The smug challenge in his tone can’t be ignored, and neither can the rattling in my chest as our fierce eyes meet. His are a sharp blue. Mine are a shade of light brown that the camera always loved. The mere fact that this guy can get under my skin is starting to bother me more than his bad jokes.
“Ignore him, Mags,” Monica says softly. “He just loves to get you all flustered. I think he likes you.”
I bark out a laugh and follow my sister to our side-by-side stations. “We’re not in kindergarten, M. Twenty-six-year-old men don’t tug ponytails and joke about your incompetencies. Real men will let you know they like you. They’ll call you on the phone, open your doors, compliment you for all the little things. Real men act like fucking gentlemen.”
Monica bites her lip around her laugh. “It’s good to see you still have your Southern roots.”
I smile at that, feeling warmth in my chest just thinking about back home where we grew up in Texas.
“Couldn’t shake these boots from me even if you tried.”
She grins, and for a split second, I forget that I’m supposed to be mad at her for dragging me here. At the end of the day, my sister is my best friend. She’s the only person who will ever understand the real me and where I came from. She’s the only one who could ever understand the hurt we shared together as young girls. And I would do anything for her, including suffering through another dreadful cooking class.
I look at the empty cooking station in front of me and know I need to suck it up. “All right, one last session of torture, and then you’re buying me a drink. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Hey, Maggie.”
I jump at the deep voice and turn to find Desmond resting against my cooking station with a wolfish grin. My entire body instantly heats. His bulky arms are clearly visible beneath his short-sleeved black shirt. His teeth are white enough to belong in a toothpaste commercial. And the man looks so good in an apron that I won’t be able to look away if I try. I don’t even attempt to.
“Desmond,” I greet with all the syrupy charm I can muster. “I can’t imagine what I did to deserve the honor of your close proximity.”
He tilts his head in a gesture that tells me he’s accepting my challenge. Banter. Insults. Witty comebacks. It’s our thing, which somehow makes this class a little bit more bearable.
“Just thought you should know, I looked you up online the other day. Monica mentioned you used to model, and I was curious.”
No. My heart rate spikes with fear of what he’s getting to. The amusement in his expression nearly confirms it all.
“And I found a very interesting video,” he continues, his arrogance starting to smell like a bad cologne.
Shit. I haven’t even told Monica about my fall on the runway, not that she would breathe a word about it to anyone. But she’s been so consumed in her own love life that I haven’t even attempted to broach the subject. In fact, I’d hoped that video would just disappear right along with my past.
But Desmond knows. Desmond looked me up online and found the fucking viral video. He surely had a laugh at my expense.
“Hope you got enough material for your spank bank because those days are behind me.”
“Oh, I got enough material all right, but not for my spank bank.” He chuckles. “I had no idea you were so viral. Why didn’t you tell us?”
He doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t call me out, but he says enough for me to know that he saw too much. Then he winks and backs away from my station like he didn’t just poke at one of my deepest, freshest wounds.
He points a finger at my shirt. “Don’t forget to put on your apron. Wouldn’t want you to ruin those fancy clothes.”
10 minutes later
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I shriek as Desmond walks away after setting a pinchy crawler at my workstation. With his little beady black eyes and long thick whiskers, the lobster looks more like a character from The Little Mermaid than a meal I’m supposed to prepare. I just know he’s going to start singing and dancing at any moment.
“Um,” I call out, not daring to look away from the moving critter. “It’s still moving.”