Eat, Play, Lust (Entangled Flirts) (3 page)

Dressed and dry, Cami returned to the scene of the crime. Her oven still wasn’t done preheating. She cast a longing look at it before turning to the wall beside the fridge. She stared at the photo without blinking, trying to sear the image into her brain.

“Control,” she said out loud to herself. “Control your urges or you’ll end up like that again.”

She reached out and touched the picture, not caring that she smudged the glass with fingerprints. Her mom had posted the picture there when Cami first moved in, and Cami lacked the guts to take it down. It was a photograph of Cami that first year of college, carrying the freshman fifteen.
Fine,
call it the freshman forty. She was sitting at a picnic table in an oversized T-shirt and baggy sweatpants that did little to hide her voluptuous form.

She wasn’t smiling for the camera.

Cami turned away from the picture and moved through the living room toward the door leading to the yoga studio. She trotted back downstairs to see Paul emerging from the dressing room, rubbing his head with a towel. He wore plaid shorts, a wide grin, and a T-shirt advertising a local brewery.

Cami quirked an eyebrow at the shirt. “A gourmet chef who likes beer?”

“Are you kidding? This is Bend. Around here, beer
is
gourmet. I do a six course dinner at the restaurant with different beers paired with each dish. $100 a head, and it sells out every time.”

“No kidding?”

“Nope. Craft beer is king. I’ve done the whole Bend Ale Trail three times since I moved here. The IPA is amazing in this town. Are you a fan?”

Cami shrugged. “Not really. Too many empty calories.”

“Calories?” He snorted. “You don’t look like a woman who has to worry about that even a little.”

Cami flushed. “I have to work at it a lot. I have to watch what I eat, exercise, avoid overindulging, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm,” Paul said. “I’m not sure I could do that. I love good food.”

And I love
crappy
food
, Cami thought, picturing the Tater Tots on her counter upstairs.

“Stop by the restaurant sometime, my treat,” Paul said. “I’m cooking every Tuesday through Sunday evening. Let me know when you’re coming and I’ll make you something special.”

“I’ll do that,” Cami said, truly meaning it. She stuck her hand out for him to shake. “It’s been fun, Paul. I hope you enjoyed the lesson.”

“I enjoyed it very much.” He gripped her hand in his large, sturdy palm, not quite shaking it, but not quite holding it, either. “I really did.”

He smiled into her eyes, and Cami felt herself go warm all over. He continued holding her hand, and the tingling sensation moved beyond Cami’s hand and up her arm, across her shoulders, down her chest, toward her nipples—

“Take care.” She drew her hand back reluctantly and smiled at him.

“See you in Thursday’s class.”

He turned and headed out the glass door, and Cami closed it softly, flipping the lock. She watched him walk away, admiring the broad span of his shoulders and the solid, hefty silhouette of his body against the backdrop of the river.

God, he’s hot.

For once, she had to agree with her subconscious. If she’d thought Paul Hammond was attractive as a nameless face in the back of her yoga class, he was doubly hot now that she knew him better. Funny and smart and gorgeous with a self-deprecating humor that really put a girl at ease. The beard was sexy, too, and those eyes. And those hands—

Stop it. A classy foodie and a woman with a Tater Tot obsession? That’ll never happen.

Cami sighed and turned around. At least there was something to be excited about upstairs. She took the steps in a hurry, bounding into her apartment and yanking the oven door open. She reached inside and grabbed her baking sheet.

“Yeowch! Dammit!”

Oven mitts, idiot. Do you have to be so eager?

“Gimme a break, I’m no gourmet chef,” she said aloud. She dropped the cookie sheet on the counter and shook her burned hand. She needed to run it under cool water, but she could do that in a minute. The sooner she got the tots in the oven, the sooner she’d be able to pop one in her mouth, hot and crunchy, salty and steamy.

Nothing at all like mom’s health food.

Cami snatched a can of cooking spray and doused the sheet liberally. Grabbing the bag of tots, she upended it and spread them around in a neat, single layer. She rummaged through a drawer and found an oven mitt before prying open the oven door. Gingerly, she placed the sheet in the oven and closed the door with reverence.

She set the timer and sighed. 18 minutes. In just 1,080 seconds, she’d be in Tater Tot nirvana.

Only then did Cami realize her hand was flaming. She turned to the sink and switched on the faucet. As cool liquid pulsed over her palm, she thought about Paul in the river. The way his skin felt warm even in the icy water, his eyes laughing and unselfconscious even as water weeds tangled around their ankles.

She’d never kissed a man with a beard. What did that feel like?

Stop lusting after a client.

With a sigh, Cami reached for a water glass and filled it to the brim. Flipping off the faucet, she rummaged through the fridge for the lemon slices she kept stashed there. She sipped slowly, wondering if she’d ever take Paul up on his offer to visit the restaurant. She’d be out of her league food-wise, and then there were the calories—

Cami glanced at the oven. 14 minutes.

She took another sip of water and imagined the satisfying crunch yielding to a moist, hot interior and the heady fragrance of steamy potato. A gourmet chef would laugh at her junk-food obsession. Cami glanced back at the oven.

12 minutes.

She donned her oven mitt and pried open the door, craving a peek at them. Grabbing a spatula off the counter, Cami nudged them gently around the cookie sheet to make sure they browned evenly. Then she closed the oven door and set the spatula on the stovetop.

Bing!

Cami frowned at the oven timer. Really? The tots couldn’t be ready yet.

Bing!

Crap, the doorbell. She’d forgotten it had such a ridiculous tone. She turned toward the front of the house, reluctant to leave the tots unattended. Cami trotted to the front door, her bare feet making smacky sounds on the cork floor. She peered through the glass panel and sucked in a breath. Paul?

She flung open the door, shivering a little as they came face to face.

Well, more like face to chest. Holy cow, he was a big guy.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” Paul said. “I forgot my wet clothes on the floor of your dressing room.”

“It’s okay,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to the kitchen. “I can—um—wash them and give them back to you at your next lesson.”

He snorted. “No way am I letting you do my laundry. The last thing I want is for you to get stuck handling my underwear. Not that—”

“It’s okay, Paul, really.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “You’re my fitness instructor, not my housekeeper. Just give me thirty seconds to run into the studio and grab my clothes. I don’t want to ruin your nice cork floor with my soggy shorts.”

Cami hesitated, then lifted her hand to wave him inside. That’s when she realized she was still wearing her oven mitt.

“Nice mitt,” Paul said, grinning at her hand. “Whatcha baking?”

“Um—” Cami said, trying hard to think of a lie.

Curried tofu bars, homemade granola with flax seed, nutritious squash . . .

“Um—” she said again, and waited for the ground to swallow her up.

…

Paul studied Cami’s face, perplexed by her reaction to such a simple question. Judging by her expression, Paul might as well have asked how many dead bodies she had stashed in her freezer. She stared at him in horror, her cheeks flushing pink as she pressed her lips together. He waited a few beats for her to answer, but she seemed to have lost her ability of speech.

Pity, that. Paul had grown rather fond of her voice in the two months he’d been taking her classes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” Paul tried.

“No, it’s okay,” Cami said at last. “If we go fast, I’ve got time to grab your clothes before my oven dings.”

“I understand. Timing’s important with baking, especially if you’re doing something like a soufflé or quiche loraine or any sort of baked prawn dish.”

“Er, right.”

“I’m actually not much of a baker myself,” he prattled on, feeling a little idiotic, but not sure how else to fill the awkward silence. “Cooking is more my thing. Sautéing, broiling, braising, grilling—”

“Let’s get your clothes,” Cami said. “Come on in, it’s easier if we go through the living room instead of through the outside door.”

She led him through a small space adorned with polished wood floors and bright throw-pillows. Her furniture looked cozy and inviting, and there was a scrumptious aroma filling the air.

“Wow, it smells really good in here,” Paul said. “Whatever you’re baking must be delicious.”

“It is,” Cami agreed, shooting a glance at the oven as they passed her small, open kitchen with an inviting little breakfast bar. Paul squinted at the oven timer. Six minutes. He didn’t see signs of food prep—no cutting board, no bowls, no bottles of olive oil or dishes of sea salt. What was she making?

“Right this way,” Cami said, leading him to the top of her spiral staircase. She opened the door and flipped on the light switch. “Just head on down and grab what you need. Want me to get you a plastic bag for your wet things?”

“That’d be great.”

Paul turned and stepped carefully down the spiral stairs, wondering what was making Cami so jumpy. She’d seemed so poised out on the water, her lithe limbs bending into positions Paul couldn’t imagine attempting without removing several bones and downing six muscle relaxants. What had changed between then and now?

Paul found his clothes right where he’d forgotten them—
idiot
—and scooped them up into a damp ball. He turned and stepped out of the dressing room, pausing to inhale the scent of the yoga studio. Sage and lemongrass? He wasn’t sure, but it was the same fragrance he’d breathed in when Cami toppled into the river, tickling Paul’s nose with the end of her braid.

It was a great scent—definitely sage and lemongrass. He’d just gotten a shipment of fresh sage at the restaurant this morning and planned to make a lovely cream sauce. He wondered if Cami would enjoy it, maybe served over pillowy-soft tagliatelle with a side of prosciutto-wrapped melon and a glass of crisp pinot grigio. He’d love to see her eyes light up as he lifted a forkful to her lips.

Dream on, buddy.

He pivoted and strode toward the stairs, moving quickly back toward Cami’s apartment. He planned to knock, but she’d left the door wide open. He rapped once on the frame before stepping over the threshold into the small living space.

“Hello?” he called, peering into the kitchen.

He spotted her next to the oven, and she whirled around like he’d pinched her butt. Paul’s mind veered a little with that thought, so he almost didn’t register she had something in her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and Paul’s heart twisted in his chest.

“Cami? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Her cheeks turned pink and puffed out. “Hot!” she yelped, fanning her mouth with one delicate hand.

Paul fought the urge to grin as he grabbed an empty glass off the counter and filled it with cold water from the tap. “A little over-eager with the hot food?” He handed her the glass. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve done that, I’d buy myself a wood-fired pizza oven.”

Cami took a few big gulps of water before glancing at him with something that looked an awful lot like guilt. “I think I melted my tongue.”

Paul smiled. “Sometimes that’s worth it, depending on how much you love what you’re eating.”

“It was worth it,” she admitted, and took another sip of water. “Got what you need?”

He nodded and held up his damp clothes. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. There’s a plastic grocery sack on the counter there for your wet things.”

Paul grabbed the bag and stuffed in his swim trunks and T-shirt. He shoved the whole thing into his duffel bag and glanced at the oven timer.
Thirty seconds.
Was that enough time to say something witty and charming to impress her?

You’d be hard pressed to do that in thirty years.

Paul sighed. “I hope you enjoy your dinner. You must be having something delicious.”

“My favorite.”

“Yeah? A secret recipe?”

“Secret.” She nodded. “Yes, definitely.”

“I have a few of those. Want me to tell you one?”

Her lips quirked in a nervous smile. “Then it wouldn’t be a secret.”

“No, but you might share yours.”

Cami glanced over her shoulder at the oven timer. “I don’t share.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Now you’ve got me really curious.”

She turned back to him and frowned, nibbling the corner of her bottom lip. “Why do you care?”

He shrugged. “Just curious. I’m a chef, so I love everything related to food. I probably wouldn’t have cared much until you started being so secretive about it.”

Cami studied him for a moment longer, seeming to assess something. At last, she sighed. “You really want to know? Fine.”

She whirled around as the oven timer dinged. Grabbing an oven mitt off the counter, Cami flung open the oven with more force than necessary.

Paul frowned, feeling a little guilty at her response. “Cami, I was kidding. You don’t have to share your secret recipe and I don’t want to interrupt your—are those Tater Tots?”

She dropped the cookie sheet on top of the stove and folded her arms across her chest. It looked a little funny since she still wore the oven mitt, but she looked beautiful and defiant and strangely flushed.

“Tater Tots,” she confirmed with a nod. “At least two dozen, and I’m going to eat them all. Got a problem with that?”

Paul blinked. “Why would I have a problem with that?”

“
Because.
Because you’re a gourmet chef, and my mother is a health nut, and I’m gorging myself on junk food like a big, fat pig, that’s why.”

Her voice had risen two octaves, and Paul couldn’t figure out what was going on. Why was she so upset?