Hot to the Touch

“A problem? Oh, goody.” She took in Ace’s unruly red hair and bloodshot eyes. The kid showed promise, but he’d never get anywhere smoking it away 24/7. Half of her wanted to talk to him, to guide him toward the straight and narrow, the way her mentor, Chef Paul, had guided her. The other half told her it was none of her business what he did with his life and career. “What is it?”

Ace held up a bundle of green stalks. “Celery instead of celeriac.”

Darcy brought forth her favorite word. She didn’t have a problem exhibiting basic competency, why did the rest of the world? “Send it back. I’ll call Ken.”

“Yes, boss.” Through the window surveying the kitchen, which she’d heard staff refer to as “big brother,” she watched Ace amble away, playing catch with the celery. The kid could take just about any hit the business gave out and barely blink. During more than one crazy, pressured shift he’d saved their butts by calmly stepping onto the line and taking up the slack when orders got ahead of them. He also got the job checking in deliveries because he was smart as hell, even stoned, and Darcy trusted him above anyone else in the kitchen. Even her sous chef Sean, who did what he was told, but didn’t contribute much else.

She dialed the Lenson’s sales rep, still fuming. Darcy did not take on problems with barely a blink. Maybe she should try some of Ace’s weed. “Ken, it’s Darcy. Doug showed up with a crate of celery. I ordered celeriac. I’ll need the right stuff here ASAP. Like now.”

“Celeriac…” His voice was doubtful.

“I don’t care where you have to get it, just get it. I can’t serve mashed celery. Andy Gerber was nosing around here the other day and I can tell you, his pricing is nice. And he’s cuter than you.”

“I’ll find it,” Ken said immediately. “I’ll have it there in under two hours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” She hung up, imagining Ken indulging in choice vocabulary at her expense. Whatever. If you didn’t keep the pressure on, people bled out from ineptitude. She emerged into the kitchen, took a quick glance around. “Where the hell is my sous chef?”

“Dunno.” Ace poked his head out of the cooler, arms full of asparagus. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.”

“Can you start the dinner prep if he’s not here in five?” Sean wasn’t usually late, but apparently today he was joining the Drive Darcy Nuts Club.

“Sure.” He looked at her curiously. “You’re off today, chef. You aura is all out of whack. What’s up?”

Darcy glared at him. “My aura is fine. Have Sean come see me when he gets in.”

She stomped back to her office. Yes, her aura was off today. Everything was off today. Sean had gone missing, tonight’s featured side dish was in jeopardy, the kid she’d like to move up onto the line was stoned 24/7, Marie was being particularly pigheaded…and Darcy could not stop thinking about him.

She wasn’t proud of her sexual history—she wasn’t ashamed, either—but since she’d given up on relationships after Chris, her postcollege boyfriend, cheated on her with a woman who had no life outside of catering to him, Darcy had been with enough men to know that once they were out of her bed and she was back in her kitchen, it was all about the work, her true passion. In a quiet moment she might let her thoughts drift briefly, maybe get a quick smile or shot of arousal out of a particular memory of a lover. But she’d never had her brain hijacked to this extent, as if she’d imprinted on the guy. His body, the way he touched her, his voice, the way he touched her, his scent, the way he’d touched her…

He touched her as if every inch of her body deserved exploration and adoration. His hands were never still—brushing lightly, bringing nerve endings to life, warming her with smooth, sensuous stroking or kneading deeply to soothe tired muscles. She knew herself around men; she had definite limits. She got antsy under sustained physical caresses and she couldn’t sleep in contact with a male body.

That night? She’d loved this man’s hands on her, had stretched and grinned and purred like a cat in silent ecstasy. Afterward, wrapped in unfamiliar arms in a strange hotel room, she’d slept like a rock. Did this make sense? No. Worse, at dawn, she’d slipped out of the warm, comfortable bed to use the bathroom and returned with the assumption that her right-now man would be awake and ready for another round. But he’d slept on peacefully, his big, lean body sprawled under the sheet. The sight of that dark tousled head on the white pillow, lashes black against his cheek, stubble shadowing his strong chin… Darcy had succumbed to an overwhelming wave of tenderness that had made a mockery of all the vague, empty feelings she’d experienced on other mornings-after, and which had left her literally breathless. And scared.