dining room unless he was planning something.
The part of her that had been predicting disaster should have felt unsurprised—vindicated, even—to see it all play out as she’d predicted. But, she suddenly realized, there was another part of her that had begun to hope for something different. There was another part of her that had begun to believe things had changed.
“You are not going to make a scene,” she hissed, seizing his arm to tug him behind the high barrier of the empty waiters’ station. “Don’t you dare kick him out."
“Why not?” He stepped toward her, backing her into the wood of the barrier. “Give me a good reason not to, just one."
She could hear the suppressed anger in his voice and she knew suddenly he wasn’t talking about a dissatisfied customer.
Dark eyes, simmering intensity, a stare that didn’t ask but demanded. Her hand fell away from his arm as she breathed in slowly. “This isn’t the—“
“Time or place.” Damon caught her wrists. “You say that a lot. You ask me, it’s long past the time and place."
A treacherous weakness began to seep through her. “Not here,” she said desperately.
“Then where? When?” “Later, all right?” “At the end of the night?” “Whatever you want, just don’t—” “Good.” And he turned toward the table before she could catch him.
“Good evening,” he said to the couple, inclining his head. “I’m your chef, Damon Hurst. I hear you’re not happy with your meal."
“It was terrible,” the balding man grumped. “Poorly cooked, not what the menu promised."
“I see.” She could see the tension in Damon’s shoulders.
“What do you intend to do about it?”
Here it came, Cady thought, and stepped forward. “Damon, we—“
“I’ve made you a new entrée.” Damon nodded to a runner who set a fresh plate before the man.
“What about my wife? Her dinner’s stone-cold by now.”
“Walter, it’s not a problem,” the woman began.
“I thought that might happen,” Damon said, even as the runner whisked her plate away and set down another.
Cady gaped.
“What is this?” The man poked at the meat on his plate.
“Beef tenderloin with a truffled fois gras sauce I whipped up,” Damon told him. “It’s got a bit of wine, some caramelized shallots."
The man took a bite and chewed. “Huh.” He chewed some more. “It’s good.” Swiftly, he cut another piece. “Really good. Isabel, you’ve got to try this."
But Isabel wasn’t listening. She was staring at Damon. “Damon Hurst,” she said slowly as though just registering the words. “You’re that chef, aren’t you? The one on TV?"
“Now and then,” he said.
“Oh, I love your show. I can’t believe we’ve had your food. The girls in my bridge club will be so jealous."
“I’m here Tuesday through Saturday. Tell them to come in. What’s your name?"
“Isabel Cottler,” she supplied. “This is my husband, Walter.”
“Isabel, tell your friends to give the waiter your name when they come. I’ll take special care of them."
“Oh!” She pinkened. “I will, you can be sure. Thank you so much."
“No, thank you.”
Stunned, Cady watched as he sketched a small bow and left them to their dinners.
“What happened to the guy who used to throw customers out into the street?” she asked as she followed him back to the kitchen.
“Who wants to be predictable?” He stopped in the vestibule and turned to her. “Besides, I got something out of it."
Her pulse bumped. “What I said doesn’t count. You plated new entrées. You were never planning to kick them out."
“We made a bargain.”
“I have to go check my tables,” she retorted.
But before she could escape, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers. “You do that. I’ll see you when service is through.” And he stepped through the doors into the kitchen, leaving her standing there.
The final hours of dinner service passed by in a blur of taking orders, delivering plates, opening wine. When Cady saw the last customers rise to leave, she should have felt relief at the prospect of release. Instead, she just felt disoriented.
Damon. She didn’t know what to think. Nothing about him was as she’d expected. Instead of partying into the wee hours and showing up at work in the late afternoon, he was in the kitchen at the crack of dawn every morning. Instead of shouting at his staff, he presided over a kitchen that was positively serene. Instead of kicking out rude customers, he charmed them.
And somehow, when she hadn’t been paying attention, he’d charmed her.
She’d agreed to something in those desperate moments in the dining room, though she wasn’t sure what. And she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about it. Nerves, yes. Anticipation, yes. And confusion. She didn’t like confusion, she never had, and so she took her time with her after-hours duties, changing tablecloths, refilling salt cellars, putting off heading to the kitchen to the last possible moment.
She couldn’t say whether it was relief or disappointment that hit when she finally walked through the sliding doors only to find the kitchen cleared out. The rest of the floor staff was long gone, the line cooks had finished cleaning up and headed to the locker room to change. Only Denny, the kitchen porter, remained for the thankless job of washing the mountain of dishes and pans, taking out the rubbish, mopping the floors and counters for the new day.
Damon was nowhere to be found.
Which was good news. Definitely good news, she thought as she retrieved her keys and jacket from the now-empty locker room and slammed bad-temperedly out the back door. A woman would be out of her mind to take the risk of getting involved with Damon Hurst, with that mind-melting stare that could make her think she really wanted his kisses, wanted his touch, wanted his—
“It’s about time.”
Cady froze.
“I was beginning to wonder whether you were moving in.” Damon stepped out of the shadows into the pool of light outside the door. He wore jeans and an open-collared paisley shirt under his leather jacket. With his hair loose, his jaw dark with a full day’s growth, he looked like an artist who’d escaped his garret. The naked bulb overhead threw his eyes into shadow.
Nerves, anticipation, confusion. Cady swallowed. “I had things to do."
“We
