Savor You (Fusion #5)(21)

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 on 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.