of his kitchen—as Alfieri would have—the corner of Jeffrey’s lips curled.
He had beautiful lips.
“I see. What are you going to do about him?” He kept coming closer.
He was so tall. She had to tip her head to gaze into his eyes, which were an amazing powder blue with a golden starburst in the irises. Simply mesmerizing. It was easy to understand why women lusted after Jeffrey Harper.
She looked at the misshapen squid. Alfieri would’ve scolded her. That mistake will come out of your paycheck.
“Throw it away?” she said.
“Why? Cook it up. I’ll eat it.”
Her hands were shaking when she shoved a garlic clove inside, rearranged the stuffing, dropped the squid in the pan with the others, and turned up the heat. The pan started sizzling, which didn’t come close to the electricity she felt when Jeffrey stood so close. His woodsy cologne smelled better than the food but having him watch her cook made her nervous.
“I don’t see chicken.” He sounded disappointed.
Did he expect all the chefs to serve chicken? Had she missed that part of the fine print in the contract she’d signed?
“It’s pan-seared and stuffed squid with my special truffle sauce. The linguine noodles and bay clams are almost ready,” she said, her voice tiny.
He crossed his arms, his body language expressing disappointment. “Miss Cox, the chef position for my restaurant is highly competitive. I expect to be impressed by each meal.”
Now that sounded more like Alfieri. The condescending tone stirred up her anger. “What more do I need to do, Mr. Harper? Juggle clams and catch them with my teeth?”
His mouth dropped open. She’d surprised herself, too, since she usually didn’t speak up to a boss and never in a job interview. She waited for him to ask her to leave.
Instead Jeffrey Harper surprised her.
He laughed.
It was a good, hearty sound that rolled through her core, loosening the bitterness inside her. She couldn’t help but smile.
He had a really great laugh.
“No, Miss Cox. Just excite me. I’m looking forward to being transported.”
What did that mean? The way he looked at her, like they were sharing some sort of inside joke, was unnerving. She didn’t get the punch line.
“Chardonnay?” he asked.
“Sure, if that’s what you like to drink. But I’d probably suggest a nice light-bodied, high-acid red wine, like a Sangiovese, or perhaps a white Viognier?”
“I’ll see what we’ve got in the cellar.” Watching him stride out of the kitchen, it struck her that Jeffrey Harper was not as cocky as he seemed on television. She liked him better this way. Plus, he hadn’t yelled at her.
She took the bread out of the oven, wrapped it in a colorful towel, and placed it in a basket. Checking the recipe again to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, she plated up the meal. Four stuffed squid were dressed with the light sauce and adorned with a sprinkling of spices. The linguine and clams were cooked perfectly. The salad was a lacy pyramid of arugula and basil leaves and decorated with sweet chardonnay grapes. The dressing was another secret recipe that never failed. The meal was not a work of art, but it looked good, it smelled good, and she was sure it would taste good. That was the best she could do tonight.
She sighed. Good wouldn’t cut it here, not by a long shot. The other chefs would be excellent.
“I have both wines.” His deep voice rumbled behind her, sending shivers up her spine. “Which would you prefer, Miss Cox?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He waved two bottles at her. “Me?”
“I’m not drinking alone.”
She folded his napkin into a flower shape. “Oh, okay. Um, I like white. Thank you.” She carried his plate to the table.
“Viognier it is.” He poured her a glass and placed it at the table across from him. “Sit.”
Apparently, she was supposed to watch him eat. Was he going to tell her bite by bite how she’d messed up or how the food didn’t excite him? Would he throw the entire plate at her head and order her to clean up the mess like Alfieri would?
She glanced at the table and realized she’d forgotten the salad. Another rookie move. What else would she mess up tonight? “I’ll be right back.”
When she returned with his salad plate, she was surprised to see he’d split his entrée onto two plates.
“What are you doing, Mr. Harper?”
“Join me. I hate to eat alone.” His smile was more sincere than cocky and there was something about the look in his eyes that tugged at her. Sadness? Loneliness?
She hated to eat alone, too. Uneasily, she sat across from him.
He sounded relieved when he said, “Thank you.”
She heard those two words so infrequently that she checked to make sure he wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t.
“Eat,” he ordered.
Huh. Somehow, she’d scored an impromptu date with America’s Most Eligible Bachelor. It wasn’t a bad way to go out after the worst job interview of her life. Not bad at all.
* * *
He lit two candles and moved them so he could look at Michele Cox’s pretty face.
Jeff had never met a chef like her.
When he first came into the kitchen, he hadn’t been impressed. There was no poetry in action. No color or fluidity. She seemed stiff and uncertain. And why was she looking at her cell phone so much? Was she using someone else’s recipe?
Then she’d verbally threatened her food. That was strange enough, but chucking it into the air and catching it as if nothing had happened? Her cheeks had flushed with embarrassment and her gorgeous honey-colored eyes had sparked with worry, and still she’d sassed him. That took balls. And wits. Two things he wanted in his chef.
Two things that made him want to know more about her.
He cut through the squid and garlicky butter oozed out. He popped the bite into his mouth and chewed, slowly, deliberately. She met his gaze, and in her expression, he saw hopefulness. She wanted to win this battle. Badly. A flicker of something lit up in him, too, though he wasn’t ready to name it.
He took a bite of the linguine and the salad, making her wait for his verdict. Not because he was cruel, but because he wanted to savor this moment—his eyes locked with hers, the two of them eating together.
“Here, you’ve got a little—” He shook out the napkin she’d folded into a flower and wiped a bit of butter off her chin.
“Thanks.” She gave him a taste of those deep dimples. Foreplay with the chef. He liked it. So much so that he almost forgot he was judging the meal.
“It’s good,” he said, chewing the last bite. The second squid, the misshapen one, seemed to have twice as much garlic as the first. Inconsistency was a bad sign.
“I know.” She looked at the food on her plate and her dimples disappeared. “Good. Not magic.”
She felt it, too. Something was missing. “I enjoyed it. Why didn’t you make your signature dish?”
“My chicken cacciatore?”
“Hell, yes. I had it in New York. It was seriously one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted.” If she’d made it for him, she would’ve been a shoo-in for the job and yet she went with seafood? She didn’t know how risky that was.
“I