“Hello, stranger,” she murmured.
Instead of greeting her, I just captured her mouth, not holding back anything, tugging at her lower lip. I forced my hands to stay firmly on her waist, or I risked cinching her dress up and making a spectacle of us both. I was starved for her, and when the lights switched off, I dug my fingers in her waist, pulling her to the edge of her seat, parting her thighs and stepping between them. I could feel my self-control slip away, so I reluctantly stopped the kiss.
Eyes still closed, Skye hummed low in her throat. She blinked them open, smiling.
“I didn’t know you’d also be cooking.”
“A staff member was sick, so I took over, but I do that sometimes anyway. I like it. On occasion I’ll even go in the restaurants and work side by side with the team. I like feeling the pulse of the restaurant—also helps me gauge if the team is happy, if the customers are satisfied.”
“That’s very smart. I bet it’s relaxing for you too. At least, you looked relaxed from where I was watching.”
“It is.”
I liked that she understood me so well—how I ticked, what was important to me, that she wasn’t looking down on the work in the kitchen the way some of my peers did.
“So... I remember you promising to make it worth the wait,” she said playfully.
“I keep my word, Skye.”
“Before I forget, these are for you.”
She held up a bag from Ladurée.
“Buying from the competition?” I teased.
She blushed. “Oh... I didn’t think about that. Umm... they’re not really competition though.”
“I’m joking, Skye. I like their macarons.”
I liked even more that she’d done this tonight. She’d come here for me.
“Good to know. This place is incredible. I can’t believe I haven’t been here before. And such a smart idea, to have part of the kitchen visible to the public.”
“Want a tour?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I’ll just get rid of the apron first.”
I took it off, placing it in the pile with the rest of the soiled linens. Underneath I wore my white broadcloth dress shirt and grabbed my suit jacket, which was hanging inside a special cupboard I’d designed. Stuffing my tie in my suit jacket, I took Skye’s hand and led her through the kitchen islands. I pointed out the various workstations the chefs maintained, mentioning their responsibilities and why the counter space was arranged as it was, in straight lines. It all was situated to improve the flow of food in a timely manner so when the dinner was completed, it was warm and ready for its customer.
“As a kid, I came here a lot. I didn’t go home after school, just hung around here.”
“Helping out?”
“When I was old enough, yeah. As a kid, I just liked being in the middle of it all, even though I was mostly a pain in the ass.” We chuckled at my comment.
“So your parents were hands-on like you as well?”
“Yes. Besides, back then, the offices were in this building too, on the upper level. We just keep one here now; the rest are in the new headquarters. We can go upstairs after the tour.”
Skye skimmed one hand along the stone counters, smiling.
“You’re the third generation of Dumonts doing this, right?” she asked.
“Yes. Grandpa started as a chef before opening a restaurant. Worked right until he couldn’t keep up with his sous-chefs. Says arthritis doesn’t belong in the kitchen.”
“Seems like he had a bit of humor,” Skye said, hopping on one of the counters.