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Claire

The aroma of freshly baked pumpkin bread wafts through my cozy apartment as I snap the perfect photo for my latest blog post. Golden light streams through the lace curtains, casting an ethereal glow across the rustic wooden table. I smile to myself, imagining the delighted reactions from my followers once they see this tantalizing image.

Just as I upload the picture, my phone buzzes insistently. It's my mother. I pause, then swipe to answer. "Hello?"

"Claire, darling! I have exciting news," she chirps, her voice brimming with barely contained enthusiasm. "Thanksgiving dinner this year will be at the Rosewood Inn. You remember, the charming place just outside of town?"

I twirl a auburn curl around my finger, trying to recall the inn. Vague memories of a quaint, ivy-covered building nestled among crimson maples surface in my mind.

"Oh right, I think I know the one," I reply, my brow furrowing slightly. "But why there? I thought Aunt Lily always hosted."

"Well, that's the thing," Mom continues, her tone turning conspiratorial. "The inn was recently taken over by a rather dashing young chef named Jax. Apparently he's causing quite the stir with his innovative Thanksgiving menu. And I was thinking…maybe a little collaboration with him would be great for your brand."

A tingle of curiosity mixed with anticipation dances down my spine at the mention of this mysterious newcomer. I glance at the array of glossy cookbooks lining my shelves, their spines whispering of mouthwatering possibilities.

"A new chef in town? Color me intrigued," I say, absently running my fingers along the embossed lettering of a well-worn Julia Child tome. The prospect of sampling some inventive holiday dishes sends a thrill through me.

"I thought you would be, dear. You simply must meet him! The way he's reinventing traditional recipes is right up your alley."

My mind is already spinning, conjuring up blog post titles and imagining the stunning food photography I could capture at the inn. This Jax fellow might be just the inspiration I need to kick my culinary content up a notch.

"Alright Mom, you've piqued my interest. Send me the details," I say with a smile, already mentally planning my outfit and eyeing my trusty DSLR camera.

As we say our goodbyes, I turn back to the bread cooling on the rack, its warm spices perfuming the air with the essence of fall.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I step out of the car, inhaling deeply. The air is laced with the earthy scent of fallen leaves and distant wood smoke, a sensory reminder that the holiday season is fast approaching. I smooth my hands over the rich burgundy fabric of my sweater dress, hoping it strikes the right balance between professional and alluring.

Stepping through the inn's heavy wooden door, I'm immediately enveloped by the warm glow of the foyer. Antique furnishings and the soft crackle of a fireplace create an inviting ambiance that speaks to the building's rich history. As I take in the charming details, my mother's voice pulls me from my reverie.

"Claire! You made it," she trills, sweeping me into a hug that smells faintly of her signature Chanel perfume. "Come, let me introduce you to Jax. He's been eager to meet the talented daughter I've been bragging about."

I follow her through the cozy sitting room, my heels sinking into the plush Oriental rug. Anticipation hums through my veins as we approach the kitchen, the muffled clang of pots and pans hinting at the culinary magic within.

And then, there he is.

Jax Donovan looks up from his workstation, a roguish grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Holy fuck, my mom never mentioned how hot he is. The man looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, with tousled dark hair and eyes that sparkle with mischief. The sleeves of his crisp white chef's jacket are rolled up, revealing tanned forearms dusted with fine dark hair.

"Ah, the renowned food blogger graces us with her presence," he says, wiping his hands on a towel before extending one in greeting. His handshake is firm and warm, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm.

"Chef Donovan," I reply, hoping my voice doesn't betray the butterflies suddenly taking flight in my stomach. "I've heard great things about your culinary prowess. I'm looking forward to seeing what you have in store for Thanksgiving."

His eyes lock with mine, a flicker of heat passing between us. "Please, call me Jax. And I assure you, Ms. Harper, my kitchen is your playground. I have a feeling we're going to create some magic together."

The air feels charged, heavy with unspoken promises and the tantalizing scent of simmering spices. I feel my cheeks heating and mentally curse myself.

Damn my propensity for blushing.

My mother, apparently oblivious, chirps cheerily, “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Claire, I’ll see you later, darling!”

I don’t even know if I tell my mom goodbye. I can’t break the pull of Jax’s stare that has me held captive.

I swallow and nervously tuck a stray curl behind my ear, Jax watching my every movement like a hawk. I watch the way his eyes rove over me from head to toe. Maybe I should be offended by the lazy way he’s perusing me, but I’m not.

I’m flattered—and flustered.

Jax studies me a moment longer before he smiles a panty-dropping smile and guides me through the bustling kitchen, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The heat of his touch seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse, igniting a slow burn beneath my skin. He introduces me to his staff, a well-oiled machine of sous chefs and prep cooks, each focused intently on their tasks.

"So, Claire," Jax says, turning to face me with a playful glint in his eye. "I hear you've got some strong opinions about the perfect Thanksgiving menu."

I arch a brow, meeting his gaze head-on. "I believe in honoring tradition while elevating the classics. It's all about striking the right balance."

He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "And let me guess, you like to be in control of every little detail?"

I feel a flush creeping up my neck, but I refuse to back down. "I prefer to think of it as having a vision and executing it flawlessly."

Jax chuckles, the sound low and intimate. "Well, I hope you're ready to relinquish a little of that control, Claire. Because in my kitchen, we play by my rules."

The way my name rolls off his tongue sends a shiver down my spine. There's a challenge in his words, a promise of something thrilling and unknown. I find myself leaning into him, drawn by an inexplicable force.

"And what exactly are your rules, Chef Donovan?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darken, the air between us electric with tension. "Rule number one: trust your instincts. Rule number two: take risks. And rule number three..." He pauses, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Always save room for dessert."

My heart hammers against my ribcage, the implication of his words causing heat to pool low in my belly. Jax steps back, the moment broken but the intensity still simmering beneath the surface.

"Now, let's talk turkey," he says with a wink, gesturing to the prep station behind him. "I've got some ideas that will make your taste buds sing."

As we dive into the Thanksgiving menu planning, Jax's enthusiasm is infectious. He moves around the kitchen with a fluid grace, his hands gesturing animatedly as he describes his vision for each dish. I find myself drawn into his world, captivated by the passion that radiates from him.

"I've been experimenting with a new stuffing recipe," Jax says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "It's a twist on the classic, with chestnuts, pancetta, and a hint of sage."

He reaches for a bowl of the fragrant mixture, holding it out for me to sample. I lean in, inhaling the heady aroma of toasted bread and savory herbs. Jax watches me intently, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"May I?" I ask, my fingers hovering over the bowl.

"Be my guest," he replies, his voice low and inviting.

I pluck a morsel from the bowl and bring it to my lips, my eyes fluttering closed as the flavors explode on my tongue. The stuffing is a perfect balance of texture and taste, the chestnuts providing a subtle sweetness that complements the salty pancetta and earthy sage.

"Jax, this is incredible," I breathe, my eyes opening to meet his gaze.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "I'm glad you approve. I put a lot of thought into the...stuffing."

The way he says "stuffing," with a slight pause and a mischievous glint in his eye, sends a rush of heat through my body. I feel my cheeks flush, and I know it has nothing to do with the warm kitchen.

Jax's smile widens, clearly enjoying the effect he has on me. "I hope you'll like my stuffing as much as I enjoy making it for you, Claire."

His words are laced with innuendo, the double entendre hanging heavily in the air between us. I swallow hard, my mind conjuring up images that have no place in a professional kitchen.

"I have no doubt that I will," I manage to reply, my voice sounding breathy even to my own ears.

Jax holds my gaze a moment longer, the tension crackling like electricity. Then, with a wink, he turns back to the stove, leaving me to compose myself.

As we continue to work side by side, sampling dishes and exchanging ideas, I can't help but be hyperaware of Jax's presence. Every brush of his arm against mine, every lingering glance, sends a thrill through me. The kitchen seems to shrink, the space between us charged with unspoken desire.

The aromas of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting turkey mingle in the air, creating a heady perfume that only adds to the intoxicating atmosphere. Jax moves with a sensual confidence, his hands deftly chopping, stirring, and seasoning each dish with expert precision, Jax is in his element in the kitchen. I find myself captivated by his every move, the way his muscles flex beneath his chef's jacket as he works. He catches me staring and flashes me a knowing grin, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"See something you like, Claire?" he teases, his voice low and husky.

I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but I refuse to look away. "Maybe I do," I reply, my own voice taking on a flirtatious edge.

Jax chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.

His words hang in the air, the implication clear. I feel a thrill of excitement mixed with nerves. This is dangerous territory, flirting with a man I barely know in his own kitchen. But there's something about Jax that draws me in, makes me want to throw caution to the wind.

We continue to work, the tension simmering between us like a pot ready to boil over. Every accidental touch, every heated glance, only serves to stoke the flames of desire. I find myself getting lost in the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the sizzle of meat in a hot pan, the dance of flavors as Jax expertly crafts each dish.

As the day wears on and the menu takes shape, I realize that I've never felt so inspired, so alive, in my entire culinary career. Jax's passion for food is contagious, his innovative ideas sparking my own creativity. We bounce ideas off each other, our excitement growing with each new twist on a classic recipe.

"I have to say, Claire," Jax murmurs as we stand side by side, surveying the fruits of our labor. "You're even more impressive in person than you are on your blog. I could get used to having you around my kitchen."

I glance up at him through my lashes, my heart skipping a beat at the heat in his gaze. "Is that so? Well, maybe we should make this a regular thing. For the sake of our culinary growth, of course."

"Of course," he agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Purely professional."

But the way his eyes rake over my body, the way his hand lingers on the small of my back as he guides me to the sink to wash up, tells a different story. I can feel the promise of something more, the tantalizing possibility of exploring this connection between us beyond the confines of the kitchen.

As we say our goodbyes, Jax's fingers brush against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me. "Until next time, Claire," he murmurs, his voice a caress. "I look forward to tasting more."

Of you . It hangs in the air between us even though he doesn’t complete the sentence.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

I don’t speak. Hell, I can’t.

With one last smoldering look, he steps back, allowing me to exit the kitchen on slightly unsteady legs. As I make my way out of the inn, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, the heat of his gaze burning into my memory.

Good lord, what have I gotten myself into?