I’m listening to Steph chatter about her favorite things on the menu, in case anyone asks for suggestions, as I follow her through the swinging door and then to the right, stepping into the actual kitchen for the first time. Earlier, she just pointed it out to me to show me where I’ll pick up the orders to serve. It looks like any big kitchen I’ve ever seen in movies, with all the stainless-steel appliances and the huge walk-in refrigerator and freezer we pass as we make our way around a twenty-foot-long workstation down the center of the room. I can see two people cutting up vegetables on the other side, but only from their shoulders to their waists, because of the unit hanging from the ceiling the entire length of the island. It houses microwaves and storage shelves and creates a wind tunnel of sound from the fans going I assume is like the one built into my range hood over my stove.
My assumption is correct when I see farther down the long island that the second half is a giant cooktop like what they have at hibachi restaurants when they cook everything in front of you.
Cool.
I’m still following behind Steph as we circle the end of the workstation and start heading back up the room, checking out the other stove tops against the wall on this side, seeing the different burners with pots and pans hanging from racks above them. This place is a freaking dream for a girl like me, who absolutely loves to cook. I’ll have to ask later about what it’d take to maybe pull a shift helping out back here once in a while. But I’m sure you’d have to have some kind of culinary training. It won’t hurt to ask though.
And then I hear it.
“Is this my new server?”
A deep voice then enters my ears and sends reverberating pulses throughout my entire system.
It’s not a familiar voice, but something in it pulls my wonderous eyes from all the kitchen porn to find the person that deeply masculine and unique voice came from. And when my eyes land on the tall, muscular, and achingly handsome man in the white shirt and dark jeans with the white dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, I thank God that Stephanie made me get nonslip shoes, because the way I jerk to a stop in the center of the tiled floor would’ve certainly landed my ass between the sinks and where he’s now setting his knife down on the cutting board.
He pulls the dish towel off his shoulder and wipes his hands, replacing it where it was before holding his right hand out to me, a smile pulling the corners of his lips up, showing me his straight white teeth. My gaze moves up to his sparkling eyes, eyes the lightest milk-chocolate brown I’ve ever seen before.
I haven’t moved, too stunned stupid for any of my body’s natural responses to react. I’m not even aware of what my facial expression might be conveying. The only thing I know is this is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life standing before me, and I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing.
I don’t know if I’m grateful or completely mortified when it’s Stephanie who actually takes hold of my arm and lifts it, physically placing my hand in the man’s still outstretched one. But as soon as his rough fingers wrap around the back of my hand, a jolt of electricity shocks me back to life and I gasp for breath.
“So there’s that,” Steph says beside me, and I turn my head toward her but not my eyes, which are still glued to the gorgeous man’s face. It’s not until she cackles that my stare finally slingshots to the direction where my head is facing, and I see her wicked grin. “Cece, meet our head honcho, Chef Winston Schmidt, aka Bossman, aka, Schmidty, aka—”
“Or just Winston’s good,” he rumbles, that voice vibrating through me right to my nipples that I feel suddenly stand at attention inside my lightly lined bra. Thank God my T-shirt is dark or everyone in the room would be able to see just those simple four words turned my high-beams on as if he’d stroked these calloused fingers—still holding mine—across them beneath my top. It pulls my eyes back to his, and I marvel at the little lines in the outer corners as his smile grows.
When I still don’t form a single word, he prompts, “And your name is…?”
I don’t know. I don’t know the answer to that question. My lips part, but no sound comes out, and my panicked wide eyes jet over to Stephanie’s pretty smirking face for help.
“Cece,” she stage-whispers to me behind her hand, and I look at my new boss once more.