Head Over Heels

Part 8

What she saw as she walked into her class stopped her dead in her tracks. As if he had been conjured by her deepest and darkest fantasies (or fears, depending on who you asked), Yeats stood there wearing khaki cargo shorts that hung low on his hips and some graphic t-shirt that she was sure was a catchphrase that would be more well suited for a teenager than a man in his thirties. That would be if she actually cared to take a closer look, which she didn't. She double-checked her watch. Yup, she was definitely in the right class. What was he doing here? He probably wants to make you pay for leaving him blue balls, her libido taunted. Nicci mentally put on her big girl panties, and physically squared her shoulders. She was determined to pretend that he wasn't even in the room that was hard since he had chosen to set up at her station. But what she couldn't ignore was that the only station that was available was the one directly across from his, even she couldn't dig that deep. When she thought her day couldn't get any worse than having to be in the same room with the man she ruined any chance of a relationship with she looked at the chalkboard and groaned.

They were making pan-fried chicken with a tomato and spinach cream sauce. There were two problems that Nicci saw with the menu. The first problem is that she would be required to cook it, and the second problem she was pretty confident that this class would end in an inedible disaster that would somehow bring the ire of the faux French chef. Nicci rolled her eyes thinking that this class was only serving to enhance her anger issues. Which would be the exact opposite of its purpose, controlling her temper this much really couldn't be that good for her, she was supposed to be relaxing not practicing. She was already tightly wound and having Yeats here only made it worse. Nicci was confident that her therapist would understand if she skipped this class. Even she shouldn't be expected to handle this, Nicci grabbed her bag and was walking around her counter when a deep and familiar voice she would recording anywhere stopped her. "Leaving so soon."

"Excuse me?" She turned around and faced Yeats, she had tried her best to sound unaffected. She knew that was the only way to deal with this man and still have her pride intact. He already knew that she was attracted to him, even if she denied it until she was blue in the face. She didn't need to keep proving that point.

"Are you leaving?" He said the words slowly and deliberately like he was speaking to someone whose first language wasn't English. He sat on the counter and swung his legs over so that if she took two maybe three steps forward she would have been standing between his legs. "Don't you have to be here because of your anger issues?"

"Not that it is any concern of yours, but I think I can find another cooking class that isn't so ... full." She looked him up and down. He grinned. He was not acting like a man who hated her. "And since we are asking questions, what are you doing here? I thought your class was after this one."

"You were right about what you said when I was at your house. We can't do what we were doing?" His thumb rubbed his bottom lip.

"So I was right, and you thought to come to my class would help how?" She was really confused now.

"When you go to therapy do you ever discuss your inferiority complex?"

"My what?!" She couldn't believe her ears.

"Your inferiority complex," he repeated. "You have a problem with trying to put men in their place, at least you do with me. I think it's because you feel inferior to me." He grinned.

"I do not!" She was close too shrieking, and not caring that it might bring the wrath of Chef Louis.

"Are you feeling inferior right now, aren't you? You don't like it, do you? Is that why you are leaving? Feeling ... uncomfortable?" His grin got bigger.