THE TASTE TEST (#1 STEAMY CHEF SERIES)

◘ twenty-four ◘

I somehow coaxed myself into letting go of the knife before I whipped it up and threw it at Zane's chest. He did have a nice chest, and his shirt was new and fancy, and it'd be a shame to rip through it.

Though if that meant seeing him naked...

My drunken mind was going to get me in trouble.

"Did you follow me?" I glared at him as he stood across the kitchen, arms crossed, studying me as if I were a rabid animal rattling inside a cage. I must have looked a little nuts to him, but it wasn't like he was supposed to see this side of me.

"Follow you?" he asked, his voice so simple, so calm.

"Are you stalking me? Waiting for everyone to leave so you can come harass me without witnesses?" I was surprised my words didn't slur out, because they made no sense in my head.

"No stalking or harassing," he said, raising his arms, palms facing me. The massive kitchen was between us, in case he'd planned to stride over and get into my space; but he didn't budge. "I did follow you, though. I was worried about you."

I snorted. "That's hilarious."

"It's the truth." He finally made a move forward, but I set my hand on the knife again. He noticed and raised his arms higher. "Seriously, I'm not here to harass you, Béatrice."

Don't say my name, you sexy bastard.

"You followed me." I squinted at him; at one of him, because I couldn't tell if there were several silhouettes in front of me or not. "You were worried about me? Yet you waited until now to come find me, hm? I ditched you hours ago. Where were you, chilling in your car in the parking lot? Like a creep?"

Zane grimaced as he lowered his arms to his sides. "Yeah, I waited. You needed to cool off." I snorted again, but he didn't flinch. "I was worried about you, yes. Because of what I said."

While I was happy the thick counter resided between us, I had half a mind to climb over it to reach him and shake him. To take hold of his pristine shirt collar and look him in the eye and demand that he say that again, and mean it.

"Oh, yeah?" I set one hand on my hip, poking out like a model posing on a runway. This was my runway—my kitchen, my rules. Zane had no right to barge in and pretend like he gave a shit. "Worried about how you might have destroyed my entire career? And ruined my ethic, my beliefs, my goddamn empire with three sentences? Well," I waved vaguely at the door, "I'm fine, thanks. You can go now."

"Clearly," said Zane, obvious mockery in his tone as he gestured at the red wine bottle in my free hand, then at how my other hand kept hovering near the large knife I'd envisioned myself stabbing him with. "Absolutely fine." His eyes roved over the ingredients covering the counter—the cheeses and vegetables, the dairy products, all the cakes and tarts and pastries I'd drunkenly craved.

"Shut up." I shifted the bottle behind my back, my cheeks growing hot.

"You're drinking," he strode closer to the counter, "and ingredients are strewn all over the place. And," his eyes found the knife again, "you're considering killing me and putting morsels of my flesh in one of your new dishes? I wouldn't call that fine."

It took everything in me to not brandish the knife at his face, up close and personal.

What stopped me was that sly smirk of victory, those lips so tight, but so delicious, that I remembered without meaning to summon the image.

What stopped me was that torso turned towards me, and the faint scent of his musk hitting my nostrils as he got closer.

Thank fuck the counter was still between us.