surrendered of her own free will.”
She silently studied him, the fire fading from her stare, but something else flicked in those dark eyes. And that “something” had him easing a step closer, yet stopping short of invading her personal space.
“To answer your other question,” he murmured. “Why did I single you out? Your first guess was correct. Because you are so beautiful I couldn’t help following you around this over-the-top ballroom filled with people who possess more money than sense. The women here can’t outshine you. They’re like peacocks, spreading their plumage, desperate to be noticed, and here you are among them, like the moon. Bright, alone, above it all and eclipsing every one of them. What I don’t understand is how no one else noticed before me. Why every man in this place isn’t standing behind me in a line just for the chance to be near you.”
Silence swelled around them like a bubble, muting the din of the gala. His words seemed to echo in the cocoon, and he marveled at them. Hadn’t he sworn he didn’t do pretty words? Yet it had been him talking about peacocks and moons.
What was she doing to him?
Even as the question echoed in his mind, her head tilted back and she stared at him, her lovely eyes darker...hotter. In that moment, he’d stand under a damn balcony and serenade her if she continued looking at him like that. He curled his fingers into his palm, reminding himself with the pain that he couldn’t touch her. Still, the only sound that reached his ears was the quick, soft pants breaking on her pretty lips.
As ridiculous as it seemed, he swore each breath slid under his clothes, swept over his skin. He ached to have each moist puff dampen his shoulders, his chest as her fingernails twisted in his hair, dug into his muscles, clinging to him as he drove them both to the point of carnal madness.
The growl prowled up his throat and out of him before he could contain it.
“I—I need to go,” she whispered, already shifting back and away from him. “I—” She didn’t finish the thought, but turned and waded into the crowd, distancing herself from him.
He didn’t follow; she hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t said yes, either. And though he’d caught the desire in her gaze—his stomach still ached from the gut punch of it—she had to come to him.
Or ask him to come for her.
Rooted where she’d left him, he tracked her movements.
Saw the moment she cleared the mass of people and strode in the direction of the double doors where more tray-bearing staff emerged and exited.
Saw when she paused, palm pressed to one of the panels.
Saw when she glanced over her shoulder in his direction.
Even across the distance of the ballroom, the electric shock of that look whipped through him, sizzled in his veins. Moments later, she disappeared from view. Didn’t matter; his feet were already moving in her direction.
That glance, that look. It’d sealed her fate.
Sealed it for both of them.
Shay Camille Neal pushed through the doors leading into the huge, industrial kitchen that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Michelin-star restaurant. With a world-famous chef renowned for his temper as well as his magic with food, a sous chef and army of station and line cooks bustling around the stainless steel countertops and range stoves, the area hummed with activity.
Under ordinary circumstances, she would’ve been enthralled, attempting to soak up whatever knowledge she could from the professionals attending. But the current circumstances were as far from ordinary as chicken nuggets were from coq au vin.
First, as a member of one of the oldest, wealthiest and most influential families in Chicago, she usually attended the Du Sable City Gala as a guest, not a server. But when her best friend, Bridgette, called her earlier in the afternoon sounding like a foghorn had replaced her voice box, Shay had agreed to take Bridgette’s place as a member of the catering staff. Though her friend owned and ran a fledgling food truck business, she still helped mitigate expenses and pay her personal bills with jobs on the side. The position with this particular catering company was one of her regulars, and Bridgette couldn’t afford to lose the gig.
Shay had planned on skipping the gala, anyway. Facing a night at home with another binge of House of Cards on Netflix versus actually working in the periphery of a famous chef, the choice had been a no-brainer. Besides, Bridgette had assured Shay that most of her duties as an assistant to the line cooks would keep her in the kitchen.
Still, she’d donned a wig, dark brown contacts and glasses, as well as Bridgette’s uniform. Because while she’d decided to skip out on the social event of the season, her older brother, Trevor, and his fiancée, Madison Reus—Senator Julian Reus’s only daughter—were attending. Trevor already didn’t approve of Shay’s friendship with Bridgette. If he caught Shay doing anything less-than-becoming of the Neal name, especially because of her best friend, he would lose it. And Shay was pretty certain he would consider prepping vegetables and serving champagne cardinal sins.
In her defense, though, when the catering supervisor shoved a tray of sparkly wine at her and ordered her to make the rounds of the ballroom, she couldn’t exactly say no.
Still, everything should’ve been fine—would’ve been fine—if not for one Gideon Knight.
Smoky desire coiled in her belly. She set the almost empty tray on one of the stations and pressed a fist to her navel. Not that the futile gesture extinguished the glowing embers.
Swallowing a groan, she strode toward the back of the kitchen and the employee break room. Shutting the door behind her, she entered the bathroom and twisted the faucets, thrusting her palms under the gushing water. Her quick version of a cold shower. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she finished washing her hands, but afterward, instead of returning to the kitchen, she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. But it wasn’t her image she saw.
It was Gideon Knight.
They’re like peacocks, spreading their plumage, desperate to be noticed, and here you are among them, like the moon. Bright, alone, above it all and eclipsing every one of them.
She exhaled slowly, the words spoken in that all-things-secret-and-sinful voice echoing in her head. In her chest. And lower. With any other man, she would’ve waved off the compliment as insincere flattery that tended to roll off men’s tongues when they came across the heiress to one of the largest financial management conglomerates in the country. The compliments meant nothing, like dandelion fluff on a breeze. No substance and changing with the wind.
But not with Gideon Knight.
There had been a ring of truth in the blunt observation. As if his description of her wasn’t an opinion but fact. She’d just met him, but she couldn’t shake the sense that he didn’t dole out flowery compliments often. As he’d stated so flatly, he didn’t play games.
She believed him. But it only deepened her confusion over why he’d approached her of all people. To most of the attendees in the ballroom, she’d been invisible, inconsequential. Just another staff member there to serve them.
But
