The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice

“You know this doesn’t make sense,” she said unsteadily.

“Probably not, but we’re both wondering about it.” He moved in, stepping between her feet.

“I’m not your type.”

His fingers slipped into her hair. “I’d say that’s for me to decide."

“You’re not my type.”

“I think I can change your mind,” he whispered. And then his mouth came down on hers.

If he’d been gentle, she might have been able to ward him off. Perhaps he realized that, because he gave her no chance to think, just dragged them both into the kiss.

Heat. Friction. The warmth of mouth, the slick of tongue. The pleasure burst through her in a furious blend of taste and texture until it was all she could focus on. He kissed her as though he owned her, as though he’d watched her and learned every nuance of her. She had no defense for it, no way to hold back, and even if she had she was too dazed to want to. The hand she’d pressed against his chest to stop him curled into the fabric of his tunic, because she was suddenly afraid that if she didn’t hold on, she might go spinning away into a hot madness.

Cady had kissed guys before. She’d always figured it wasn’t a big deal; she knew what it was about. She knew nothing, she realized as she tasted Damon, inhaled the scent of him, felt the brush of the stubble on his chin.

And she wanted more.

He’d kissed her because he’d been curious, because he was tired and more than a bit annoyed at having her on his mind. It stung his pride to be preoccupied with a woman who claimed to be indifferent to him. But when he heard that soft gasp of pleasure, felt her finally surrender and slide her arms around him, it wasn’t about annoyance or curiosity.

It was about desire, pure and simple.

He’d expected a quick, matter-of-fact kiss that would satisfy his curiosity. He hadn’t expected her to be soft and yielding against him. He hadn’t expected that apple-cinnamon scent of hers to wind into his senses and make him dizzy. He hadn’t expected her to give.

He hadn’t expected her to drive every other thought out of his head.

When he raised his head, it was for the sake of his own sanity.

Stunned, Cady stared back at him. Her eyes were huge and dark. Her mouth was swollen from his.

Abruptly, he felt annoyed with himself even as he wanted more. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing here. He’d come to Maine to change.

Suddenly, change didn’t seem all that appealing.

She shifted away from him, eyes clearing. Perversely, it gave him the urge to hold her tighter. Instead, he made himself release her.

She paced a few steps from him as though seeking safety. “Happy? Satisfied your curiosity?"

“Not by half.” His irritation rose a notch because he realized it was true.

“Too bad, because that’s it.” But her lips still felt hot and bruised from his. He’d kissed her as no one had ever kissed her. He’d woken up every sleeping desire she’d ever had. He’d made her yearn, and that scared the hell out of her.

Because she knew it wasn’t real.

“That’s it?” he repeated and started back toward her. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what’s going on here but you don’t start up something like this and just shut it down.”

“I wasn’t the one who started it,” she retorted.

“But you were part of it. And you kissed me back, you can’t pretend you didn’t."

Cady could feel her cheeks heat. “So you’re a good kisser, big deal. You ought to be, after all the practice you’ve had."

Her jab didn’t make him angry, as she’d hoped. His slow smile was far more dangerous. “Practice has made me good at a lot of things. Want me to show you?"

“No.” It was too quick and a little too nervous sounding. It took all she had not to move away as he stopped before her and leaned in by her ear.

“It happened,” he murmured. “You can’t make it go away. Maybe it’s not smart but you and I both know we’re going to be thinking about it until the next time."

And turning, he left her there, shaking.

Chapter Six

It was difficult, Cady discovered, to avoid thinking about someone when the person you were trying to avoid thinking about was always around. It was even worse when they popped up in your dreams. She could try all she wanted to forget; she could tell herself she wanted no part of him.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

She’d always told herself she was different, worn it like a badge of honor, but when she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, her legs got weak. And that was no way to be feeling with the leg weakener nearby.

She knelt at one of the flower beds on the back side of the inn, setting out marigolds as quickly as she could. Behind her, closer than she liked, lay the restaurant. And Damon. She’d put off planting this particular bed as long as she could. Now, she flipped a pony pack over in her hand, hurrying to finish. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into him, with that low, persuasive voice and that killer smile.

The worst part of it was that she couldn’t really blame the kiss on his smile. She could have stopped him if she’d really wanted to. She hadn’t. He’d been right that day in the greenhouse; they’d both been wondering about it. And if she’d been awash in nerves when he’d approached, she’d been awash in anticipation, too.

Making a noise of frustration, Cady picked up another pony pack. The problem was that her workdays were largely physical. Normally, that suited her to a T because she was largely physical, too. Now, though, it merely provided her with way too much time to think.

About Damon. About the kiss. And about all of the other things she was missing.

Her hands slowed. What would it be like to have him touch her, really touch her? What would it be like to have those strong, nimble hands on her skin? She’d had so little experience—kisses with a few men, a pair of memorably disappointing encounters in bed. How would it be with a man who knew about pleasure? And if he could take her so far with a kiss, what else could he do?

The back of her neck prickled and she reached back to rub it absently. Bad question to ask. It was pointless—dangerous, more like—to think about sex or anything else with Damon Hurst. Like a deer trying to have a relationship with a hunter, and she wasn’t the one wearing the camouflage vest. He was here and gone, and she needed to remember that.

Cady rubbed her neck again and shifted uneasily. The prickling hadn’t gone away. Even though it was a cloudy day, even though she was working under the shade of the tall pines that grew between inn and restaurant, the back of her neck felt hot.

Just her imagination, Cady told herself. But she couldn’t keep from glancing over her shoulder.

Only to see Damon in his apron, leaning idly against the wall by the back door. He looked tall, lean, insouciant. His teeth flashed white as he tapped the side of his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Face flaming, she turned hastily back to her marigolds.

It had been going like that all week. The more she tried to avoid him, the more he was everywhere she looked. No matter how early she dropped in to work the grounds or tend the greenhouse or get supplies for her workday, she always seemed to run into him. He’d be heading into work or coming back from the farmers’ market or taking a break from the heat of the kitchen, but he’d be there.

The fact that she’d been able to avoid talking to him so far was scant comfort. She could read it in his eyes as he nodded or winked or gave one of those half-assed salutes: he hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time.

The thought made her stomach tighten.

Enough, she thought impatiently and pressed another marigold into place, using her knuckles to tamp down the earth around each plant. She didn’t need to think about it anymore. What she needed to do was—

A thump and a curse from one of the guesthouses had her glancing over. It was her father, carrying one of the inn’s Adirondack chairs up the stairs to the guesthouse deck, and not having an easy time of it.

She frowned as he stopped halfway up, leaning on the railing, breathing hard. “Dad?” she called, rising to her feet. “You want some help?"