Free The Chef's Choice by Kristin Hardy

no to. “What, nobody in the entire country sells them?”
    â€œThe closest supplier I could find is a guy out in the Midwest.”
    â€œAnd let me guess, you want local.”
    â€œBingo,” he said. “A lot of other chefs do, too. You know, this wouldn’t just help the Sextant,” he added thoughtfully as he wandered away from her along one of the rows. “It could work for you, too. You could probably supply microgreens to half the restaurants in Portland, in New Hampshire, shoot, maybe even Boston. You could turn a tidy little profit. Help you pay for this nice greenhouse.” Damon glanced over at her as he rounded the end of the bench.
    â€œWhat makes you think I need help?”
    He tapped a hanging basket with his fingertips as he walked, setting it swinging. “I know it’s new, and judging by the look of your truck, you’re not exactly rolling in dough.” He pushed another basket so it swayed. “And for a person who’s running a business, you sure seem to spend a lot more time around here than you do on job sites.”
    â€œI didn’t realize you were paying such close attention,” she returned tartly, reaching for more petunias to transplant.
    â€œI always pay attention.” He nudged the next basket in line to sway with the rest. “Especially to people who interest me.”
    â€œOr to people who can do things for you.”
    â€œOr in your case, both.” He came up short in front of her. “I find myself thinking about you, Cady McBain, a lot. Why is that?”
    â€œYou’re bored.” She would have backed up but the wood of the workbench was behind her. “You’re stuck in a small town.”
    â€œIt’s not boredom.”
    â€œAnd it’s not about me.” She tried for dismissive but her voice came out oddly breathless.
    â€œOh, I think it’s very definitely about you. I keep finding myself wondering what it would be like to kiss you. I’m cutting up fruit and I’m wondering about the way you taste, about the way you always smell like apples and cinnamon.” He rested his hands against the bench on either side of her, trapping her. “When you’ve got a job that involves sharp knives, spending a lot of time wondering isn’t very healthy.”
    Any reply she might have made dried up in her throat. He stood before her, his face a study in lines and planes. The ruddy glow of the afternoon sun coming through the greenhouse walls turned his skin golden, like that of some herald in an old painting. His eyes were hot and dark on hers.
    â€œYou know this doesn’t make sense,” she said unsteadily.
    â€œProbably not, but we’re both wondering about it.” He moved in, stepping between her feet.
    â€œI’m not your type.”
    His fingers slipped into her hair. “I’d say that’s for me to decide.”
    â€œYou’re not my type.”
    â€œI think I can change your mind,” he whispered. And then his mouth came down on hers.
    If he’d been gentle, she might have been able to ward him off. Perhaps he realized that, because he gave her no chance to think, just dragged them both into the kiss.
    Heat. Friction. The warmth of mouth, the slick of tongue. The pleasure burst through her in a furious blend of taste and texture until it was all she could focus on. He kissed her as though he owned her, as though he’d watched her and learned every nuance of her. She had no defense for it, no way to hold back, and even if she had she was too dazed to want to. The hand she’d pressed against his chest to stop him curled into the fabric of his tunic, because she was suddenly afraid that if she didn’t hold on, she might go spinning away into a hot madness.
    Cady had kissed guys before. She’d always figured it wasn’t a big deal; she knew what it was about. She knew nothing, she realized as she tasted Damon, inhaled the