Don't Touch

Cheryl is glaring at me from behind him. She looks down at the small name pin on her chest, then back up at me with hatred in her stare. She's jealous. There's no doubt about that.

I smile even bigger, thanking him again for the lovely jacket as I take off the one with missing buttons and put on the new one. Again, it's a perfect fit.

“How much do you have left?” he asks me.

“I just need to slice the peppers and wash the lettuce.”

“Good, I'll let you finish that and when you're done, I've got a few things I want to show you.”

“Sounds good. It won't take me long, maybe ten minutes.”

“Great, I'm going to go take care of a few things and then I'll be back.”

Cheryl and I both watch him as he leaves. The second he's out of sight, her arms cross over her chest and she snarls, “What the hell, Arisa?”

I shrug my shoulder with a grin on my face. “Maybe you'll get a new jacket soon, too.”

She huffs loudly, spinning around so fast her hair whips across her face, and storms off. “Whatever, I've got cooking to do,” she says sharply.

The kitchen is starting to fill with all the different aromas of the menu. Cheryl is pan searing some pork chops, and I'm filling the steel bin with clean lettuce.

“Good, you're all done,” Monroe says to me. His arms are full. Scallops, a cold ball of dough, heavy whipping cream and blocks of cheese. “Come here, I want to teach you a few things I know they didn't show you in school.”

“Sure, I love learning new tricks and secrets about cooking.” Cheryl gives me a death stare as I walk to his side, and all I can do is smirk at her.

“So I've heard,” he says with a chuckle. I'm standing next to him, my body growing warm as memories from last night begin to flood my mind. I look up and his cheeks are tinted red, as if he's thinking the exact same thing. “All right, I'm going to show you my trick for making fresh Alfredo sauce and pasta. This is for our scallop Alfredo dish. Everything is fresh and the pasta is made from scratch. I'll show you how I make the pasta later this week.”

I'm listening carefully as he begins to roll out the dough. His strong hands massage the dough into the counter, pressing and pulling it, rolling and stretching.

Cheryl is watching us. I can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of my head without even having to look. Her anger is like a thick mass that's filling the room, and it's all directed at me.

Monroe pulls me in front him so his body is wrapped around me. His hands grab mine, and he begins to guide me with rolling the dough. I'm so tempted to lean back into him. I want his arms all over me. I don't care that they're covered in flour. I don't care how things ended last night. I want him to touch me.

He steps in as close as he can get, pressing his chest against my back and curling his arms tighter around me. My lungs hitch, and the air turns hot around me. I swear this man can read my mind. He knows what I want without me saying a word.

Monroe uses his hands to manipulate mine, making me pull and push the dough. I take a second to look up and see Cheryl off to the side. Her face is crinkled in anger, her eyes wild as fire. I swear, if she could throw knives out of her eyes, I'd be cut to pieces right now.

“Very good, Arisa, it looks amazing,” Monroe says as we finish off the pasta dish with a dash of shredded cheese. “You're a quick learner.”

“I like to think so.”

He gives me a sexy smirk, then exhales a slow breath. “Well, I guess this is a good time to bring up something, then. Cheryl, can you come here for a second.”

Her tune changes the instant he says her name as she shoves her hatred toward me out of the way and puts on her flirty ass-kissing voice. “Sure, Monroe, what do you need me to do? I'll do anything. All you need to do is ask.”

Desperate much?

Our eyes connect and even though she's smiling, I know deep down inside she's screaming at me. She doesn't need to speak; her eyes speak for her.

“I haven't told anyone yet, but next week, Dariel Gershon is coming.”

My eyes grow wide and my jaw drops open. “Dariel Gershon from Flavor magazine? The Dariel Gershon, the number one food critic in the country?”

He nods. “That's right.”

“Holy shit,” I say.

“Holy shit is right. Which is why I need both of you to create your top dish for me.”