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“Don’t I know it.” I grimace.
“Want to swap horror stories?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Wesley laughs, probably at the eagerness of my tone, then launches into a story about the first head chef he worked for that has me nearly in tears.
It’s nice to know his wit extends beyond silly costumes.
I don’t want to darken the one bright spot of my day by talking about Henri. That jerk takes up enough space in my head as it is.
So instead, I tell him about some of the most unusual requests I’ve gotten during my time at Brookside. Most of the time, he just shakes his head in disbelief, but a few times, I manage to get him to laugh.
It’s an intoxicating sound, full, rich, and very contagious. I’m nearly desperate to hear it again.
When our lunch arrives, I’m awestruck. The food is perfectly plated and a feast for the eyes.
As soon as I taste it, it’s clear that they didn’t sacrifice substance for style—a lot of places tend to do that, but not here.
I don’t usually throw the word perfect around for a dish, but I’m tempted to here. I might have even found my new lunch spot. It would certainly beat bringing takeout or a PB&J to the breakroom and having Henri hassling me the whole time.
Wesley seems to enjoy it as well. The moan he makes after his first bite is downright sinful.
I can’t help but wonder if he’d make the same noise when he tastes me.
When? Not if? Get a grip, girl.
Just last night, I’d told myself there would be no more drooling over my teacher. I needed an education that employers would recognize—not another man who will inevitably ruin my life.
I promised myself I wasn’t going to do it again, and then what did I do today? Oh, that’s right, I started fantasizing about yet another one of my teachers.
To be fair to me, I’d said that with Phillip in mind, not Wesley.
That is a cop out and you know it.
Honestly, I should just check myself into a convent and be done with it. It would save me so much trouble in the long run.
I mean it, too. Every guy I’ve liked has been a bad choice in one way or another.
I should have known I was doomed to misery after the Declan Waynes incident.
It was the first day of kindergarten and I thought his racecar lunchbox was the coolest thing ever. I knew in my tiny child heart that we were going to be best friends forever.
I mustered up my courage, marched over, and said I liked his lunch box.
He screamed in my face that cars were only for boys, not stupid little girls, and then he bit me hard enough to draw blood.
Things only went downhill from there.
With the way Wesley’s eyes light up when he talks about anything in the culinary world, it's hard to remember all the reasons being attracted to him is a bad idea.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking. Being the head chef and getting to experiment with the menus and cooking styles is my dream come true. I wouldn’t have started my own catering company if I didn’t live for it.
“But desserts?” He hums contentedly. “Desserts are my reason for living. You’d think after a stressful event, I’d want nothing to do with the kitchen when I get home, but nine times out of ten, I’m elbow deep in bread dough almost immediately after I get in the door.”
“Kneading dough is very therapeutic. I imagine that has something to do with it. On the rare times that I bake bread at home, I always picture our head chef when I’m in the kneading phase. Although, I have to say after a full day surrounded by the stuff, the last thing I want to do when I get home is look at a kitchen. If it weren’t for my son, I’d be living on frozen taquitos and chicken nuggets.”
“Now this is important. You will be judged harshly depending on how you answer,” he says sternly. “Dino nuggets or regular?”
