made Marc equal parts confused and pissed—at himself for not making sure Jeff had handled his shit. Marc assumed that Jeff had made it clear to all involved that after the divorce the menu would remain an asset of Pairing. He’d also assumed that when he finally saw Lexi again, the sexual pull between them would be gone.
He’d been wrong on all accounts.
Marc paused for a moment, just watching her. Elbows-deep in a saucepan, she whisked for a good three minutes, her forehead scrunching when she took a little taste with a spoon. Quickly she opened the cabinet to her left, reaching up on her tippy toes and tugging this morning’s ensemble of choice, a dark-blue tank top and striped cotton boxers, high enough up her body to expose a tiny strip of torso and a whole lot of leg.
Nope. The pull was still there, and he was still watching.
Marc swore and angled his chair so that he would be forced to stare at his computer, as though she wasn’t right behind the window, whisking her flambé or whatever, with her breasts gently swaying because she’d decided to roll out of bed this morning and forgo a bra—again.
The movement startled Wingman, who was sleeping under Marc’s desk and awoke with a grunt. He grunted again before rolling over to offer up his belly for a rub.
Marc gave it a valiant effort, staring at an e-mail from Natasha outlining exactly why she would be a brilliant pick to cater the Summer Wine Showdown. He’d put off his reply, hoping to find a solution that didn’t involve a clingy woman—a clingy woman he’d slept with.
He’d called every chef he knew and a few dozen he didn’t. Either they were booked or too damn expensive. His own chef, who was pissed that Marc still hadn’t hired him a sous chef, refused to do the event, claiming it wasn’t in his contract.
The easy solution would be to call Jeff, ask him to recommend someone local. More than a thousand spectators, members of the media, and celebrities were due to start arriving in just under a month, but no food had been ordered, and he didn’t have enough staff to handle the event—and he still hadn’t been able to call.
At first he told himself that it was because he didn’t want to interrupt Jeff’s honeymoon; his friend deserved a little alone time with his new bride after a hellish year. Then Marc watched, day after day, as Lexi struggled to find peace in the one place she used to thrive, and his reason for not calling was out of sheer preservation—of his and Jeff’s friendship.
Every time she stood and stared blankly at her ingredients, every time she sat at the table alone, only to leave her meal untouched and turn in early because he could tell she didn’t know what else to do, he formed another question for Jeff. Questions that, Marc knew, had answers he’d hate.
His only option was to hire Natasha. The more he thought about it, the more logical it seemed. She was talented in the kitchen, and although a little experimental for his taste—culinarily speaking—she was a simple solution to his professional problem.
Marc had wasted the past week staring out the window, accomplishing jack shit, and he knew that the town council and his brothers were going to be all over him if he didn’t nail down the food. And soon. All he needed was for Gabe to find out he’d turned down a reputable caterer because he hadn’t been able to keep his dick in his pants.
With a heavy sigh, Marc made his decision. Natasha wasn’t the perfect fit, but she was the best option he had. He’d opened her most recent e-mail and had read through most of it when a door slammed closed and echoed through the alley.
Wingman buried his snout under his front paws and whined.
“I know, buddy,” Marc said, ruffling him behind the ears and going to the window.
He and Wingman both watched as Lexi slowly made her way down the alley, feet bare, garbage bag in hand, and shoulders slumped in defeat. She opened the lid to the trash can and ceremoniously dumped the bag, most likely containing the entirety of what she’d been cooking up for the past two hours, inside. She was about to replace the lid when her back went rigid. She stopped, slowly turned her head, and—looked right at him.
“Shit.”
Marc jerked to his right, plastering his back against the wall. The