Cravings Page 5

  Chapter Five

  Lee laid a single leaf of cilantro on the lobster crudo, balancing it on the delicate meat with a pair of tweezers. The seafood had already been marinating in olive oil and capers before he topped it with a lemon salt he’d made earlier. He took a chance that Ginger wasn’t one of the ten percent of the population who tasted soap when eating cilantro, but if so, he figured she could always remove the herb. Otherwise, it would serve as a perfect contrast for the carrot puree beneath the lobster.

  Cherise handed him a pair of bamboo chopsticks that he placed next to the plate. He didn’t want the puree to overtake the taste of the lobster. The atypical eating utensils would ensure it.

  He nodded, stepping out of the way to allow Cherise to cover the plate with another silver cloche.

  “Do you think she’s even trying them?” he muttered.

  “Your average woman? Maybe, maybe not. A chef? No doubt. She’s tasting each dish as they come, trying to figure out your motive. You do know your motive, right?”

  “Of course.” Sort of. “My first motive is to get her attention again. Not the negative kind that Food Fighters will generate.”

  She peered over his shoulder. “Well, I think you’re going to get your chance to explain it right now. Here she comes.”

  “What?” He turned, his stomach doing flips as the sultry blonde wound her way through the tables and toward his kitchen.

  Lee tried to gauge her mood as she approached, studying her face. Those pretty blue eyes didn’t appear to be narrowed in anger or frustration. They were clear and bright, framed by curls of lashes. God, he wanted to kiss the tip of her nose and then lower those kisses to the swell of her lips.

  He’d clear the restaurant for the chance to do it all over again. To give in to impulses he’d been ignoring for too long. The white, starched chef’s jacket could be ripped open, exposing the line of her neck, moving farther down to the breasts he’d only teased himself with the first time.

  All of these things—and more—if she accepted his apology and allowed him the chance to start again.

  As if she owned the place, she walked around the counter separating the dining room from the kitchen. His traitorous staff didn’t even attempt to stop or question her, most of them suddenly finding themselves too incredibly absorbed in work to notice the woman barreling through like a freight train.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, although not with nearly as much venom as he’d expected. Perhaps a good sign. He noticed that she kept her focus on the food he’d barely finished plating. An excellent sign.

  “You haven’t eaten yet today,” he said in a low voice. Not a question but a statement of fact, because he hadn’t yet either. Nibbles of food between seeing customers and overseeing staff didn’t count.

  She shrugged, but her attention still stayed with the food. “So? Typical day.”

  Not if he could help it. Lee picked up the chopsticks. “May I?”

  Big blue eyes widened, finally looking up at him. A flash of emotion crossed her face, but she gave a brief nod.

  He held his breath while choosing the perfect lobster piece. Carrot puree clung to the bottom of the one he chose, the sliver of cilantro on top contrasting vividly. It balanced between the chopsticks as he brought it to her mouth.

  Something in his gut tightened as her tongue extended to receive the lobster, her mouth then closing around the bamboo. Slowly, breath still held, he withdrew the chopsticks, flashes of fantasy mingling with reality, and he imagined those same lips wrapped around his favorite appendage.

  Ginger moaned this soul-deep sound of abject pleasure, and Lee had to fight every urge to hustle her back into his office and finish where they’d begun a few nights ago. It took a small miracle just to start breathing again.

  Not giving her a chance to realize that she showed him a vulnerable side, Lee plucked one of the haricot verts topped with a spicy cashew salsa and offered it up. Every effort went into not smiling when she opened on reflex, not stopping to question that she allowed him to feed her. “Careful,” he whispered. “It’s got a little kick.”

  She moaned again. He swallowed hard.

  The preparations for the next dish he’d planned on sending over went by the wayside, and he focused on nothing but the task of feeding Ginger. Remotely, he realized that they were in full view of everyone in the restaurant, his staff maneuvering around him to keep service going, but the building on fire wouldn’t have been enough to make him leave. Each movement was slow, deliberate and designed to elongate the moment.

  When only the carrot puree remained, an overwhelming disappointment filled him. But the look on her face, one that said she’d been satiated, thrilled him.

  “I’ll have to return the favor one day,” she said.

  “What would that be?”

  “Feeding you during busy service. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started eating.”

  “I did it because I wanted to, not because I expect you to return the favor.”

  She cast her gaze away from him, searching the restaurant as if looking for an excuse to change the topic. Or maybe leave. “Lee,” she said, shaking her head and bringing her gaze to him again, “this isn’t a good idea.”

  “What isn’t? Friends sharing food?”

  Ginger laughed lightly. “That’s not all this is, and you know it. You’re trying to…”

  He moved in close, not wanting to miss any of this conversation. The clamor of the kitchen intruded between them, but he would not miss a single word she said. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

  A soft blush blazed across her cheeks. “Charm me.” Her chin tilted up. “You are trying to break down my defenses again.”

  “Would that be so bad?” He reached to caress her cheek, heart thundering as Ginger leaned into the touch, allowing him to be tender with her.

  Both he and Ginger jumped as glass or china shattered against the tile floor, dropped undoubtedly by slippery, clumsy hands. Lee spun to assess the damage but let it go when two of the waitstaff dropped to the floor to pick up the pieces. On another night, he might have barked at them for being careless with his creations, but tonight Ginger waited close by. And for her, for the chance to have her see him at his best, he held back.

  When he turned to face her again, Ginger slowly shook her head from side to side, her gaze bouncing to everything and everyone but him.

  “What is it?” he asked with genuine confusion. Hadn’t he been making progress?

  “You can’t do this to me. You can’t… I don’t understand what to do when you’re nice to me. I don’t understand you like this. What I understand is the arrogant you. The one who thinks my food is crap—”

  “Whoa. I never said that about your food. Ever.”

  “But—”

  “I would not be competing against you at Food Fighters if I didn’t think it was at least an even match.”

  “Then—”

  “I’ve had your food, Chef Danielle. It’s classic, soul-satisfying comfort food that anyone in their right mind would crave after a bad day or after receiving really good news or simply just wanting to have a good meal with family and friends. You are an exceptional cook. Don’t ever think that I think differently, because I don’t.”

  Breathe.

  One inhalation, followed by an exhalation. Diaphragm lift. Diaphragm release. An exchange of air. Natural as…well, breathing.

  She managed something like it. A slow, ragged drag of oxygen into her lungs, but she imagined she might have looked something like a fish out of water, lips gaping and all.

  What was she supposed to do with that? From Lee, no less? If it was false praise designed to get into her panties, she couldn’t tell. The words were too honeyed. Yet the furrowed brow was too serious. His eyes didn’t glitter as a smile hid behind his lips.

  Heart flip-flopping, she tentatively held on to the hope that maybe Lee could be telling the truth.

  A sudden thought struc
k her, and hope vanished. “You’ve never had my food.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Of course, I’ve had your food. Your shop is next door, and even busy cooks need to eat.” Then the twinkle rose in his eyes, a grin displaying a row of even white teeth. “Of course, my food’s still miles better than yours, but you work with what you’ve got.”

  Ginger choked out a laugh, surprise and outrage fighting for dominance. “And here I thought that you might be turning over a new leaf.”

  “Not likely. I’m just trying to save you from embarrassment.”

  Ginger’s mouth dropped open.

  “I mean really,” Lee continued in a teasing tone, “you’re good, but not good enough to beat me. No one would hold it against you if you bowed out of Food Fighters, least of all me.”

  Blinking hard, wrestling back indignation, she repeated her earlier instructions with an addendum. Breathe. And don’t punch him in the throat. Lee would never change. Never concede the possibility that she might be a better chef. His ego wouldn’t allow it. As a result, the more she thought about it—and she didn’t think too hard about it anymore—the more she liked the idea of competing against him. Yeah, he could make some amazing food, but so could she.

  “Don’t you run tail tucked on me now, Lee Solomon.”

  His brow rose.

  She steamrolled ahead. “Just because you’re having second thoughts about being whipped by little ol’ me isn’t a good enough reason to back out. Not after I’ve told my friends and staff to be there and witness me whipping your ass.” Despite the belligerent words, she smiled as she spoke, amusement and happiness keeping her buoyed. She loved that she could banter with him like this. Loved that they were friends. And maybe one day could be more. Maybe.

  A beat of silence passed between them, the moment pregnant with words not spoken, with shared affection. She hadn’t come over here for this, and despite Byron’s considerable skills as her second, she should be headed back. Yet, her blue eyes remained focused on the brown of Lee’s, the magnetism between them seemingly impossible to disrupt.

  “This is what it could be like,” he said, voice low. She heard each distinct word, though. Clung to them.

  “It’s not as simple as that, and you know it. There’s our schedules to consider. The long days and late nights.” Not to mention the daily stressors of staff management, review stalking, financial jugging.

  Could she watch customers file into his restaurant night after night if hers happened to stay empty? How would he handle knowing that her reservation book was full for the next month while his showed line after line of cancellations?

  He took a step closer, his hand sliding to the small of her back, holding her there in a singularly possessive motion that sent a shiver through her. Voice rough, he said, “But the two of us could make it work. We’re too strong to accept anything else.”

  She almost could give in to him. To take a chance and see what would happen. But she’d worked so hard to get to here. Sacrificed so much already. “But that’s the problem. We’re strong, the both of us. Too strong to back off when we need to.”

  “Strength isn’t a weakness.”

  He didn’t understand, so Ginger led him there. “If that’s true, be strong enough to back out of the competition.”

  “You don’t really want that, do you?”

  No, she didn’t. “Will you forfeit?”

  Lee’s jaw tightened, his gaze moving away from hers and toward the open restaurant dining room. She watched the slide of his Adam’s apple, the deep breath that rolled out of him. No words were exchanged, but it didn’t matter. The silence told her enough. She had her answer.

  This time, the pause separating them didn’t hold the same affection, the friendliness between them no longer a welcome addition. His attention slid past her, and the effect was immediate. At first when Lee started to frown, she supposed he did some similar thinking. But then his eyes darkened, the atmosphere surrounding him dropping a few degrees. A smile tilted his lips, but she knew him well enough to know it didn’t reach his eyes. The expression was forced.

  She followed his gaze to a robust, older gentlemen dressed in a dark blue Oxford shirt and pleated khaki pants. His silver hair framed his round head in monk-like fashion, the thin rims of his glasses lending him a scholarly air. He ambled his way toward the kitchen, his focus on Lee. There was history there, no doubt, and curiosity kept Ginger where she stood.

  “I hadn’t realized you’d be here, Thomas,” Lee said, forced smile still curving his lips. “Had I known, I would have overseen the preparation of your food myself.”

  “And that’s why I don’t make reservations under my name. I like to see what everyone else is getting when they dine. Can’t have you pandering to me, giving me a false representation. Anyway, I came up to ask about Food Fighters. I hear you’ll be there tomorrow?”

  Ginger’s arms folded over her chest before she realized she’d changed her stance. Since the competition wasn’t advertised to the general public, Thomas obviously worked in the business. A quick mental checklist of who’s who didn’t help her identify him, though.

  Lee nodded, his gaze sliding over to meet Ginger’s, a silent message or maybe warning hidden there.

  “And you must be the chef-owner of the Squash Blossom Café,” Thomas said, swiveling his attention to Ginger. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of visiting your establishment, but if you’re going up against our friend Lee, you must be quite the accomplished chef.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment, not sure what to make of the quasi-introduction. “I’m Ginger Danielle.”

  “Tell me, Chef Danielle, why would Lee, on his way to earning his first Michelin star, a chef who is frequently featured in the paper and in magazines, find you challenging enough to take to an underground throw down?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, drippy sweet. Whether intentional or not, the insult he’d just paid her hadn’t slipped past. “I’m not sure I caught your name.”

  “Thomas Silver,” he said, grinning as if the name said it all.

  Thing was, it did. Thomas wrote reviews for the Tampa Times, making and breaking restaurants at a whim. With unparalleled accuracy, he predicted which restaurants would thrive and which ones would nosedive after he paid a single trip to the establishment. Didn’t matter if the owners chalked up a bad review to a one-time off night or the perfection of service-timing happenstance, if Thomas gave it the thumbs-up, the place flourished. Thumbs-down rang a death knell.

  “Well, Mr. Silver—”

  “Thomas.”

  She nodded. “Thomas.” If she hadn’t been spending time with Lee lately, she might not have noticed. But from the corner of her eye, she saw the change in body language. A subtle straightening that put her on caution. “Chef Solomon and I made a little bet over who’d win the fight.”

  “A bet?” He smiled, something predatory steeped inside it. “One that would be worthy of the newspaper, I’d gather.”

  Warning bells sounded like a five-alarm fire. While without a doubt she wanted to be known for her food, having him announce to the community that she’d won or lost to Lee over a few parking spaces didn’t seem prudent. But wouldn’t it just serve him right to have Lee publicly lose to a much worthier cause?

  The little red devil on her shoulder grinned wide.

  “Oh, absolutely, Thomas. It was a very generous bet placed by Chef Solomon here. He said that if he lost to me—” Her eyes cut to Lee, whose eyebrows were pressed together so hard they almost formed a unibrow. “That he’d spend every day for two weeks preparing meals in a homeless shelter.”

  High five to that little red devil.

  She turned her attention to Lee just in time to catch a wicked flitter of emotion run across his face. Some cross between disbelief and a promise of torture. Maybe a little bit of approval thrown in there for good measure.

  Yes, it would be payback for intimidating her while seducing her with food. For putting her in a
situation where she got caught in practically just her panties. For being unattainable, sanctimonious Lee.

  A couple of weeks in a soup kitchen would do his ego—and his karma—good.

  “Very commendable, Lee,” Thomas said. “I’m impressed. Surprised, but impressed. But what about you, Chef Danielle? If you lose, what happens?”

  Shit. Of course she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  Lee crossed his arms over his chest, studying her, saying nothing. Of course. Why would he come to her rescue when she needed it? Nope. He left her out to hang with a rope of her own making.

  God, what was she going to tell Thomas? What would be a suitable bet yet not be so outrageous that in the teensy, bitty, practically impossible chance she lost, she wouldn’t be giving up that much?

  “Chef Danielle,” Lee said, his voice even and steady, “has considered expanding her repertoire.”

  “Oh?”

  Oh, indeed. Where was her colleague going with this?

  “Yes,” Lee replied, nodding. “She bet me a two-week stint in my kitchen working as my prep if she loses.”

  All air escaped her lungs as Ginger’s face went white-hot.

  Two weeks? In his kitchen? As his prep?

  “Um…I’m not sure that’s quite what I said.” Her tongue almost tangled in her haste to salvage the damage.

  “Of course it was.”

  She could have kicked in that brilliantly white grin. “No,” she said between clenched teeth. “I think we had discussed something else.”

  “Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said. Two weeks. Beneath me. Learning what I have to give. Taking as much as you can handle.”

  This time when her face heated, neither embarrassment nor anger lit the match. This warmth started somewhere near her belly, ignited by the fire kindled by his husky voice.

  Thomas clapped his hands, snatching her from the stirrings of a new sultry fantasy. “Well, isn’t this exciting? I cannot wait to find out who’s the winner. In fact, I think I’ll call Chef Pelletier right now and get in on the action. I have a feeling this competition will be worth staying up for.”