Free Hot Under Pressure by Louisa Edwards

Skye’s nerves like a jolt from a live wire. “And when we do, you’ll be mine again for one final night before I let you go.”
    Skye’s throat closed down tighter than a fist as everything low down in her body went taut and liquid with a sudden rush of unwelcome desire. Could she really risk this?
    Her self-preservation instincts were screaming at her to turn him down—but it was so terrifyingly easy to rationalize accepting. After all, as he’d said, either way it went, she’d get her divorce. And she really believed her team could beat any other group of chefs out there.
    Plus , whispered a tiny voice inside, don’t you want to find out if the reality of being touched by Beck lives up to your memories?
    Chances were, the memories were wildly exaggerated. Who knew? If she lost, she could find out that she didn’t respond to Henry Beck any more than she did to Jeremiah. Talk about a win/win situation.
    “Okay, fine. I accept the bet. With one condition.”
    He arched a brow as if he wasn’t convinced she was in any position to make demands, but said, “Go on.”
    “This stays between us. No locker-room talk with the rest of your team, no gossip.”
    The last thing Skye needed was to finally secure her quiet, quickie divorce, only to have Jeremiah hear all about it if he managed to show up to watch the finals as he’d promised. It was bad enough that everyone in the competition knew she and Beck were still married, after that humiliating public spectacle in Chicago.
    She could only thank her lucky stars that Eva Jansen had kicked the camera crews back to L.A. The last thing Skye needed was to have the details of her marital status broadcast across the airwaves.
    “Agreed,” Beck said, satisfaction smoothing his voice to a low growl. He gave her one of his rare smiles, and Skye was dismayed by how much it still lit her up inside to see that stern, grim face crease into an expression of happiness.
    Although this time, his happiness sent a bolt of fear straight through her chest.
    What had she gotten herself into?
    *   *   *
    Beck trusted his instincts. He’d had to start relying on them when he was just a kid, and they’d kept him alive and whole this long.
    He didn’t think those instincts had ever prompted him to do something this crazy before—but as he stared down at Skye Gladwell’s soft, flushed cheeks, her determined little chin and bright blue eyes, he couldn’t regret it.
    He could, however, ignore the voice inside that suggested he might’ve arranged this bet because there was more than a culinary competition and a backlog of sexual chemistry between Beck and his estranged wife.
    Luckily, he didn’t have much time to think about what other reasons he might have for not wanting to just give Skye her divorce, because he heard a voice shouting his name over the din of the farmers’ market crowd.
    Beck turned and threw up a hand in greeting, searching the sea of moving bodies for the familiar heads of his teammates. Spotting them over by the entrance to the indoor Ferry Building concourse, Beck glanced back to say goodbye to Skye, only to find she’d already gone.
    He couldn’t stop himself from scanning the crowd once more, this time for a small, strawberry-blonde woman, but she’d melted into the eddying current of foot traffic as seamlessly as if she’d had stealth training.
    Beck made his way over to his teammates, frowning at the way people scurried to get out of his way like they thought he might go on a rampage and start cracking skulls if they didn’t make space for him.
    There was a weird, empty feeling in his chest. He didn’t like it.
    Rubbing at his sternum, Beck caught up to Jules, Max, and Danny just as Jules held up her phone and said, “Oh, a text from Win came through while I was on the phone. He’s at the Blue Bottle Coffee stand inside. Let’s go grab him and then have a conference about what we’re each planning to cook for the challenge.”
    As Beck followed