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  “I have a question.” He pauses while our meal is delivered, and I immediately dig into my orange chicken. It’s so good. I should put something like this on our menu. “Do you get off on working?”

  I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “Does working give you a rush? On your days off, are you itching to go into the restaurant because being away from it is physically painful?”

  “That doesn’t sound normal.”

  “You’re right, but it’s what a workaholic is. I don’t believe you’re a workaholic.”

  “You’ve been around for three days,” I remind him with a frown.

  “True, and I could be wrong, but from what I’ve seen so far, you’re not a workaholic, you have trust issues.”

  I frown again, but he puts his hand up. “Let me finish. You said yourself that you don’t trust your staff to prepare your dishes the way you’ve taught them to. You just said that you don’t even trust them to shut the freezer door properly.

  “You’re a control freak, and you want to make sure that everything in your kitchen is just so. Which I totally understand. It’s your kitchen, and it should be exactly the way you want it. But you should also be hiring people who are competent and have the same work ethic that you do. They should be dependable.”

  “I haven’t found them,” I reply, shaking my head. “In the beginning, I tried to do that, and when I’d take a day off, someone would not show up for a shift, or not show up at all. I caught a sous chef who almost send a salad out to a customer who specifically said she was allergic to nuts with almonds all over it.”

  “Yikes,” he says with a cringe.

  “Yeah. It’s my place, and besides the other girls, no one is going to care about it the same way I do. But damn it, Camden, I’ve build a reputation for this restaurant, and I’m not willing to let these people who could give two shits about it fuck that up for us.”

  “You love it.”

  “More than anything else,” I agree immediately. “It’s my passion. It’s everything I ever wanted. So if making sure it’s a success means that I don’t get many days off, so be it. It’s worth it to me.”

  “You’re fucking gorgeous when you talk about it,” he says, throwing me completely off. “And when you’re working in the kitchen?” He shakes his head and takes a bite of his bread. “It was all I could do not to boost you up on the counter and fuck you brainless.”

  The couple sitting next to us both look over at us in shock.

  “Having a private conversation here, but that’s okay. Do that to her later.” Camden suggests to the man, winks at them and I want to crawl under the table and die. “What?”

  “Don’t try to look innocent,” I reply and can’t help but giggle.

  He leans toward me and cups his hand around his mouth, trying to be all inconspicuous, but he’s conspicuous.

  “I think she’d enjoy it.”

  “Stop.” I cover my mouth with my hand and try to hold the bubbles of laughter in.

  “You’d enjoy it, too,” he says and that’s it. I can’t hold it in anymore. I laugh so hard that tears are streaming down my face. I dab at the corners of my eyes with my napkin and try to pull myself together.

  “You’re not great for my ego.” He’s smiling at me as if I’m the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your ego.”

  “There is now that you’ve had a go at it,” he says, but he’s laughing with me. This is what I missed the most about him. We could talk and laugh for hours.

  My phone buzzes with a text, making me frown.

  “It’s Addie,” I say. You know I don’t want to interrupt you, but we want to make sure you’re having fun. Do you need me to “create” an issue so you can escape?

  I laugh and reply with, No, I’m fine. Thank you.

  “Everything okay?” Camden asks.

  “Oh yeah.” I nod and toss the phone in my bag after all. “Just the girls being girls.”

  “Offered you a way out of this date?”

  I snort and eat the last bite of my meal. “Of course. Okay, back to the conversation at hand. Are you a workaholic?”

  “I have moments when I am,” he says, wiping his mouth as he considers my question. “When we’re in the middle of filming, or when I’m researching cookbooks, I immerse myself in it. So I know what that feels like. But I admit that some of it is also the control of it. I want it all to be perfect.”

  I nod thoughtfully. He gets it.

  “Do you want dessert?”

  I stare at him, confused. “Do people come to this restaurant and not order dessert?”

  “Point taken.”

  We browse the cheesecake menu, and then place an order to go.

  “I can’t eat it right now,” I say and sigh. “I ate all the chicken.”

  “Let’s take this back to your place.” He pays the waitress and leads me out of the restaurant to his car.

  “I’m not getting naked with you tonight,” I inform him as I buckle my seat belt. The drive from my house to this restaurant is a long one. I bought a house in an older part of town because I love the neighborhood and the views that come with it. But it’s not really close to anything.

  “I don’t recall asking you to take any of your clothes off.”

  “I’m just letting you know in advance,” I reply and relax into the leather seat of his rental car. “It could get awkward if we’re at my place, eating cheesecake, and the next thing I know you’re trying to get in my pants and I have to say no. So, I’m saying no now.”

  “Noted,” he says with a nod. “No getting your pants off today. What about your shirt?”

  I bark out a laugh and shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Well, damn, and I bought dinner and everything.”

  “I know, it’s disappointing.” I pat his leg. “There, there.”

  The drive to my house is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Lifehouse is playing on the satellite radio, and we roll the windows down to enjoy the warm evening air.

  When he pulls into my driveway, I’m almost sad that the drive is over.

  “Your house is great,” he says, looking at the front of the house. It’s an older craftsman-style home, built in the twenties. I replaced the black shutters last year with new ones, and painted it grey with white trim. I have hanging flower baskets on the porch, spilling red, purple, and pink all over the place.

  “Thanks. Come eat your cheesecake, and I’ll give you a tour.”

  Once inside, I disarm the alarm, and toss my bag and keys on the table by the front door.

  “It’s clean.” He grins at me. “You were always a clean freak.”

  “I’m not a clean freak, Camden. I’m barely here. I don’t have time to mess it up.” I shrug and show him the living room and dining room, along with a half bath on our way back to the kitchen. He sets the dessert bag on the table and pulls out the black dessert boxes, puts them in my fridge, and turns to me.

  “Tour first,” he says. His arms look amazing tonight. He’s wearing a Henley, and the sleeves are pulled up to his mid-forearms. His biceps and forearm muscles are crazy. Not too bulky, but toned, and I want to touch them.

  I want to touch him. So damn bad. That’s why I had to draw the line in the sand right away. No naked shenanigans tonight because this is a first date, and I’m not that kind of girl.

  But oh how I wish I was that kind of girl.

  “Mia?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tour?”

  “Right!” I clear my throat and lead him back through the kitchen toward the stairs. “You’ve pretty much seen most of the first floor. This isn’t a huge house, mostly because I don’t need a ton of space, and property in this neighborhood is expensive.”

  “It’s a great neighborhood, though.”

  “I love it here,” I reply and climb the stairs ahead of him, knowing full well that he’s staring straight at my ass. So, of course I sway my hips jus
t a bit more than really necessary. “Over here—”

  Before I can finish my thought, Camden has me shoved against the wall, my hands pinned above my head and his very male, very firm body pressed to mine.

  “I noticed the extra sway in your step,” he murmurs while teasing my neck with his nose.

  “You were supposed to.”

  He bites me, not gently, and then sweeps his lips over mine.

  “That’s not the correct way to keep me out of your pants.”

  “There’s a correct way?”

  “Yes.”

  I gasp when he presses his thigh between my legs and rubs against my clit.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but that wasn’t it.”

  Just before I drag him into my bedroom, he frees me and shoves his hand through his hair. “Please continue.”

  No, you please continue.

  I shake my head and lead him into the guest bedroom.

  “This is the guest room.”

  “And spare closet,” he says, nodding at the shoes laid out on the carpet in tidy rows.

  “I move them if someone’s going to stay here,” I reply. “Landon turned Cami’s spare bedroom into a huge closet for her. I should do something similar.”

  “Are you all addicted to clothes?”

  “Duh. I’m female. It’s in my DNA to love all of the pretty things.”

  He laughs and follows me through the jack-and-jill bathroom that connects to the other spare bedroom, which I now use as an office. There is only a single desk and chair in here, along with a file cabinet.

  “Pretty empty in here.”

  “Most of my paperwork is done at Seduction, but I use this for a few personal things.”

  He runs his hand gently down my hair.

  “You like to touch me.”

  “I do,” he agrees. His blue eyes are full of lust as he watches me, his hand gliding down my arm now until his fingers link with mine. “I never could keep my hands off you.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just lead him quickly through my bedroom and bathroom. Actually lead isn’t the right word. I pull him through as fast as I can.

  When we’re back in the kitchen, I reach for the fridge, but he stops me.

  “Show me your garden.”

  I spin around to face him. “I said no naked time tonight, and we may have a ridiculous amount of chemistry here, but no still means no.”

  He steps to me and kisses my forehead. “The garden in your backyard, sweetheart.”

  Oh God, just take me now. How many times can I completely humiliate myself in front of this man?

  I spin on my heel and march out the back door, flipping on the backyard floodlight on my way.

  “Also, just for future reference, I’ll never refer to your pussy as your garden. I’m not a ninety-year-old woman.”

  “There’s no need to refer to my pussy at all.”

  “Oh, trust me, there will be.” He’s walking through my garden as nonchalantly as possible, as if I didn’t just make an ass of myself and we aren’t talking about my genitals. “I just use the grown-up words.”

  “Are you about done?” I ask.

  “Nearly.” He walks to me and pulls me in for a hug. “Your garden is beautiful, Mia. Both of them.”

  “Har har.”

  I can feel the rumble of the laughter in his chest. He’s strong and warm, and I could get used to moments like this.

  I can’t. Because this isn’t forever. But man, it feels good.

  “I’d better go,” he whispers.

  “You haven’t eaten your cheesecake.”

  “I’ll take it with me.”

  I pull back and look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “If I stay,” he begins and drags his fingertips down my cheek. “I won’t want to leave after the cheesecake. So, it’s best if we call it a night now.”

  I nod and pull away, leading him through the kitchen and out to the front porch. He’s holding his cheesecake in one hand, but uses the other to gracefully swoop in and hold me close, kissing me like it’s the last time he’ll ever see me.

  “I’ll call you,” he says, and then gets in his car and drives away.

  “He’s gonna call me,” I say to no one as I lock my front door. “What is happening?”

  Chapter Six

  ~Camden~

  “It’s on fire,” Mia says calmly, as if she’s talking about the weather. “What the fuck?”

  “You’ve got the heat too high,” I reply as she pulls the pan off of the burner and tosses me a slight glare, making me grin.

  “Thanks, captain obvious.”

  “This is just a rehearsal,” Trevor says from his perch off-stage. We’re on the set kitchen today, running through two recipes before we start to tape on Monday.

  I wrap my arm around Mia’s back and press my lips to her ear. “You’ve got this.”

  She pushes me away with her hip and shakes her head. “No mushy stuff on set.”

  I just laugh and return to my own stovetop, stirring the pasta that’s just about halfway done.

  It’s been thirty-six hours since our date. Thirty-six hours since I had my hands on her, my lips on her. She worked herself to the bone yesterday, thanks again to being short-staffed. She wouldn’t let me help. It’s as if the conversation we had about her control-freak tendencies didn’t happen.

  I glance over at her and smile. She’s stirring her pasta, and her hips are swaying with the movement. She’s done that since culinary school. I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a quick photo just before she tries to reach for a bowl on the top shelf above her workstation.

  She can’t reach, of course, so I hurry over and grab it for her.

  “Trevor, I’m going to need a step stool,” she calls out, but I shake my head.

  “I’ve got her back, Trevor.”

  “This is supposed to be a competition show,” she reminds me. “I don’t think that includes you helping me.”

  “I’m not an asshole,” I remind her as I return to my own chicken, just about done sautéing. “I can help you reach for things, and still kick your ass.”

  “I’ll need that step stool,” she says to Trevor, but I shake my head at him. “Stop doing that.” She’s got her hands propped on her hips now.

  “Doing what?”

  “Oh my God. Is this how it’s going to be? Because I can’t work under these conditions.”

  “Yeah, it must be rough to work with a handsome guy who wants to kiss your ear and help you reach stuff,” Riley says from beside her husband. “You might be a bit dramatic.”

  “He’s in my kitchen.”

  “We’re on a set,” I add.

  “Built to look like my kitchen,” she counters and I want to boost her up on this countertop and kiss the hell out of her.

  “Look out, or you’ll burn your chicken again.”

  “Fucking hell,” she mutters and pulls the pan off the heat.

  “Maybe less swearing on Monday, when we start taping,” Trevor says with a laugh. “Is the stovetop running too hot?”

  “No, I’m an idiot,” she replies and then clears her throat. “I’ve got this.” She smiles up at the camera that isn’t even running yet, and it’s amazing to see the transformation from frustrated chef to professional chef. “As you can see, it’s easy for the heat to get away from you, especially when you’re working with oil. Be sure that it isn’t too hot. The oil should be ripply, and when you set your chicken in it—with tongs—it sizzles.”

  The next hour flies by as we finish our dishes. The banter is easy and fun, and I almost forget that this is a competition show.

  “Who’s going to taste our dishes to decide which is better?” Mia asks after we plate the food and swap plates so we can each have a bite.

  “This is good,” I say, going in for another bite.

  “Of course it is,” she replies with a smirk.

  “We thought it would be fun to let the crew come o
n set at the end to taste the dishes and decide on a winner,” Trevor replies.

  “I like that,” Mia says. “It’s different.”

  “Do you have any suggestions for the kitchen?” Trevor asks. “We stocked it with everything on your lists, but if you forgot anything, let us know and we can have it added over the weekend.”

  “A step stool,” Mia says.

  “We’re good.”

  “Oh my God,” she exclaims in frustration. “You are not the boss of me, Camden Sawyer. If I want a bloody step stool, I’ll have the step stool.”

  “Actually, it’s kind of sweet when he reaches for things too high for you,” Riley says thoughtfully. “The viewers will eat it up.”

  “Oh fine,” she says with a sigh. “I’ve already agreed to everything else that I don’t want to do, what’s one more thing?”

  We’re all quiet for a few minutes, and then I say to Trevor, “Get the stool.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Are we done?”

  “We are. It went really well, despite the pyrotechnics,” Riley says with a smile. “Let’s go get a drink. It’s happy hour and we should celebrate your first dish cooked in your faux kitchen.”

  “I’m in,” I reply and watch as Mia bites her lip. I can just hear her thoughts. I should get back to work.

  “Okay,” she says at last, surprising us all.

  Ten minutes later, we walk into a bar just down the street from the studio. It’s busy, loud. But the crowd is a happy one, and thanks to the warm weather, the glass doors are open to the outside.

  The hostess leads us to a corner table on the outdoor patio.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the young woman says to Mia. “I’m not sure if you’ll fit in that corner chair.”

  “I’m sitting in the corner,” Riley says immediately and takes the seat, leaving the outside seat for Mia, whose cheeks are flushed. She’s looking down as she takes her seat and immediately picks up the menu.

  The hostess leaves. Riley reaches across the table and squeezes Mia’s hand, then turns her attention to her menu.

  I’m completely and utterly pissed the fuck off. The hostess just insulted Mia, and Riley covered it up.

  But I will not have this conversation with Mia right now, in front of her friends and in a public place.