Page 32 of Until August
“You shouldn’t worry about what anyone else thinks. Your only job is to seduce your customers.” I scowled at him. “With your food,” he added. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I muttered. I should never have shown him that negative review. “Let’s hope this new menu is enough to seduce.”
We bent our heads over the menu and scanned our notes again, making sure everything was crystal clear for the line cooks. He slid the pencil from behind my ear and added a note about the tuna tataki for Miguel, who was in charge of the fish station.
Lifting my head, I smiled at him. “It looks good.”
“Yeah, it does.” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “It looks perfect.” He gave me a slow, easy grin that made my heart stutter and the smile fall from my lips.
How was I supposed to think straight when he gave me that sexy smile?
“I thought you said there’s no such thing as perfection.” My voice sounded breathy. Not my own.
“Some things come close to perfection,” he said, his voice husky as if he was just as affected as I was.
Our eyes locked and held, and our bodies shifted until we faced each other, just as the first notes of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” piped from the speaker.
I braced myself with my left hand on the counter to steady myself. August took a step closer. And then another.
My heart thrashed while Stevie Nicks belted out a bittersweet tune about love and loss and loneliness and sang about players who only loved you when they were playing.
We were so close that I could see the band of dark blue rimming his sea-green irises.
A person could drown in those eyes.
But now, they burned right through me like a forest fire.
I was surprised I didn’t combust into flames and turn to ash.
His muscles tensed, and I could feel that, too, because we werethatclose.
I stared at his mouth, the full lips, and the scruff on his jaw that was just the right amount, and my breathing grew more shallow.
How would it feel to kiss him again?
To slide my tongue inside his mouth and taste him. To feel his big, strong hand wrapped around the back of my head as he pulled me against his hard, muscular body. To run my fingers through his messy, tousled hair and breathe in his scent. Woodsy. Citrus and sandalwood. Pheromones and masculinity.
Would his kiss still affect me as much as it did when I was a naïve, inexperienced sixteen-year-old?
Or would I feel absolutely nothing?
He exhaled sharply as my lips parted, and my eyes dared him: Just go ahead and kiss me. Grab me roughly, and don’t hold back. Hurt me. Use me.
Just do it, my eyes taunted.
His hand wrapped around the curve of my hip, and his fingers bit into my skin as he pulled me against him. He cupped my jaw and brushed his thumb over my lips. I sucked in a deep breath. He was hard. I could feel his erection pressing against my stomach.
“August,” I whispered, not wanting to break the spell.
His gaze flitted over my face, and he dipped his head, our mouths so close that I could feel his soft breath ghosting across my lips. This was happening. We were going to kiss, and I would do nothing to stop it.
A door slammed, and we broke apart.
His gaze dipped to my left hand, and with a shake of his head, he pushed his hand through his hair and backed away.
The moment was severed.
Which was just as well.
