Thrill Seeker (Sinful in Seattle)

“La-la-la.” His booming laugh chased me out of the kitchen.

I zipped through the main aisle of the restaurant with minimum stops. A smile, a wave, I stopped and picked up a child’s toy on my way by—all of it done without thought. I was on autopilot.

I tapped through my schedule of reservations, mentally shifting the staff in my head and pushing the notification of the changes to the head waitress. When I looked up, Max Chapel walked through the door. The night was warm so he wore a black summer-weight suit with a crisp white button-down shirt under it. A flash of crimson slid around his wrist as he tucked his tie into his pocket.

When he walked into the room, there was this slow-motion thing that happened. I probably watched too many movies or had a too active imagination when it came to this man, but my goodness. The precise cut of his hair wouldn’t allow for a stray hair anywhere else but along the front. There, it fell forward a little. As if there was just a touch of the wild inside of him and couldn’t be contained. It had an added bonus of making his brown eyes seem even darker. Add in broad shoulders and lean hips...

There was nothing on this man that I could find lacking.

He spotted me and gave me the harassed smile he perpetually wore. His phone was in his hand as usual, his thumbs quickly flicking over the screen before he tucked it away in his suit jacket pocket opposite his tie. “Good evening, Georgia.”

Smooth whiskey over ice. So cultured and deep, but the wash of heat that followed his baritone would eventually fade into a dull buzz that I carried for the rest of the time he was there.

“Hello, Mr. Chapel.”

“One of these days you’re going to call me Max.”

“Today is not that day, Mr. Chapel.”

His chiseled lips tipped into a half smile. “Maybe you’ll do it for my birthday next week?”

“Oh?” I tapped my fingers lightly against the back of my tablet. “Will we be catering for you?”

“Perhaps. If I give Andre enough warning, maybe he can do something masterful. Maybe you’ll even join me.”

My belly fluttered and I resisted the urge to cover the bit of stomach that showed. Surely he could see the flush of my skin and know that I had far too many dark thoughts about his lips and my flesh.

Wow.

It was going to be one of those nights that I ended up spending too much time in a cool shower.

“You know I never have time to sit down.”

“If I can make the time for forty-five minutes in your fine establishment, you should be able to do the same.”

“You and Andre are ganging up on me tonight.”

He glanced down ever so quickly and his hooded gaze touched my legs, midsection, and skimmed over my breasts before he locked his gaze with mine. I swallowed.

Max was rarely this bold. It wasn’t unheard of—he was terribly familiar with me some nights. One of the dozens of reasons I had such a hard time keeping myself together around him.

“A beautiful woman shouldn’t work herself into the ground.”

“When we close those doors, I promise I’ll have some of Andre’s fettuccini.” I turned on my heel. “We’ve got your table ready.”

“Excellent. I’ll be here a little late tonight. My office is being renovated and I hate to bring work home.”

“Well, I have a gorgeous bottle of Fetzer breathing for you, so that should help the night go a little smoother.” And there went my night.

“I think half the reason I come in here is to see just what you’ll put together for me.”

Me. I would put me on a plate and sit in front of you as an appetizer.

Not good, Georgia.

And definitely not on the menu.

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