her center of gravity and tilting the world into instantaneous vertigo.
But only for a second, because Beck was there to catch her against his chest, her clumsy feet tangling with his as her long skirt wound itself around his legs like an affectionate cat.
“You know what works better than talking?” Beck purred, the rumble of his voice vibrating against her breasts and all through her body. “A distraction.”
And before she could gather her scattered wits to protest, to argue, he’d brought his mouth down across hers and the urge to argue was swept away in the onslaught of pure, raw sensation.
So hot, so hungry, his tongue stroked between her teeth and ignited a fire that had been banked down deep inside her for years. In a flash of wet friction, clutching fingers, and a breathless moan from deep in someone’s chest, Skye remembered the one place she and Beck had always been able to communicate … in bed.
Or, in this case, in a walk-in freezer.
Right here and now, it didn’t matter that Beck had been out of her life for years. It didn’t matter that every moment they were together was shadowed with uncertainty and insecurity about where she stood with him.
Right here and now, she knew how he felt without being told in words, because as his iron grip curled around her waist and jerked her closer, their bodies spoke a language older than time.
He wanted her.
And goddess above, but she wanted him right back, with a soaring, surging passion that gripped her like a riptide and spun her dizzily into the dark.
She wrapped her arms around the solid thickness of his muscular shoulders and opened herself to him.
*
Beck was on fire.
Heat throbbed through him, where only moments before he’d been chilled to the bone, fighting the shakes with every ounce of his strength.
The desire for her burned through him, scorching away every thought and fear and feeling that wasn’t connected to the silkiness of her hair gripped in his fists or the satiny glide of her tongue as she welcomed him in.
Skye Gladwell’s kiss. There was nothing like it, anywhere in the world.
Without even meaning to, Beck had used the memory of this kiss—the sweet strawberry taste of her, that bitten-off moan in the back of her throat, the eager press of her lips—as the baseline against which all other kisses were measured. Every kiss he’d had in the years since he left Skye had been too wet, too dry, too reserved, too sloppy—just … not this.
And as her body molded against his as if they were two measuring spoons nestled in a drawer, Beck felt something deep inside himself slot into place.
Unwilling to examine just what that meant, he burrowed his hands deeper into the curly mass of her hair, fingers searching until he cupped her delicate skull in his big, rough hands, and deepened the kiss until they were both gasping for breath.
Beck was the one who broke away, sucking at air so cold it felt like a knife in his lungs after the heated passion of the past few minutes. A surge of fierce joy went through him when he felt her go up on tiptoe, swollen mouth puffing hot breaths against the sensitive side of his neck.
With everything he had, Beck wished he could see her face clearly, but even his killer night vision couldn’t pierce the complete darkness of a commercial-grade r
efrigerator.
But he could imagine how she looked. Hell, he’d imagined it so often over the years, he could probably sketch her expression from memory—the wide daze of her summer-blue eyes, the hectic flush of pink on her milky cheeks, the slick, plump softness of her ripe, just-kissed mouth.
Oh yeah, he knew exactly what Skye looked like after being kissed to within an inch of her life. And in that moment, he swore to himself that he’d see it again with his own eyes.
Because no one who kissed him like that was completely over what they’d had.
“Henry,” she breathed, a fine tremor shivering through her body, and Beck had to fight down a shiver of his own, because damn. That name he’d hated hearing for a decade suddenly didn’t sound half bad, when Skye moaned it in that soft, yearning way.
But the sound of her own voice seemed to snap Skye out of whatever haze their kiss had put her in, and she struggled a bit in his arms.
“Oh goddess,” she groaned, reason returning with a sharp edge to her voice, and Beck regretted it. Especially when she tried to jerk away from him.
“Stop that,” he ordered, pulling her closer and tucking her more firmly against him, because her shivers were getting worse. “We need to conserve body heat.”
It was cold in here, he knew, but it was a clinical sort of knowledge experienced at a distance, the way Beck had learned to process pain from a wound and keep going, keep moving, keep working.
The cold kept him alert, and as she subsided, dropping her arms to wrap around his waist and tucking her cold nose against his chest, Beck’s head finally cleared completely.
Priority one was to get them both out of here.
Priority two? Get his team into position to win this damn competition, because he had to have her one last time.
Chapter 11
Over her years in the male-dominated world of magazine publishing, Claire had learned to read a room.
It was a useful skill, one that had served her well in front of editorial boards, irate advertisers, and banquet halls full of chefs whose restaurants she’d reviewed—not always favorably. It had helped ensure that as her workplace dynamic gradually shifted to accommodate the influx of highly educated, determined, career-minded women, Claire remained at the head of the pack.
Glancing around the frenetic San Francisco kitchen as the challenge clock wound down to zero, Claire saw a number of interesting things.
Devon Sparks had arrived on an early flight that morning, and Eva had been touring him around the kitchen, getting him up to speed on where things stood in the competition.
Now they were standing by the back wall, having what looked like a very serious conversation; it was the first time Claire had seen her young friend without a smile on her face since they’d left Chicago.
Claire frowned; either Devon was sharing upsetting details of his pregnant wife’s recent illness, or Eva was in a funk for some other reason.
Tilting her gaze to the right, she checked out Danny Lunden to see if he looked similarly frustrated—that would mean there was trouble in paradise, and Claire could expect to spend a good portion of her evening dispensing chocolate, martinis, and “poor baby”s.
However, although Danny cast the occasional concerned look in his true love’s direction, he didn’t appear to be suffering from anything worse than a pan of sadly flat-looking ladyfingers. Making a disgusted noise, he scraped the sponge cake cylinders into the garbage and started fresh while Claire turned back to her perusal of the room.
All the teams were rushing around, spilling sauces and cursing sticky pressure cooker lids and praying that the blast chiller could firm up their from-scratch, oddly flavored ice creams. The Midwest chefs, in particular, appeared to be floundering—there was quite a bit of red-faced shouting coming from their team leader, Ryan Larousse.
Danny’s teammates from the East Coast team appeared to be doing well, although one of them seemed a bit behind after having gotten caught in exactly the situation Claire had warned them about.
One of the most interesting things she’d observed all morning had been the state of Beck and Skye Gladwell when they’d tumbled out of the walk-in, clothing askew and hair mussed, after that chef with the dreadlocks had tried to get into the cooler for a carton of buttermilk and found the door jammed.
Dreadlock Boy had pried it open with the help of his West Coast teammates, and there they were, the intimidatingly large, dark-haired chef wrapped around the petite, zaftig hippie with the messy red curls like something off the covers of the romance novels Claire kept as her secret indulgence.
They’d broken apart instantly, claiming the embrace had been all about conserving body heat, but Claire was no fool. She knew how it could be when circumstances threw one into contact with an old flame.
So really, she had nothing to feel guilty about in regards to Beck and Skye, just because two chefs had found themselves trapped in the large commercial refrigerator during the challenge even after she’d warned them! They’d surely enjoyed themselves.
So what if she might have had a chance to get the door latch fixed, had she not been so busy having a moment with Kane Slater?
Guilt was an entirely unproductive emotion. As was regret.
Fear, however …
Claire’s gaze fell on Kane where he stood watching the chefs, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child too excited to stand still. Claire felt a visceral tug toward him, as if he’d hooked her behind the belly button and was now reeling her in.
Claire dug in her heels and resisted the pull, feeling a need to maintain some distance—both professional and physical.
When she was with Kane … it was all too much. She felt too much, hoped too much, cared too much, and she was smart enough to know that an ounce of fear for the future would save her an infinity of regret when this affair inevitably ended.
So she turned resolutely away from her young ex-lover, and most certainly did not notice the flex and play of muscles in his tanned arms, bared to the elbow by the rolled sleeves of his hipster-plaid button-down.
A loud buzz jerked Claire’s attention back to the wall clock, which now read 00:00 in flashing red digits.
“Time’s up,” Eva called, moving front and center. “Step away from your stations.” She glanced at Claire, who gave her an infinitesimal nod.
Taking a fortifying breath, Claire assumed her best blank expression and stepped forward, heels clicking loudly against the tiled kitchen floor.
Showtime.
*
There were times when Skye thought if she could choose to have inherited anything from her parents, it wouldn’t be her mother’s artistic brilliance or her father’s genius for political satire.
It would be the single quality they both shared: complete and utter confidence that everything they did was right and good.
Even after tasting her parmesan-chive meringue—even after forcing every person on her team to taste it—Skye’s belly was still clenched tight in terror of the judges’ reactions.
Fiona, who knew her too well, leaned over close enough to hiss, “It’s going to be fine. Stop looking so nervous! They’re going to think you sneezed on their plates or something.”
Skye laughed because she knew she was meant to, and the bands of tension around her midsection eased a little.
She stared down the long stainless steel table where each team was presenting their finished dishes to the judges. Why did the West Coast team always have to go last?
“I can’t help being nervous,” she whispered to Fiona, who shot her a sympathetic look that somehow also conveyed a very strong “buck up” vibe. “Everything is riding on this!”
“Not everything! Just your entire life.” Fiona smirked and faced forward again, nudging her shallow square plate of jiggling Jell-O shots in line with the rest of her team’s dishes while Skye went back to fretting.
If they finished last, the way they had in the practice challenge, they were through. Out of the competition and hea
ding back to the Queenie Pie Café in disgrace.
At her parents’ next salon, she’d have to tell them she’d lost. She could already hear her mother’s sympathetic but exasperated voice saying, “Well, what did you expect? You’re wasting your talents, puttering around a kitchen like some fifties housefrau.” And her father would raise his sleek dark brows and take a languid puff of his joint before adding, “Maybe now you’ll let go of this ridiculous retro fantasy and do something meaningful with your life.” She could picture it all so clearly.
Probably because she’d lived through it a time or two already.
The judges were moving down the line, dragging Skye closer and closer to the moment of truth, and she resolutely blocked out everything they were saying to the other teams.
She didn’t want to know. It wasn’t about doing better or worse than anyone else, she told herself. All she could do was her best, and hope it was good enough.
And besides … if she noticed the other teams and how they were faring with the judges, she’d have to be reminded that not only did she need to win this challenge to avoid dealing with her parents’ perennial disappointment—she needed to stay in the competition because Jeremiah was coming home, all the way from Burkina Faso, just to see her cook.
Skye swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. There was no way she could face her heroic, save-the-world-one-village-at-a-time boyfriend if she failed at a stupid cooking contest.
The deep rumble of a masculine voice roughed over Skye’s skin, catching at her and reminding her that she had enough to be ashamed of as it was.
Stop it, she lectured herself. Don’t think about how you’re going to tell Jeremiah about Beck. Don’t think about—oh God—kissing Beck, or the way your whole body came alive the minute he touched you. Don’t think about anything other than getting through the next five minutes.
It was good advice, but when Beck threw his head back and laughed—actually laughed!—at something Kane Slater said about his dish, Skye knew she wouldn’t be able to follow it.
As much as her whole life and a ridiculous amount of her self-worth were tied up in winning this challenge … there was no distraction big enough to keep her mind from wandering to Henry Beck.
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