OLIVIA WAS NOT A MORNING PERSON. Mornings, especially Saturday mornings, were meant for sleeping in. So she could hardly be blamed when she headed out for her cooking class dressed in torn denim shorts, a distressed white t-shirt, and sparkly flipflops (granted they were designer, but still, flipflops). She didn’t mean to dress down. She had a well-thought-out outfit in mind (silky teal top, skinny jeans, and taupe pumps), but she snoozed her alarm one too many times, so she ended up having to scramble for the closest outfit she could pull together.
It turned out to be a good choice. The flipflops were better for walking than her pumps, so her twenty-minute walk across the city to the cooking studio took less time than it should. She was relieved at just being five minutes late when she rang the doorbell.
“You are too pretty to be the water delivery guy,” announced a deep, decidedly masculine voice. Olivia’s eyes flew open to see a shirtless hunk, clad only in low slung, unbuttoned jeans that barely straddled his hips. Little beads of water glistened over the parts of his lean, well-toned, tattooed torso (appropriately enough, the droplets were on Japanese-inspired waves) that escaped being toweled off. His dark hair was cropped short and his jawline was lined with day-old stubble, screaming I-don’t-give-a-damn-about-how-I-look.
Olivia did a double-take. She was expecting Miss Julia, celebrity TV chef, cooking instructor, and her childhood cooking idol. She was really looking forward to meeting the kind-looking, older woman who as talented in whipping up delicious dishes as she was in gliding about the kitchen in flowing, floral things. Instead, she got this—this—this sizzling specimen of manhood who looked like a rockstar caught in the middle of a sold-out concert.
“You aren’t the water delivery guy, are you?” he clarified, one eyebrow quirking up, highlighting the faint white scar underneath it. He gave her a once over, starting from the top of her head to the tips of her toes---lingering a little bit too long over her chest area. Olivia cursed herself for dressing like a slob who just got out of bed, never mind that the distressed t-shirt cost about the same as a full course dinner in a swanky restaurant.
Apparently, he liked what he saw because his mouth turned up in a smile, complete with crinkly-cornered eyes that lit up his whole face. "Yep. Definitely too pretty to do water deliveries. Perhaps you should come in so we can figure this out?" He held the door open for her, and it took every ounce of her self-control to not be drawn to the spider's web.
“I think I got the wrong address,” she muttered, rattled by his forwardness on a Saturday morning when she hadn’t had her coffee yet. She took a step back, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her from leaving.
"Hold on, I was just messing with you. You’re here for the basic cooking course, right? Olivia? My aunt's assistant told me about you." He let go of her wrist to open the door wider. "Sorry, I was expecting the water delivery guy. He’s the impatient sort, so I rushed out from the shower to make sure I could catch him. I didn’t bother to look respectable, because I wasn't expecting you until much later."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand---"
“Name’s Nathan Olivarez. I’ll be your cooking instructor.” Before she knew what was happening, Nate had her hand clasped in a handshake, his large, calloused hand lingering on hers a bit longer than usual. “But I prefer being called Nate. Aunt Julia injured her wrist. She can’t cook for the next few weeks, must less teach cooking. She was going to cancel her classes, but since I was in town, I offered to take over."
Olivia couldn't believe her luck. Or her misfortune. This guy was going to teach her? How was she going to focus with him around? Besides, what did he know about cooking? He looked more at home with an electric guitar than with a chef's knife. He was every bit the rockstar groupies threw panties at during concerts. Used panties.
