GiGi had sketched out a scene on Bourbon Street, with the street and buildings made of cake, and a little parade down the middle with molded gilt chocolate people that resembled musicians and the famous parade chiefs. At the end of the parade would be the bride and groom, tiny representations of Rosemary and Ash, if she could manage that much detail. GiGi tapped her Sharpie to her lip when thinking about the things that would put it over the top. There should be the iron balcony railings made out of sugar-work. Ivy and floral vines draping down from the balconies. That would be tough, but GiGi was an expert flower sculptor.
As she looked up to gaze out the pass-through kitchen window and out the plate glass that fronted the busy street, who should walk up to the door but Thor himself.
Not the actual Avenger, of course, but Vann and his flowing golden locks. And then he was stopping. Oh shit. And then he was looking through the glass, shielding the glare of the afternoon sun from his eyes with his hands. Already, she could feel the intensity, sense the pheromones. How was a wolf so powerful?
Shit, shit, shit. She had a mind to dart into the office at the sight of him, but it was too late. He was coming in.
She should let the hostess seat him, but her feet had other ideas. And other parts of her. Dammit. “Table for one?” she asked, grabbing a menu.
“Hi,” he said, smiling broadly at her. Damn him and those amazing white teeth and shocking blue eyes.
“Hi?” she answered, swallowing as her mouth went dry.
“I have a proposal for you,” he said.
She blushed and grinned, admonishing herself for letting him see how he was getting to her. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think? We haven’t even been on a date yet,” she joked, working hard to keep it together while the ultra-masculine scent made parts of her tingle. Parts of her that had no business tingling in the middle of a workday.
“Have lunch with me outside,” he said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command. GiGi didn’t particularly enjoy demands. Her rational brain hated it when men made demands. Her body, and the feisty, bratty kitty cat inside, saw it as a challenge and responded to it with a heat that rushed through her bloodstream.
She chose logic as a way to resist, at first. “I’m working.”
Vann looked around the dining room and smirked. “Looks like they have it handled, Peaches. And I need to talk to you.”
That was it. She pressed a palm to his chest and made to push him outside. She couldn’t have her staff hearing a world-famous superstar chef calling her “Peaches.”
“Outside,” she said, struggling against the brick house that was his entire stature. Good God, the man ate like a bear coming out of hibernation, how did he stay so firm? “Now.”
It was her flashing eyes that finally moved him, if not her brute strength from years of heavy lifting in the kitchen and the pantry.
“I feel like an asshole for stealing the catering job out from under you,” Vann started once they were seated. “I know that would mean a huge payday for you. So how about I contract with your people. I pay them what I pay my people, I pay you what I pay my executive chefs. You won’t even have to do any work; you could just be a consultant for this gig.”
The young server brought the two of them iced teas and breadsticks. GiGi picked one of the sticks up and chewed on it and on what Vann had just said. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Having the upper hand.”
“Not at all. I came here to extend an olive branch. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, and I don’t want there to be awkwardness between us.”
No awkwardness, huh? The only thing that existed between them was a virile sexual tension which was constantly undercut by his patronizing tone. He did not mean to come across that way. She understood he meant well. But his cringe-worthy self-expression just translated to extreme awkwardness that mingled with this wild attraction she couldn’t control.
She looked him over. His hair was down, brazenly flowing over his giant biceps like he knew exactly how good he looked. His black T-shirt was too tight to be legal. And then there was that bad-boy grin on him. Not fair. She didn’t want to like him, but she did. She needed to save him from himself; the only way to not resent him was to set him free from what he perceived to be an obligation. He was trying to assuage his guilt, but she didn’t want that. She didn’t want a pity assignment.
“You can keep the menu. I’ll handle the cake. Like we agreed last night. Frankly, I’m relieved that it’s all I have to focus on, so maybe then I can try to enjoy myself a little. It is my best friend’s wedding, after all.”
Vann studied her; she felt his eyes roaming over her face and her hair. He was sniffing the air. GiGi knew he sensed her arousal battling it out with her apprehension about being around a celebrity.
He finally cleared his throat. “Okay, great. If that’s the way you feel,” he said.
GiGi nodded. “It is. And anyway, I wouldn’t want anybody else’s staff working on the cake.”
He replied, “You don’t trust me?”
She finally had to let the whole truth come out. The entire reason why his mere presence made her roll her eyes, no matter how good looking, or virile, or into her he seemed to be. “I heard what you said on that Foodie Network contest. During the pastry challenge, you said something about baking and desserts are for the lightweights and for people who can’t handle the intensity of a kitchen.”
Vann looked genuinely surprised. “Did I say that?”
GiGi didn’t acknowledge the question. It was
