moved over a step and stirred a saucepan of melting butter on the stove. She used the inside of her loose V-neck tank to blot the dampness on her chest. The kitchen was always hot, but even if they were in an igloo, watching Kit cook would make her sweat.
At five-eleven, he was only an inch or so taller than Sabrina, but his nicely developed chest, arms and thighs more than made up for the slight lack of height. He had black hair that was one week’s growth away from shaggy, penetrating blue eyes and the kind of hollow cheeks and strong jaw that looked best shadowed with stubble.
Fortunately for Manhattan’s female population, his stubble usually complied.
Sabrina fanned herself. Oh, yeah, the man was hot. The gold ring that pierced his left ear gave him the look of a pirate. Even his eyelids were sexy—drooping slightly whenever he lapsed into a moment of silent brooding. He didn’t talk a lot when he cooked—or any other time, for that matter—but he was quick with a smile or a joke. He cared about people. She’d seen him quietly inquiring after the dishwasher’s college applications and the vegetable delivery guy’s daughter who had tonsillitis.
Kristoffer Rex had fascinated Sabrina ever since her first day on the job at Decadence, a Manhattan restaurant that was a major step up from serving burgers on roller blades. Not a single member of the kitchen crew or serving staff had a bad word to say about him, but none of them knew his story either. She’d asked outright—asked everyone but Kit. The essence of himself, who he was, where he’d come from and how he lived outside of the restaurant, had been kept strictly private. To learn more, she’d have to get closer to the actual man.
And that, given her bet with Mackenzie, was simply not going to happen.
Sabrina gave a silent, inward groan. She’d have to content herself with watching Kit make his chocolate desserts. Even if that raised her body temperature to the boiling point.
A strip of the phyllo dough had been laid out on the work surface. He brushed melted butter across it, then looked over at Sabrina. “Want to help?” Practically the first words he’d spoken to her, other than “Taste this,” or “Good morning.”
She caught her tongue between her teeth, then nodded. “Sure.”
“Come over here beside me.”
She pushed off the stool and went to stand next to him. He smelled like bittersweet chocolate, darkly sweet and delicious. Gobble, gobble, slurp, she thought, humming with vibrations at his nearness.
“You can be the folder.” Kit put a heaping spoonful of his chocolate mixture onto a corner of the pastry strip. He showed her how to fold the corner into a triangle, then again onto itself, continuing along the entire strip until the filling was wrapped in the airy layers of phyllo dough.
“Not bad,” Sabrina said as she transferred the pastry puff onto a baking sheet.
“You’re a natural, kid.”
She looked into his amused eyes. They gave her a charge, even though she could see that he was humoring her. The other chefs tended be high-strung and easily annoyed, so she’d learned to stay out of their way. But the pastry chef’s work station was set off to one side, and Kit didn’t seem to mind when she hung around.
Still…
Kid, huh?
It had been a long time since an attractive man looked at her as a kid sister. She didn’t like it. True, she had no intentions of hooking up with Kit. Nevertheless it didn’t seem right for him to dismiss the possibility so easily.
“Fold,” he said, and she realized he’d laid out another strip of the delicate dough and spooned out a dollop of chocolate. They worked together in silence for a few minutes until the first pan was filled with neat rows of the triangles. Now and then, their elbows bumped or their hands brushed and Sabrina got more and more peeved that Kit had no reaction at all when she was struggling not to make cheesy analogies about oozing filling and hot home cookin’.
One of the servers, Charmaine Piasceki, stepped through the stainless-steel swinging doors that led out to the dining room. “Sabrina, your sister’s here.” She looked at Sabrina’s buttery fingers, then over at Kit. “Should I tell her you’re greased up with one of the chefs?”
Out of Kit’s range, Sabrina made a menacing face at Charmaine, who’d become a friend as soon as they realized they both had smart mouths, food tattoos and opposite tastes in men. Despite kooky pink hair and a Persephone’s pomegranate on the small of her back, Charmaine went for uptight lawyers and investment bankers. She liked to turn them on to their wild side.
Sabrina wiped her fingers on the towel keeping the phyllo dough pliable. “I’ll be there as soon as we’re finished with the filling.”
Charmaine pushed backward through the doors with her rump. She looked at Kit and laughed, flashing the silver stud in her tongue. “Sure thing. We wouldn’t want you two to skimp on the filling.”
Sabrina’s gaze skidded across Kit’s face. He was grinning at her again. She gulped, too aware of the heat flushing her cheeks. “Umm. Well, that was fun, but I have to get back out there.”
“I’ll bring you and your sister a sample, fresh from the oven. Well-filled.”
“Great.” She meant it. Maybe if Mackenzie saw Kit in the flesh—the living, breathing, warm, rippling flesh—she’d let Sabrina out of the “no men” part of their deal. Mackenzie was reasonable. She’d understand that there was only so much she could expect her sister to resist.
The quiet, clean public area of the restaurant was a relief after the hot zone of the kitchen. Sabrina stopped at the bar and got a couple of bottled waters from a small fridge. She uncapped one of them and took a long swig of the icy liquid to soothe her parched throat as she surveyed the activity in the front room. Servers moved from table to table in their stark white-and-black uniforms, doing the final prep work before they opened for the lunch trade.
Mackenzie had been seated at a table by one of the windows that overlooked West Broadway. The prime Tribeca location went hand in hand with the restaurant’s gourmet menu, hip reputation and a parade of well-heeled patrons who liked to rub shoulders with the funkier creative types. Word was that although a real working artist might actually starve on the minuscule portions served at Decadence, they could never afford them.
“Hey, sis.” Sabrina set the blue bottles on the table and slid into one of the Danish modern chairs. “What happened? Your hair’s still long.” She’d made an appointment for Mackenzie at a Madison Avenue salon recommended by one of the restaurant’s owners, the famously stylish Dominique Para.
Mackenzie looked up, guilt written across her face. “I’m sorry. I backed out at the last minute.”
“No! Do you know I had to give Dominique my favorite flea-market boots as a bribe for your appointment? I won’t mention how hard it is to find authentic Victorian lace-ups in my size.” Sabrina’s feet were long and thin, like the rest of her. Dominique, a former model, was a perfect match, size-wise.
“I just couldn’t go through with it,” Mackenzie said, blinking puppy-dog eyes.
“Do I have to go with you to hold your hand?”
“Yes, please.”
Sabrina wagged her head. “What’s the hang-up with your hair? You’ve managed everything else. You quit your job, the new candy store is opening on schedule, Mr. Dull has been given his walking papers…” She caught Mackenzie’s blank look. “He is gone, isn’t he?”
“More or less. It’s not my fault that he keeps sending flowers.”
Sabrina flipped a hand. “Jason has no imagination. He wants you back because you’re easy.”
“Ah, no, I think that would be you.” One side of Mackenzie’s mouth curled into a dimple as she twisted off the cap of her water.
“Touché. But you know I meant easy as in comfortable.” Sabrina moved