by Sorcha Grace
Ugh. I had to stop this. I pressed my cold palms to my frozen cheeks and tried, once again, to concentrate on my job. This was so unlike me. Usually, focusing was a non-issue for me. This was a fabulous space and a great opportunity. I was really excited about this assignment. I don’t know why my mind wandered back to Stormy Eyes. Well, yes I did, but I tried not to think about it.
“Cat!” Beckett breezed into the dining room and gave me a hard hug. He was wearing slim jeans and a cable sweater with a white apron. I never knew how he managed to keep his apron so clean when he was working with food. “How’s it going? Can I bring out the food for the first shots?”
“Yes. I’ll finish positioning the lights while you spray and shellac. I wish I’d remembered my gas mask.”
“Ha-ha. You know everything I use is all-natural.”
“That doesn’t mean it smells good.”
“You’re one to speak, Miss Reek of Darkroom Chemicals.”
I grinned, relaxing now that Beckett and I were bantering. We’d known each other so long and were such good friends, it was easy to work with him. We knew each other’s routines, likes, and dislikes.
“Ben is totally pulling out all the stops. You’re going to love how everything looks,” Beckett said as he retreated to the kitchen. “So sexy.”
I smiled, loving that he was as excited about this as I was.
I checked my notes on the first shots, and my cheeks thawed and tingled. I bent to retrieve a camera from my bag, and as I straightened, I spotted a pair of expensive men’s shoes—sleek black leather. I looked higher and saw grey flannel, tailored trousers, a suit jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a silver tie, loose at the neck. Slowly, already knowing who I’d see, I glanced into his face. His eyes were molten grey, like the suit he was wearing. His hair wasn’t windblown or wet from the sleet. In fact, he looked like he just stepped off a page of a magazine.
I swallowed and felt my hands tremble. Our eyes met, and in that moment, it was all I could do to breathe.
Two
I took a shaky breath and looked down quickly. My hands were trembling so badly I almost dropped my camera.
His look was intense and completely mesmerizing. My whole chest constricted and when our eyes met, my breathing became shallow, and my throat tightened. Everything inside me became soft, liquid, and unbearably hot. It was as though an internal furnace had been turned on, and I had no way of releasing the pent up heat. I averted my eyes and pulled at the black pashmina artfully wrapped around my neck. I hoped I wasn’t flushed from the unexpected flash of hot raging through me, but I was pretty sure I was glowing.
I didn’t know how I would concentrate with him standing so close, but I made a valiant effort to ignore him and go about my work. At least I knew who he was now. He had to be one of Amanda and Ben’s backers or a friend.
I bent to grab a flash and sneaked a peek at Stormy Eyes. He’d retreated to the bar with the rest of the group, and I breathed a little easier—until I saw he was still staring. Then my pulse skipped, and I had to look away again. If he was an investor, I had better act professionally. I didn’t want to make Amanda and Ben look bad by falling to my knees in front of Stormy Eyes and begging him to take me then and there. But that’s exactly what was flashing through my mind. A vision of sliding down his front, rubbing myself wantonly across every inch as I looked into those turbulent blue-grey eyes and mouthed, take me. I was still too warm, but I shivered as if a cold breeze had brushed across my heated skin, and I felt my nipples pebble into hard, sensitive nubs. Oh shit. I was in real trouble here.
I smiled uneasily and tried to forget the heat of his gaze as it bored into my back. My skin prickled everywhere while I finished setting up. I was probably being rude. He was looking at me so long and hard. I should have introduced myself. I should have asked his name, but I feared that would somehow break the spell. And though I was so warm and tight that I was uncomfortable, I didn’t want the feeling to end. It had been so long since I’d felt anything but numbness. And I’d never, ever, been this aroused from nothing more than a man’s look.
And then Amanda and Beckett came out with Ben’s first plate of starters, and Amanda practically stumbled when she spotted Stormy Eyes. Any woman would stumble looking into a face like his. He was male perfection—all hard lines and planes and chiseled features. But then, she did the impossible. She recovered gracefully—I had to give her credit—approached him and embraced him.
So he was not a god. He could be seen by others. He could be touched. He could lean down and wrap his arms around a woman. At that moment, I felt intensely jealous. Obviously, Amanda was his girlfriend. Watching them embrace, I think I saw red blurring my vision. I could hear the low murmur of conversation, but I was far enough away that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I heard Amanda laugh and watched as she put her tiny hand on his upper arm, which looked, even from where I was standing, rock-solid.
“Cat?” Beckett looked toward the bar then back at me. I realized I was straining to eavesdrop, and I was staring, so I quickly averted my eyes and focused on Beckett. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
“Great.” I dug in my bag to give myself something to do. I knew who Stormy Eyes was now. He was Amanda’s boyfriend. I hated her, and at the same time, I understood. She was beautiful and petite and dainty—the exact opposite of me.
I was plain old me. Brown hair, not much makeup, a veritable Amazon at five-foot-six with an athletic build, more curves than straight lines, and dressed all in black like most urban, artsy types, but really because I hated to draw attention to myself. I’d always thought my green eyes were my best feature, but they didn’t stand a chance when Amanda was a tiny, perfect package. “Is this the first shot?” I asked.
“Yes. Are you sure you’re ready?” Beckett positioned the food. “Do you need a minute?”
“Nope.” I said too brightly. “I’m ready.” I moved to the other side of the table, looking for the best angle. It put my line of vision directly with the bar, but I made an enormous effort not to look. I didn’t want to see Stormy Eyes touching Amanda, playing with her hair, kissing her neck, or caressing her perfect perky breasts.
My camera slipped, and I had to crouch, pretending I was going for a closer shot. The benefit was that I finally noticed the food. And then, I had to smile. I couldn’t remember what Ben was calling these, but they were essentially pigs-in-a-blanket, made with lamb merguez sausage, topped with a spicy mustard sauce, and then wrapped in flaky puff pastry. They were a clever take on an old favorite, and when I’d tasted them yesterday, they’d been delicious. The wrappers were golden and crispy, and the filling was colorful and savory. I loved how they crunched initially, then turned creamy and wonderful in my mouth. Ben had taken something fabulous and used his skills to make it irresistible.
“There,” Beckett said, stepping back and admiring his work. “Let’s see how that photographs.”
I immediately started snapping pictures. After a dozen shots, Beckett and I studied them, and he moved in with a few tweaks. He pulled one of his sprays from his bag and spritzed the lamb rolls then added color to a couple spots with his vegetable-based paints. Regardless of the natural products he used, the food was inedible now.
“How’s that?” he asked.
I put the camera to my eye and snapped a shot. Beckett and I studied it. “Looks good,” I said. “Let me do a few more, and we’re ready for the next dish. Two-minute warning.”
This was our code for Beckett to start his final prep on the next subject. He didn’t like to put the final touches on too early because, as he put it, food had a perfect window. Style it too soon, and it would wilt before I took the first shots. Timing was important, and Beckett and I had it down.
I snapped a few more shots of the lamb bites, and then the next dishes came in rapid succession. Beckett brought me venison tartare with foie gras, marinated stuffed olives, and herb-roasted chicken tenders. All the while, I kept my head down, talked only t
o Beckett, and ignored Stormy Eyes. I didn’t forget about him. My skin tingled when he was near, making me hyperaware. My bottom chafed against the soft wool of the skirt, and my breasts were too sensitive against the silk of my bra. Yet the food had its own allure, and it was enough to keep me from forgetting my reason for being there.
“That’s the last starter,” Beckett said. “I’m going to prep the first small plate.”
“Sure.” I rubbed the back of my neck and moved my head from side to side, trying to loosen up. “Give me about five minutes.”
“I’ll plate it and bring it out.” He leaned close and whispered. “You’re doing great!”
Those were exactly the words I needed. “Thanks.” I breathed, feeling relieved. He headed for the kitchen, pausing at the monitor to study the last shots.
“What do you think about the farmhouse table for the small plates? Maybe a larger stage and a different look?” He shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.
I took a step back, studied my setup, and decided Beckett was right. The farmhouse table was perfect. I loved the knotted wood and honey color. But it was too far back to give me the natural light I wanted, so I set my camera down and moved to the end to give it a shove.
It barely moved.
I shoved again, and the next thing I knew he was beside me.
“Allow me.”
Oh, God. That voice again. That low, seductive voice that rumbled through me and vibrated into the depths of me. He’d said nothing provocative, and yet my body reacted as though he’d murmured, spread your legs.
I looked up at him—geez, he was tall—and kept an unaffected look on my face, but I don’t think it worked. I felt wide-eyed and bowled over, and I suspected I looked it too. “I can get it,” I said. “It’s my job.” The truth was it was physically painful to be this close and not touch him. If he’d been mine, instead of Amanda’s, I would have killed any woman who looked at him. I needed to keep my distance.
“Absolutely not.” The way he said it, with such authority and finality, stopped my protest completely. In fact, I stepped back, out of his way, and he moved the table with little effort. A quick glance at the bar told me no one was paying attention. Amanda wasn’t standing there anymore. Only this tall, well-dressed man had noticed that I needed help and had come to my aid. “Here?” he asked, pausing.
I glanced at the table and nodded. He’d placed it almost perfectly. “Yes. But I think…” I moved to the table and gestured to show him I wanted it closer to the window. The sleet had finally stopped, and I wanted to take advantage of the clearer skies and brighter light. I placed my hands on the wood, ready to give the table a shove, but as I was about to push, his hands came down on top of mine. I hissed in a breath, and my body reacted as though an electric current had traveled from his fingers to my very center. I’d thought I was hot before, but now, I was on fire. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, and all I wanted to do was press my body against his and find relief from the unbearable heat.
Slowly, he slid his hands off mine, placed them on either side of my palms, and leaned his body into me, moving the table as he did. His body was warm and solid behind me. I could feel the steel of his biceps, and above the scents of the food and the chemicals, there was another scent, something masculine and exotic I couldn’t place. All I knew for certain was that I could feel him touching me, and every nerve in my body was alive and firing.
“Here?” he asked.
I made an unintelligible sound.
“Do you like it here?” he asked with more directness.
I was rendered momentarily speechless as I looked into his stormy eyes. I watched them widen as I licked my bottom lip and thought how to answer. At least my mouth wasn’t hanging open. Do you like it here? This sounded as innuendo-laden as the quick one-liners that had floored me last night, the ones about my being screwed and him not being innocent. Oh my. Maybe I was reading this all wrong, but I didn’t think so. “Oh, yes,” I finally stammered with my heart racing.
He chuckled, moved away, and gave me that knowing expression. Again. “Good,” he said, and then he turned and walked back to take his seat at the bar.
His absence felt like the cold January air sweeping down. I wanted my warmth back. I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped the table. Stop. I no more needed his kind of warmth than I needed a huge slab of decadent dark chocolate cake. I might want both, but they were not good for me. I had to remember why I was in Chicago and stay focused on my goals. Right now, my professional life was paramount. My personal life, what little there was of it, was on hold. That was fine because it was still too early to start dating again. I wasn’t ready.
When I released the table, my hands still shook and my belly still fluttered, but I felt a little steadier. I knew my face was warm, and I probably looked flustered. I didn’t think there was a woman alive who wouldn’t have been flustered by this man.
“Don’t kill me,” Beckett announced, holding a plate high as he strode through the kitchen door. “Ben threw together one more starter, and I couldn’t resist. This one is mucho sexy! I’ve sprayed it within an inch of its life so it’s really shiny and juicy.”
He set the plate on the table with a flourish, and my eyes widened. The dish was gorgeous and undeniably sexual. “What is it?” I said, my voice huskier than I’d intended.
“Figs. They’re supposed to be an aphrodisiac.”
I didn’t look at Stormy Eyes. I wanted to. I could feel him looking at me, but I kept my gaze on the figs. Beckett pointed to the dish he’d plated. “These are wrapped in prosciutto and have a touch of goat cheese. They’ve been baked.” He moved his hand, indicating another group of figs. I couldn’t help but notice that in their raw state, the figs bore a close resemblance to the female sex organs. “These are raw, but there’s a little crumble of Danish blue cheese in the middle, then they’ve been drizzled with warm spiced honey. Well, if you order them, they’re drizzled with honey. This is syrup and something akin to motor oil. But wouldn’t all the gooey honey be perfect for licking off your fingertips?”
I couldn’t stop myself then. It was as if my eyes were independent of my brain. I looked at Stormy Eyes, and our gazes met. He smiled slowly, his eyes twinkling wickedly, his lips full and sensual, and I felt the spot between my legs throb in response. Get a grip, I told myself and raised my camera. The food was gorgeous, the lighting perfect, the restaurant amazing. I could very well take some of the best damn photos I’d ever taken. I wasn’t going to let some guy with gorgeous eyes and extremely kissable lips get in the way.
Steeling myself, I snapped the first shot of the figs. It was blurry and unfocused, but that was okay. It was a start. Beckett and I conferred, and he was kind enough not to comment on how blurry my shot was. He reached in and used his tongs to move one of the raw figs slightly, and as the fruit shifted, the thick, gooey coating dripped down the side. The dollop of creamy cheese on top was softening and spreading thanks to the heat of the lamp. The whole dish looked luscious and juicy, and I envisioned a thick tongue slowly flicking across the top, lapping up the sweet deliciousness. Oh fuck. I steadied my aim, took a deep breath, and the next shot was perfect.
Beckett and I slipped into our routine, and the work felt natural and right. I snapped photo after photo of some of the most mouthwatering food I have ever seen. And all the while, I was starving. I should have eaten before heading over. The irony was that even though I was surrounded by delicious food, I couldn’t have even a taste because it had been handled and sprayed with products.
And then there was the added irony of Stormy Eyes. I could feel his gaze. I could feel it touching me, caressing me, arousing me. But he, too, was untouchable. I tried to push my X-rated thoughts away, but they lingered in the back of my mind, threatening to surface whenever I let my guard down. The air in the restaurant crackled with tension and attraction, but I kept my head down, my camera up, and worked until it became rote.
I was snapping pictures of apple-cheddar
tartlets and lemon panna cotta with blackberries when my stomach growled loudly enough for Beckett to hear. “Cat, you’re starving!” he exclaimed. I resisted glancing at the bar, mortified that he might have heard too.
“I’m fine.” I waved a hand, not wanting to stop now that I had momentum going. Not wanting to allow my attention to drift, once again, to Stormy Eyes. “This is the last of it anyway, right?” I asked Beckett, who had leaned in with one of his tongs to push a berry a fraction to the left on the plate.
I glanced up to see Ben and Amanda standing beside the monitor and smiling. Ben glanced at the last shots, gave me a thumbs up, and I nodded and finished the final photos. “I’m going to take a few of the interior,” I called out. I’d taken some already, but I wanted aerial shots. I also wanted to get away from the penetrating gaze of Stormy Eyes. “I’ll take a look at these right away. I’d be happy to bring the proofs by tomorrow.” This wasn’t something I needed to do, but it was a little extra I liked to throw in. If Ben liked the shots, he might recommend me to his chef friends or request me the next time he was featured in a magazine.
“That would be great!” Amanda said.
“If Chicago Now wants more?” Ben asked.
“No problem. I’d be happy to come back and shoot as many photos as it takes. I want to make sure you’re pleased and that the magazine is pleased. Whatever it takes.”
“They won’t need her to come back,” Beckett chimed in confidently. “Chicago Now is going to be blown away.”
As I headed up the metal staircase to the loft above the restaurant, I wished I felt as confident as Beckett. Normally, I didn’t question my abilities. In California, my surfing photos had been featured in several magazines and on tons of surfing websites, and my career had been in high gear. But in the realm of food photography, I was a complete unknown, and Fresh Market’s phallic kebab ads were my highest profile credit to date. I knew it was going to be like this here—all the insecurity and self-doubt that went along with starting from scratch and trying to make a name for myself—and I was ready. But today, I’d felt off. It had nothing to do with my abilities with a camera and everything to do with Mr. Mystery with the unsettling eyes, or more specifically, my reaction to him. I glanced at the bar. He was gone. My chest clenched with disappointment. I’d wanted… I don’t know what I wanted, but I hadn’t wanted him to leave. But maybe it was better this way. Now I could concentrate on my job.
