Wes glanced over at her, a come-on-now look on his face.
“He would remember you, Rebecca. You’re…”
She raised a brow. “A carrot top? Tall?”
“Pretty hard to forget,” he said finally. “Believe me, I’ve been trying with little success.”
The words hit her with a pleasant rush. “Oh.”
His lips lifted at one corner. “So, will you stay for class?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I could do that.”
“Good.” He looked genuinely pleased that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Hope you like spicy waffle chicken, lawyer girl, because we’re about to rock your taste buds.”
He took a step toward the front, but in a fit of bravery, she reached out and touched his shoulder. “Wes…”
He turned back to her. “Yeah?”
She shifted on her feet, a weird bout of shyness trying to overtake her. “I would like to issue a formal request for…further conversation. And possibly some Indian food on Friday night.”
His smile went full sex appeal now, and the impact of all that masculine charm hit her in her gut. No, not her gut. Lower. Definitely lower.
“I thought I wasn’t your type of friend,” he said.
“I’m”—she cleared her throat and straightened her suit jacket—“expanding my palate.”
“A food metaphor. Nice.” His gaze narrowed. “And did you just flirt with me in a room full of children?”
She crossed her arms and gave him her best haughty lawyer look. “Of course not. This is a request for a friendly meal.”
He laughed, a deep, melodic sound. “I like it.” He moved his hand around, indicating her general person. “I like this whole version of Rebecca who doesn’t hate me.”
“Keep picking on me about it, and the tide may shift again, chef.”
His grin didn’t abate. “Noted. I’ll be on my best behavior…for now.”
There was a dare in his eyes—Ask me what it’s like when I’m not—and a hot shiver went through her, but she managed to keep her expression neutral.
He turned and clapped his hands. “All right, chefs. My friend Ms. Lindt is a very fancy lawyer, but she works too much and doesn’t know how to cook a thing. Who’s going to teach her how to make some spicy waffle chicken?”
The kids all turned to her with curious eyes. Steven glanced up from measuring out spices but didn’t show any particular reaction. Just looked at her and then went back to what he was doing like he couldn’t care less.
Rebecca let out a breath of relief and lifted her hands. “Oh, I just came to watch. I don’t need to cook.”
Lola, the girl who seemed to take charge of everything, walked over and hooked her arm with Rebecca’s. “Come on, Ms. Lindt. Watching is boring. Chef G says if you’re not getting your hands dirty, you’re not doing it right.”
Wes smirked, the devil in his eyes.
Rebecca tried to ignore the ripple of heat that look sent through her. She slipped off her suit coat and laid it across the back of a chair.
Guess it was time to get dirty.
chapter
ELEVEN
The setting sun cast swaths of rusty-orange light over the worn picnic table as Wes set a falafel sandwich in front of Rebecca, a fatoush salad in front of himself, and unloaded containers of hummus, baba ghanoush, and pita bread for them to share. “Dev parked the truck outside a concert tonight so no Indian food, but the Middle Eastern place is fantastic, too. I figured I’d get a little bit of everything for you to try.”