Something Borrowed

by Louisa George

  Her heart jittered a little. She ignored it. But when she stepped into the kitchen and saw him, his back to her, sleeves rolled up and pummelling something on the steel counter, she couldn’t help notice her pulse escalate.

  Even from the back he was formidable. Tall, dark and intent. Long legs in chequered chef pants, a straight back, strong, broad shoulders emanating such power.

  Not wanting to stop him—and secretly wanting to watch him so engrossed in his work just for a moment—she tiptoed a couple of steps to the side and stilled. He was utterly lost in his world as he punched, threw and punched again a huge silky skein of dough. He hummed along to music that seemed to light something up inside him. He was totally focused, mesmerised by the rhythmic fluid actions, and she wondered what was going on in that head of his.

  While he was kind and considerate, he was also completely content in his own company. He didn’t need anyone else. Clearly. The physicality of the work suited him, too. This suited him. Here was space and time to think and breathe. Not to mention that a man who was engrossed in hard physical work, that worked muscles she could see stretching and contracting, was inordinately sexy. Just watching him sent a rush of heat through her. She ached to cup her palms around his hands and trace his movements. To press and push and pull in rhythm with him.

  That wasn’t the only kind of trouble she’d had in mind.

  But, after a while, he seemed to sense she was there, and the spell was broken as he turned sharply, his fist curled to his chest, his breathing hard and fast. ‘Shit, Chloe, you made me jump.’

  Only feeling slightly guilty, she stepped towards him and looked down at the counter. ‘That poor dough—what has it ever done to you?’

  ‘It snuck up on me in the middle of the night and made me jump.’ With a quick flick of his hand, he turned the amped music down so they could be heard. His eyes softened as he smiled. And her heart tripped. ‘What are you doing here so late? Weren’t you supposed to stop working hours ago?’

  He started to push against the dough again, sinking his fingers deep as he answered, ‘I could ask you the same. I’m starting the dough to let it rise overnight so we can make our famous bread rolls tomorrow. You?’

  ‘I saw the light and wondered…’ What had she wondered? She hadn’t really thought this through. She’d seen the light on and wanted to talk to him, to tell him her good news and ask about his day. In truth, she’d just wanted to be with him. God, that admission sucked. ‘It looks more like you’re paying the dough back for some evil deed it’s done you.’

  He grinned. ‘It’s therapeutic. Come and see. Oh, and it’s magic.’

  Uh-oh. Another goofball. Next thing, he’d be joining her mum in a ghost hunt. ‘Okay, Dumbledore, why is it magic?’

  ‘Because you take basic ingredients—flour, water, yeast and salt—each of them nothing much on their own, but when you mix them together and encourage them to bind in a whirl of chemistry… Boom! Magic happens. Add some time and heat and it turns from a thick, sticky dough to delicious, mind-blowing bread.’

  ‘Do you always finish your days like this?’ When she worked here, she always left before the staff finished clearing up. Apparently there was a whole world of things happening that she had no idea about.

  He glanced at the wall clock. ‘It’s been a busy night and I’m still wired. Making bread calms me down, helps me sleep.’

  ‘But why are you making it tonight? And aren’t you supposed to have the day off tomorrow, anyway? I saw the roster; you haven’t had a day off in weeks.’

  His shoulders rose. ‘Do you ever really switch off when you have your own business to run? I was mulling over some recipe ideas; keeping my hands busy frees up my head to think. Research reckons that mundane tasks allow the subconscious to play.’ Oh, and he was wise too. ‘I told Jacques I’d do the bread prep for him, so he won’t have to get in too early tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re very good to him.’

  ‘He’s a good chef. I want him to stay here.’ He gave a quick shrug. ‘When I go back to Paris, I need to know I can leave him in charge.’

  Chloe’s heart stuttered. She hadn’t really registered that he might leave. Which of course, was foolish, he’d hardly been here in the past—why would he stay now? ‘You’re going back to Paris?’

  ‘Of course. I have my business to run there.’

  ‘And’—she tried to keep her voice light and wondered if he noticed—‘what about here?’

  He shrugged as if the question was irrelevant. ‘I’ll divide my time between the three restaurants. The key is to have great staff. That’s why I need you to help me find the perfect person. Then I can go.’

  Great. So her job—if she did it successfully—would ease him out of her life. There was a hollow hurt in her gut as if he’d gone already. Then it hit her: she didn’t want to ease him out of her life.

  Whoa. That was another huge admission.

  She barely knew the man. He had his own life to lead as she did, but a part of her wanted him to stay. A lot of her wanted him to stay. And it wasn’t just because he was the most attractive man in the whole damned universe. He was actually genuinely nice, considering he shared the same bloodline as Jason.

  And that thought should have made her turn around and leave because the warning bells were ringing in her head. Maybe what she was feeling was becoming the one thing he hated: complicated.

  But she didn’t leave. Instead, she watched as he pushed his fists into the thick, creamy dough and heard it sigh as he squeezed the air out, releasing puffs of yeasty scent into the air.

  The way he punched and pulled and pummelled it again was rhythmic and meditative, and she could see how repeating it over and over would relax a stressed state of mind.

  She edged to the counter, wanting a bit of what he was feeling because she was far from relaxed now. He was planning on leaving.

  Strange how a good mood could evaporate with just one conversation. ‘Show me?’

  ‘Of course. You have to treat it firmly, but gently. Don’t be scared of it. Push the heel of your hand into it… like this.’ He showed her the correct action. ‘Then gather it together into a ball and push again, stretching it a little each time. You have a go. Wait! Wash your hands first.’

  She saluted and winked. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  ‘Clearly you spent way too much time tonight on the love boat.’

  ‘It was fun.’

  He flashed a smile that lit up his face. ‘Yes, so I gather. You look different. You’re glowing.’

  She went to the sink, did as he asked and was back in seconds. ‘So, I have news.’

  ‘Yes? A successful night too?’ He stood back and watched her as she pummelled the dough, stopping her every now and then to adjust the angle of her wrist or show her how to push with a little more force.

  ‘It was excellent. The boys loved the wedding, the venue and everything, and now one of them wants to organise a surprise party… here!’ She stopped pummelling and looked up at him, gauging his reaction. Okay, partly just to look into the gunmetal of his eyes because she wanted to languish there a little in the spark and the heat. ‘But it may need a little compromise on your part.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I said you’d be happy to create any favourite dishes they have. You wouldn’t mind, would you?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  His mouth hitched at the corners. ‘What do I get as a reward for being so amenable? You’re pimping me out, Chloe. I don’t know whether to be flattered or—’

  She flicked flour at him. ‘I’m selling your skills, crazy man. And pimping your restaurant. You’ll get a hefty pay cheque, a great review, happy customers and word of mouth. That is, after all, the name of the game.’

  ‘But only if I cook what they want? What if I don’t think it’ll work? What if they have heinous suggestions, and I won’t be able to add my signature flourish?’ At her frown, his eyebrows rose. H
e slowly nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll think about it.’

  ‘What you mean is, Yes, Chloe, of course I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. Don’t hire me to help you out and then turn down my suggestions. I was right about the review, wasn’t I?’

  ‘No one likes a smart arse.’ He grinned, and his eyes crinkled. ‘I’ll compromise, I’ll compromise, don’t worry. But good work, Chloe. Thank you.’

  ‘Great!’ She almost jumped up and kissed him on the cheek, but that would be a step over the line. No kissing. ‘I knew you would. I’ll book it in, yes? Plus, I have another wedding booking. Two adorable women, who want a festival-themed wedding with tents, hay bales, a live gypsy band and picnic hampers. Gourmet, of course. Do you fancy branching out into catering too? All the best chefs do.’

  He started to run a knife over some of the dough, chopping it into smaller pieces, moulding it into small balls and then placing them on huge floured trays. ‘Perhaps. But I do have three restaurants to run.’

  Yes, and two of them weren’t anywhere near here. ‘You could do it as a sideline. Think about it. You could even be in supermarkets; in fact, why not do a stall at one of those hipster festivals too? You’ll get your name out to a whole new market. Hot damn, I’m good at thinking up things for you. I wish I could do the same for my own business.’

  ‘You had a successful day today—take the wins, Chloe.’

  ‘I know, I know, I just want the world right now. Too much to ask?’ She flicked her hands in the air and flour p’ffed out across the steel surfaces. ‘Oops. Sorry.’ Her hair was also slipping across her face so she briefly pushed it back with her wrist as she tried to keep pushing and pulling the dough he’d allowed her to play… er, work with. ‘This is hard work.’

  ‘You have to do each batch for at least ten minutes; then we leave it to rise. Wait… there’s flour on your…’ He pushed her hair back once more and tucked it behind her ear. Then he ran his thumb over her forehead and rubbed a little. The air stilled around them and their eyes locked. She saw a furnace blazing there, molten steel, desire that he was struggling to hide. He let his hand fall. ‘Sorry… I know… Cheesy.’

  ‘Not cheesy at all.’ At just that tiny contact, she could barely breathe. His gaze burnt into hers and suddenly the air was thick with sexual need. Two people. One touch. One scorching look. A lot of desire. Boom! Magic. Without thinking, she put a hand to his chest, feeling the thud of his heart—erratic and fast, but strong. ‘Vaughn—’

  ‘Chloe—’ He tore his gaze away and huffed out a groan. ‘Right. Er… Are you hungry?’

  ‘Why are you always trying to feed me?’

  ‘Because you look too thin, and it’s the best thing I do. I’ll have you know, people pay a fortune to be fed by me.’

  Her eyes flicked toward the huge stainless steel fridge. Her food-porn dream. Words got stuck in a dry mouth. She swallowed as she thought about sex by the light of the open fridge door. About hand-feeding each other food. Then she reminded herself that this scenario was very different from her dreams. For one, they’d agreed that neither of them was prepared to actually go there and do that. ‘Yes. Er… Okay. What have you got?’

  ‘Whatever you want. Come here.’ He took her hand and tugged her to the fridge. Opening it up, he lifted out containers of cooked meat. ‘See, there is everything you could possibly want to eat. Olives? Cheese? Finest prosciutto, from Friuli in northeast Italy. Try some.’ He ripped a piece off and held it out to her.

  He wanted to give her food because it was a distraction from the need that simmered in his eyes, she knew damned well. Because he wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he was hell-bent on fighting it. And that was his choice. But it didn’t mean he wanted her any less.

  He was Mr Non-Committal; he was going to leave as soon as she found a decent manager for him. There was no future for them. Whatever they did next would not only be a mark on her heart but on her soul too. She was playing a dangerous game.

  But, despite everything, she still wanted to play.

  Because not playing this game with Vaughn Brooks would mean a lifetime of regret, of wondering what if? Of wishing she’d had the guts to take something she wanted. So for once in her life, she was going to put herself first.

  She leant forward and took the prosciutto from his outstretched fingers—with her teeth. She didn’t know who was more shocked, her or him. So, rather thank thinking about where they were heading, she concentrated on eating the delicious meat. ‘Oh, God, that is amazing. You want some?’

  ‘Aha.’ There was a subtle shift in his voice, one that told her he wanted more than food. And that stoked the fire in her gut, made her bolder, braver.

  She took a piece of the ham and held it to his lips. Without taking his eyes from hers, he leant forward a fraction and took it into his mouth. Then he gave her a smile that was half sexy, half tease and all sin.

  ‘Anything else?’ She tore her gaze from his and looked in the fridge. ‘Ah… strawberries. Did I ever tell you how much I adore strawberries?’

  ‘Chloe—’ No kissing. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. It was there in the silence.

  But this was eating. Right? Just strawberries, and they weren’t exactly sinful. Unless…

  ‘I mean, I really, really, adore them. Just irresistible. They remind me of summer… and sunshine… and…’ She ran her tongue over her top lip, then caught her bottom one in her teeth and gazed up at him. His eyes flickered red-hot need and he reached for the container of scarlet fruit.

  Flicking off the lid, he lifted a strawberry out and held it to her open mouth, running it over her top lip, then on to the bottom one. Slowly, he placed the fruit between her teeth. She sucked it in, bit down and tasted the intensely sweet juice.

  ‘Delicious. You try one.’ She did the same to him, watching his throat work as he swallowed. ‘I’d like another, please.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’ Breathing fast, he took another out and ran it again over her lips, then put it in his own mouth. ‘You taste like heaven.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Because I’m pretty damned sure that Heaven would taste of strawberries and wine and sunshine. Like you probably do.’

  ‘Want to check? Just to be sure?’ Then, unable to resist any longer, she tiptoed and cupped his face in her palms. With no hesitation, she licked a trail across his lips. ‘You taste pretty damned good yourself.’ Then she licked a trail down his throat.

  Still no kissing. Not technically.

  ‘Do that again and I won’t be able to hold back any longer,’ he groaned against her forehead, but still he didn’t kiss her.

  So, achingly slowly, just to prove her intent, she licked again, first his bottom lip, then the top.

  He edged away a fraction, holding her shoulders as he growled, ‘I mean it, Chloe.’

  ‘So do I.’

  His eyes flickered closed. ‘We should stop.’

  ‘Why, when I know you want it as much as I do?’

  His voice was gravel and stone. ‘Because this isn’t a game, Chloe, and I just can’t give you what you want.’

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW what I want. You’ve never asked me.’ Chloe ran her hands over his chef’s whites, feeling the hard muscle underneath, the solid wall of chest. Her heart was beating rapidly, but she was flush with business success and felt bold and brave. For the first time in a long time, she felt she could actually grasp something she wanted. And if she didn’t do this, she would definitely regret it. ‘Right now, I’m thinking hot sex would be a perfect end to a great day.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Good question. ‘And then the sun will rise tomorrow, and we will carry on with our lives.’

  ‘Simple as that?’ His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Simple as that.’

  ‘But nothing’s ever simple with you.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m a work in progress.’ Because she didn’t want to examine too deeply what on earth was happ
ening here, she nuzzled her head into that perfect dip between his neck and his shoulder and let her fingers stray over the top of his trousers, playful and light. Didn’t matter what words he was using, if ever there was a show and tell as to what he wanted, it was this hard length against her palm.

  He grasped her hand, brought it to his chest and kissed the knuckles, a gesture so tender it made her heart squeeze.

  Oh. Maybe he’d meant no mouth kissing? She lowered her head to their hands and kissed his knuckles in return, relishing his sharp intake of breath as she licked across them. Curling open his fingers, she licked across his palm, over and around his wrist. With every lick, his eyes fluttered closed. Then opened again in anticipation of the next touch of her tongue on his skin. Desire emanated from him, as did a struggle to fight this deepening need. His eyelids were hooded, his breathing fast.

  And God, she ached to feel his mouth on hers.

  She reached for another strawberry and put it half in her mouth. Turning towards him, she leant close, offering him the other half. Take it from me, she told him with her eyes.

  He immediately knew what she was doing. At first, he shook his head, but she kept on looking at him and nodding. She saw the moment his resolve was totally blown; heat seared his eyes, and a guttural groan escaped him.

  He tipped his head down and took the other end of the fruit into his teeth and bit hard. An explosion of flavour erupted into her mouth, and as he bit, their lips grazed, and another molten rush of heat suffused her face, spreading fast across her body, lower and lower. It was as close as no kissing could ever get to kissing.

  Excruciatingly sensual, her skin felt alight with desire, craving his touch. He was so close. His mouth so close, she could see the exquisite lines in his lips, the day’s stubble on his jaw, fine pores, and a delicate dimple in his cheek.

  This was torture—tantalising, sexy, torture—to be so near to his mouth, to be able to taste him, but not to kiss him.

  She reached up to his jaw, stroking across it, increasing pressure as she smeared her fingers across his mouth. When he caught her fingers in his teeth, she gasped. When he sucked them into the heat and wet of his mouth, she closed her eyes, unable to control her breathing, her composure.