Free The Chef's Choice by Kristin Hardy Page B

really blame the kiss on his smile. She could have stopped him if she’d really wanted to. She hadn’t. He’d been right that day in the greenhouse; they’d both been wondering about it. And if she’d been awash in nerves when he’d approached, she’d been awash in anticipation, too.
    Making a noise of frustration, Cady picked up another pony pack. The problem was that her workdays were largely physical. Normally, that suited her to a T because she was largely physical, too. Now, though, it merely provided her with way too much time to think.
    About Damon. About the kiss. And about all of the other things she was missing.
    Her hands slowed. What would it be like to have him touch her, really touch her? What would it be like to have those strong, nimble hands on her skin? She’d had so little experience—kisses with a few men, a pair of memorably disappointing encounters in bed. How would it be with a man who knew about pleasure? And if he could take her so far with a kiss, what else could he do?
    The back of her neck prickled and she reached back to rub it absently. Bad question to ask. It was pointless—dangerous, more like—to think about sex or anything else with Damon Hurst. Like a deer trying to have a relationship with a hunter, and she wasn’t the one wearing the camouflage vest. He was here and gone, and she needed to remember that.
    Cady rubbed her neck again and shifted uneasily. The prickling hadn’t gone away. Even though it was a cloudy day, even though she was working under the shade of the tall pines that grew between inn and restaurant, the back of her neck felt hot.
    Just her imagination, Cady told herself. But she couldn’t keep from glancing over her shoulder.
    Only to see Damon in his apron, leaning idly against the wall by the back door. He looked tall, lean, insouciant. His teeth flashed white as he tapped the side of his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Face flaming, she turned hastily back to her marigolds.
    It had been going like that all week. The more she tried to avoid him, the more he was everywhere she looked. No matter how early she dropped in to work the grounds or tend the greenhouse or get supplies for her workday, she always seemed to run into him. He’d be heading into work or coming back from the farmers’ market or taking a break from the heat of the kitchen, but he’d be there.
    The fact that she’d been able to avoid talking to him so far was scant comfort. She could read it in his eyes as he nodded or winked or gave one of those half-assed salutes: he hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time.
    The thought made her stomach tighten.
    Enough, she thought impatiently and pressed another marigold into place, using her knuckles to tamp down the earth around each plant. She didn’t need to think about it anymore. What she needed to do was—
    A thump and a curse from one of the guesthouses had her glancing over. It was her father, carrying one of the inn’s Adirondack chairs up the stairs to the guesthouse deck, and not having an easy time of it.
    She frowned as he stopped halfway up, leaning on the railing, breathing hard. “Dad?” she called, rising to her feet. “You want some help?”
    She didn’t wait for the answer but jogged over anyway. By the time she got there, he was standing again and waving her away. “Everything’s fine, hon. I was just catching my breath. This fool cold I’ve had just won’t go away.” He wiped his forehead.
    She caught hold of the bottom of the chair and began carrying it up with him. “Don’t you have someone who can do this?” She shook her head before the words were even out. “Okay, dumb question, never mind. But seriously, maybe you ought to give it a rest. You don’t look so hot.”
    â€œI’m fine,” he puffed. “I just need to kick this bug.”
    â€œYou just need to stop