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The way she glares at the dough when it’s misbehaving (her words, not mine) is nothing short of charming. Every inch of her figure that goes on display when she stretches up on her tiptoes to reach things from the higher shelves is enough to bring me to my knees.
Don’t even get me started on the faces she makes when it comes time to taste what she’s made that day. All the brain space that’s supposed to be devoted to critiquing the end product is supplanted by fantasies I could get fired for.
She’s almost caught me staring at her like a lovesick teenager more times than I can count. Fortunately, I’ve been able to school my expressions into something more appropriate whenever our eyes meet—at least I hope I have. The last thing I want to do is make her feel uncomfortable.
And yet there have been times when I could swear she’s been looking at me the same way. There’s a flush to her cheeks whenever our eyes meet accidentally that makes me think she’s picturing something she shouldn’t be.
Even if that’s true, which it probably isn’t, this is not the time or place to find out. Right now, she’s my student and I’m her teacher. I know she’s off limits like I know my middle name. So why can’t I stop thinking about her that way?
I shake my head in disappointment at my lack of self-control and try to focus on what I should actually be doing—evaluating her.
Today is a bit of an easier day. At least it is for me. There’s no skill I’m actively teaching her, no reason for us to work side by side in the kitchen, no bumping into each other by accident.
This is not the time, Wesley. Focus.
I wanted to see what she could really do in terms of flavor and technical skill. So when she came in today, I’d told her to make me a croquembouche with a floral element in one of her fillings.
“Lavender. That’s an interesting choice,” I say.
“It’s the one I’m most experienced with.”
“It’s also one of the easier ones to overdo.”
She squares her shoulders and scowls. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, but if your creme pat ends up tasting like soap, I’m firing you.”
“I don’t work for you.”
Not yet, but if I have my way, you will.
I swear I’m going to do everything I can to poach her from Brookside Manor once she gets her certificate.
You can’t date her if you’re her boss.
It’s a disappointing thought, but I’m not going to stand in the way of her success just because I want her in my bed. If I can ignore my urges here, then I can certainly do it at my own company.
Based on what I’ve seen and tasted of her work, bringing on someone with her talent and creativity will slingshot Fantasy Flavors to heights I never could have dreamed of. I’m not about to throw that away because of a few base urges that will no doubt fade away soon.
Besides, it’s not as if she’d even consider me—not with all the men her age who are likely queuing up to take her out. This is definitely one-sided.
Isn’t it?
“Nothing to say to that, Mr. Fancy Chef?”
Her taunt pulls me out of my head before I get fully immersed in my own personal pity party.
“Feeling pretty big for your boots today, are you?” I grin. “How about trying this on for size? I might not be your boss, but I am your teacher and I can and will fail you for being sassy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like that’ll stand up under any kind of scrutiny.”
“I don’t know, I’m a pretty powerful guy here. I think it might work.”
“Just because you were one of the first teachers asked to be on staff doesn’t mean you can fail me for giving you grief.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.
“Who told you that?”
