Page 13 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)
SANTINO
I n the time that I’ve spent working my way up from pizza shops in the Bronx to having the bright idea of pressing the record button on my phone so I can vlog whatever random recipe came to mind, I’ve acquired two skills.
Being able to work under pressure and the ability to think quickly on my feet.
Both of which came in handy when I was approached by the Culinary Network to compete in a home chef competition show, that I had no idea would be the career game changer it became.
Since that initial win, I’ve gone on to compete against some of the most esteemed chefs in the business.
Most of whom are either culinary trained from The Culinary Institute of America, Le Cordon Bleu, or have trained under award-winning, prestigious chefs who are considered to be gods within the industry.
All of it intimidating as all hell, yet I’ve always been able to lock in, and hold my own.
That’s not to say I don’t get nervous. Of course, I do.
But I’ve always been able to take that nervous energy and bottle it up.
But now, as I stand in my kitchen, of my restaurant, that I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into opening, I’m feeling a level of pressure that rivals the one I’ve experienced when I’ve been judged by some of the world’s most distinguished chefs.
Somehow having the gaze of my best friend’s sister glued onto me, while I go over the new menu with my executive chef, has not only my nerves on fire, but has my heart rate accelerating to a level I’ve never experienced before.
There’s an unspoken pressure I feel right now as Lorena stands in the kitchen threshold watching me.
A pressure to not only perform, but to not disappoint her… any more than I already have.
It’s completely throwing me off. And not just that, it’s pissing me off.
I can’t afford to be off my game, not here, not in the place that has become a lifeline to me.
And I especially can’t have her see me crumbling because, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s her opinion of me that I care about most.
Trying to ignore how nerve-racking yet good her eyes feel soaking me in, I finish up giving my kitchen staff the last bit of instruction for today’s specials, as well as the tweaks to our usual menu.
However, the bead of sweat slipping down my brow, that has nothing to do with the heat radiating from the industrial stoves I’ve grown used to, solidifies the effect she has on me.
My nerves increase as she’s no longer observing, but is now moving closer, entangling herself into my world, looking as delicious as ever while she does.
My staff continues busying themselves with the usual prep work required hours before we open for dinner.
The noise they make becomes a welcome distraction, filling the expansive kitchen with the chatter I’ve grown accustomed to.
I try my hardest to cling onto it, hoping that it will settle my nerves, but with every step Lorena takes towards me, with her hips swaying ever so slightly as she strides closer in what feels like slow motion, I grow more restless.
If anything, the stern look on her face, paired with the clipboard she has pressed against her chest, only adds to my nerves.
She looks like she means business, which should signal my stubborn brain to follow suit and take her lead.
But how am I supposed to focus when the woman of my dreams, who I can’t have, is in my kitchen looking finer than any dining experience at any three-star Michelin restaurant could ever be?
The answer is, it’s impossible.
Absolutely im-fucking-possible .
Not when she looks so fucking sexy, in a damn mock turtleneck dress of all things. Every inch from her neck to her knees is covered in a cream material that clings onto her curves, making my imagination go as wild as those knee-high heeled boots of hers are.
It’s wild how she makes the plainest things oddly erotic.
Goddamnit. If only she knew what she’s doing to me. First the suspenders, and now this turtleneck dress?
Our gazes collide for the briefest of moments, and apparently, it’s too intense for either of us to maintain. We both look away and to the floor in synchrony.
I become hyper-aware of every blood vessel in my body.
Every inch of my body is on fire, reacting to hers.
Suddenly, I don’t know what to do with myself, overthinking every little movement I make.
Unsure of where to place my hand, or even how to breathe, without giving away even an inkling that I’m losing my goddamned mind.
The more I try to signal to my brain to do something useful to distract myself, all I can think of is taking my hands to those defined hips of hers, yanking her to me, and doing things to her on the garde-manger’s workstation she’s walking by that would have the health department on my ass in about two seconds.
In a last-ditch effort to busy myself, I grab one of the cast iron pans hanging from the pot rack above where I stand. Turning my back to her, I move to the fridge so I can grab two eggs. Thankfully, she doesn’t follow, instead, she waits near the stove for me.
Silence grows between us that somehow feels louder than the buzz of my staff working around us, as I ignite the gas stove top. I wait for the pan to heat up a bit before placing some butter on it to melt so I can then crack the two eggs and get them cooking.
Finally, she breaks the tension and blesses me with her smooth and sweet as honey voice.
“What was in the boxes you wouldn’t let me touch?”
“Stuff for the restaurant.” I keep it short as I force myself to stay focused on the sizzling eggs.
Not satisfied with my response, she shifts her weight to one side, and her hips that are already making my mouth water, become more pronounced, drawing my eyes to them, even though I should be paying attention to the pan in front of me.
Lorena snaps her manicured fingers for my attention. The fuchsia shade of her nails, perfectly matching her lipstick. I swear, there isn’t a detail about her, from head to toe, that isn’t seamless and absolutely perfect.
“Eyes up here,” she instructs innocently enough, but it causes a rush of blood to twitch my cock to life.
I’ve never been one for obedience. I’ve spent most of my life being the exact opposite of obedient, playing by my own rules, as flawed as they may be.
But for Lorena, I’d look wherever she wants me to and do whatever she wants me to do.
She could tell me right fucking now to lift the cast iron pan that I’m cooking with and brand myself with it, I would do it.
“Better?” I say with a smirk.
Caught off guard by the playful way I ask her, she straightens her stance. “Yes. Thank you.”
Another wave of silence washes over us, though this time there’s no denying the tension that comes along with it.
It gives me hope that she feels it too. It also gives me the nudge I need to man the fuck up and talk to her, even if I feel my pulse thrashing throughout my entire body.
I swallow it down and speak. “Well, you got my attention.” Not like she ever lost it.
“What is it, Lo? Gotta use your words and let me know what I’m doing this time to piss you off. ”
“Ew. Don’t say that, first off,” she scoffs, seeming embarrassed.
“Say what?”
“Use your words. You sound like the alphahole in this romance novel I’m reading.”
“Which one?” I ask, rather bluntly earning me a surprised stare.
“Umm…” Lorena’s voice trails, and a lively flush captures her cheeks as she stares at me blankly, uncertain what to say.
“Which book?” I press her, genuinely curious since romance books happen to be a go to of mine to read when I’m traveling anywhere by plane, or when I have the time.
The blush increases as she shakes her head. Her rich, brown waves, shaking like a damn shampoo commercial as she does. Running her hand through her hair, she inhales, seeming flustered. “I forget the title.”
“Yeah, right.” I eye her clipboard she’s currently clutching onto for dear life. “With your love of to-do lists, and writing everything down, there’s no way you don’t remember the title of the book you’re reading.”
That earns me a giggle. “I do love my to-do lists.”
“That you do and I think if my memory serves me correctly, you told me once it’s how you maintain a sense of control when things feel…”
“Out of control.” She finishes my sentence for me, and the satisfactory grin I receive in return is like a gift from up above. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
I shrug. “What can I say, when if comes to you, things are difficult to forget.”
My words hang heavy in the air as they replay in my head, and likely in hers judging from the way her chest expands holding in her breath before responding.
“Umm, like I was saying, I really don’t remember the name of the book.
It’s an enemies to lovers dynamic between an editor of a fashion magazine, and her boss’s son. ”
Fashion editor.
Another thing I remember Lorena telling me in passing, years ago.
She used to sketch designs and go to craft stores for fabric to try to sew together outfits.
I always thought with her sense of style and passion she’d go for a career in fashion.
Being a publicist was the last thing I thought she’d be.
Lorena has never been a people person. Though, much like me, she knows how to put on a persona that gets her through the day, fooling people in the process, and not letting them know how she’s really feeling on the inside.
A few seconds pass and once she’s composed herself, she shifts gears and topics. “Anyway, the delivery, what was it so I can track it for inventory?”
“I told you that you don’t need to keep track of it,” I say, grabbing my favorite spatula, I bring it to the top of the egg yolk, giving it a gentle wiggle to check on it. “I have it under control.”