Dirty Professor

“Well, that was kind of the publication.”

“Luckily it’s a publication I trust.”

I nodded and sat still, glancing around and waiting for the questions to begin. He didn’t say anything, though. He just sat across from me, his meaty, but well-manicured hands threaded together and his eyes focused as if he were in deep thought.

“Are we going to continue with the interview?” I squirmed a little. I was afraid that if I didn’t say anything, neither would he.

“Oh, this isn’t an interview.”

“What?” I sounded more alarmed than I meant to.

“Well, I suppose it is, but I’m not going to ask you questions. Anyone who can read knows you’re a good manager and a good chef. I trust your reputation, but I wanted to taste your food for myself.”

“Oh?” I was intrigued again. I’d never had an interview where I was asked to cook. “And why have you decided to conduct this kind of interview?”

He smirked and leaned forward. “Because I want someone who can make good, southern comfort food.” His accent was stronger now, and I suddenly realized it was the same accent I’d fought so hard to get rid of.

“Comfort food?”

“Sure. This place doesn’t have anything like that. You ever try and get chicken and waffles in New York? It’s impossible.”

I was shocked at the request, but nodded. I could make comfort food. Hell, I’d been cooking it since I was a kid, but I’d never had anyone ask me to do it, especially not since I’d become a professional chef.

“Can you do that?”

“I could do it in my sleep.”

He slapped the table and grinned, standing and offering me his hand. “Let’s get crackin’ then.”

I paused but took his hand, my face heating up when he pressed a tender kiss to the back of it. What was this? Some kind of romantic comedy? I brushed the gesture off as a quirk and followed him back to the kitchen. It was one of the largest I’d ever been in and I couldn’t help but whistle as I walked through the swinging doors.

“This is swanky. You don’t see Southern food restaurants with kitchen like this.”

“If I’m going to bring Southern food to New York, I’m going to do it in a big way. Go big or go home?”

After doing some research about Jami on the train ride, I’d quickly learned that was his mantra. Everything he did big. He owned the biggest properties, the biggest stock shares and the biggest night clubs in New York. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume that he had something to prove.

“Do you have everything I need to make a full country breakfast?” I could see all the utensils, but I wasn’t sure about his food stock.

“I sure do.” He motioned towards the walk-in freezer and fridge and I grinned, ready to start.

It didn’t take much time for me to find everything I needed to make biscuits, gravy, eggs and pancakes. It was probably a bit much, but I wasn’t worried about calorie count. I wanted to show him some of my specialties. Now that I’d met him, I was suddenly very interested in working for Jami. I wondered if it had something to do with his beautiful, golden eyes.

I went to work right away, working with the same skill and finesse that I used when making French or Italian cuisine. My skill was not limited to exotic dishes and I put just as much love and effort into pancakes as I did in beef wellington.

It took me less than an hour to finish the meal from scratch, which should have been impressive since everything from the biscuits to the syrup was made from scratch. I put everything on a plate and turned to present it to Jami, who hadn’t taken his eyes off me through the entire process.

“Very good.” He hummed, taking the plate. He cut off a piece of the pancake and put it in his mouth, groaning softly. “This is heavenly.”

I grinned brightly, opening my mouth to thank him, but before words could come out, he pressed a bite of pancake to my lips. My eyes darted up to his, but I took the offered bite, my body flushing. Somehow, this seemed incredibly intimate.

“Ah…Thank you,” I murmured behind my hand as I chewed the sweet, maple covered treat.

“If all your meals are this good, I don’t see why we can’t work together.”

My heart leapt with joy and a grin pulled at my lips. “Really?!”

He chuckled and nodded, taking a bite of the biscuits. “Really.” He turned and set the plate on the table behind him, stepping forward. “But before you go, I have one last question.” He moved towards me until I was pressed up against the prep table, my hands resting on the metal surface. I laughed nervously, looking away, unable to hold his intense gaze. “And what is that?”