I blink. "My perfume?"
"Yah. It smells like really fresh summer ones, very..." He pauses, tilts his head, runs his thumb across the skin of the fig he's holding. "Breezy. Green and fresh at the same time. The whole fig tree, I think."
"I had no idea you were such a perfume connoisseur," I say, trying for sarcasm but landing somewhere closer to flustered.
"I'm not." He laughs, setting the fig down on the counter and turning to face me fully. "But I am a chef. And scent is part of what we do, right? You learn to pay attention to how things smell. You get close, really close, because that's how you catch all the layers, all the complexity."
He leans in at that last part, close enough that I catch his own scent cutting through the kitchen smells of stock and herbs and tomatoes. Vetiver and sandalwood and a trace of smoke, like a bonfire that's been out for hours but left its ghost behind.
I look up at him and I feel like we aren't talking about figs or perfume anymore, like we've crossed into some other conversation without me noticing.
Or maybe it's justmymind wandering to other, less professional places. Warmth floods up the back of my neck and spreads across my cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the kitchen temperature. Even my pulse is hammering in my throat, so hard I'm certain he must be able to see it, and I pray he can't.
"Diptyque Philosykos," I stammer out, my voice coming out breathy. "It's a fig perfume from a French fragrance house. I've worn it for years because it's always reminded me of summers at my grandmother's."
His eyes drop briefly to my neck, to the exact spot where I spray my perfume every morning, and I feel that look like aphysical touch. Then they come back up to my eyes, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
"It suits you," he says.
I have no idea what to say to that, or how to respond to the way he's looking at me like he can see straight through every defense I've ever built, and I make the mistake of holding his gaze for a moment too long.
Somehow I never noticed what a nice brown his eyes are. Warm and amber-colored, like good bourbon held up to the light. I could drown in those eyes if I let myself, just sink right in and forget about opening night and my father and every plan I've ever made for my carefully controlled life.
I shake off this absurd thought and clear my throat, stepping back slightly to put some desperately needed distance between us. "So what are you planning to do with me—uh, I mean the figs?"
Oh my God.
Alex's mouth twitches and I could die right now. Please let something large fall on my head. A piano, a chandelier, the entire walk-in cooler, I am not picky. I would accept a meteor at this point. Anything to end this moment.
"Not sure yet," he says, mercifully letting that one sail past without comment, though the amusement in his eyes tells me he absolutely caught it. "Maybe roasted with miso butter and sesame alongside seared duck breast. Or kept dead simple, just split open with a spoonful of good ricotta and a drizzle of wild honey and some flaky salt. World's my oyster, right?"
I nod, but I can't shake the flustered feeling that has settled over me. As though I'm slightly off-balance, like the ground shifted two inches to the left when I wasn't paying attention. I've dated before, happily enough if never that seriously, but none of those men ever made me lose my train of thought by talking about scent profiles and looking at my neck.
Maybe it's the Napa air. All these vineyards and rolling hillsand golden afternoons doing their work on me. But I feel as though I'm getting dangerously close to doing something stupid.
Alex tilts his head. "Are you alright?"
"Uh yeah, I'm great," I lie. "And those are, well, those are good ideas. For the figs. Very good."
I add the last part lamely and he chuckles, and lifts the crate up to the shelf above the counter. The motion pulls his grey t-shirt up from his waistband, revealing a strip of tanned skin across his stomach and the line of muscle that cuts down from his hips in a V and disappears below his belt, leading right to his… I jerk my gaze back to the figs on the shelf.
I actually feel my mouth watering. From the figs. Obviously.
"I have to go back to prep," I say, and it comes out irritated, as if he's the one who asked me to come over here instead of me crossing the kitchen of my own free will. "The velouté still needs work."
He shrugs, looking completely unbothered by my sudden rudeness. "Sure. Let me know if you need anything."
I turn and walk back to my station, picking up my whisk and attacking the velouté with renewed focus. Tomorrow is opening night. I have a second course to perfect, a line to drill, and a career to prove I deserve. There is no room in any of that for flirting with Alex.
CHAPTER 7
Isabelle
I'm nearly done for the day, ready to crash in my cottage and hopefully get some sleep before opening night tomorrow. There’s still plenty to check and not much time to do it. The last of the prep crew has trickled out, and I'm doing my final walk-through of the kitchen, clipboard in hand, checking off each station as I go.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I suppress a groan, fishing it out. My father's name is on the screen, which is a surprise. He should be asleep in Paris right now, nine hours ahead.
Merde.