away before turning completely. “No certificate.”
My jaw falls in shock. I don’t think I can call it disappointment. I have never loved this class. So why am I pissed the hell off?
“Come back next month if you want to take this class seriously,” he says as he walks away.
Rage fills my body, causing my muscles to launch forward in his direction. “Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” I step around him, causing him to stop walking. “Look, I may not be your star pupil, but I deserve that certificate.”
“Oh yeah?” He leans in closer, and I’m fully aware that every eye in the room is on us now. “How so?”
I let out an outraged breath. Is he serious? “Because, Desmond, I’ve put in the time. I made the damn dish. I did everything except kill the poor lobster.”
“Yet you’d eat one?”
I growl in frustration. “It’s not the same thing.”
He shrugs. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I have rules, and I stick to them. If you can’t prepare a gourmet meal from scratch, then you can’t take home the certificate. Simple as that. What do you care anyway? You don’t even want to be here.”
“But I have been here. Every damn Saturday for the last three months.”
“The good news is you don’t need to retake all three months. One month will do.”
“What?” I screeched.
He rights his shoulders. “That’s the deal.”
“You’re such a prick.”
The corner of his mouth tips up as he backs away. “I’ve been called worse.”
It’s official. I may have disliked the guy before, but now I fucking hate Desmond Blake.
When One Door Closes
Desmond
Maggie was the first one to leave class, and I would be lying to myself if I denied the fact that I hated to see her walk away. She’s a feisty one, enjoyably so. Getting a rise out of her has become the highlight of my Saturday classes. When I first laid eyes on the bronze-skinned vixen with sun-kissed hair three months ago, I couldn’t stop sneaking glances. She was the definition of gorgeous: tall, slender yet curvy frame, bold stare, full pouty lips. She looked like one of the girls on my pinup calendar from when I was in high school and far too curious for my own good. But it became clear after a few short weeks that whatever charm I’d initially had on her had already waned.
The more I learned about the former LA model was enough to keep my disappointment short-lived. For one, Maggie hates my kitchen with a vibrant passion. Two, she dresses like she’s expecting a runway show to pop up at any moment. Three, the permanently poised look about her tiptoes the line between arrogance and class. Nothing would be wrong with any of the above if it didn’t come with a flashing neon sign that screams disrespect for me and the cooking school I practically built with my own two hands.
“Hey,” Gretta, my assistant, says as she rushes over to me with a flushed face.
“What’s up?” I mumble without looking up. I have my camera poised in my hands, and I’m snapping pictures at every angle imaginable of my finished ravioli dish. One day, I’ll do something with all these photos, but for now, I like to take the best ones and hang them on the walls of Edible Desire.
“Is it okay if I jet? I’ve got this school thing that I can’t miss.”
I look around at the mess left behind by everyone and let out a frustrated sigh. What can I say? No? “Again? The materials for the new shelving finally came in, and I was going to work on the storage closet tonight.”
“I’m sorry.” Her face appears crestfallen, like she’s genuinely sorry, which she might be. But she’s not sorry enough to avoid repeating the same behavior day after day. “I can come in tomorrow to clean everything.” Her eyes float around the room, and I can practically see the dread buried beneath her expression.
I wave her away while pulling the camera and strap over my head and setting them gently on the front counter. “I’m not letting the mess sit for a day. Just go. Good luck. Maybe warn me next time?”
She lets out a relieved breath and nods. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
She rushes off, and the front door closes, leaving me alone to finish my photo session before I pick up a rag to start cleaning. Lucky for Gretta, I’m in a good mood. I usually am after I