She wasn’t my usual type, and maybe that was why I was practically drooling and having to remind myself to cool it, not act like a teenager. She was so goddamned juicy. I couldn’t stop thinking about licking her, sucking her like a ripe fruit. I wanted to grab her ass hard with my fingers and bury myself in her chest. I’d never want to come up for air.
So I distracted myself by asking her questions, getting her talking. On the plane ride she told me about her family. Her parents were both artists and lived on some sort of a commune. They’d probably like my younger brother, Heath, a craftsman living in the wilds of Vermont. Caroline’s brother drifted around picking up various types of seasonal, outdoor adventurer jobs. And though she brightened up with pride discussing her little sister and how she was earning her nursing degree, I had to admit, I hadn’t been impressed with what I’d seen.
“How old is she?” I asked, remembering her pout over not getting a fresh-cooked meal placed in front of her.
“21.”
“And you cook her dinner every night?”
“Well, not every night,” she protested, giving herself away the second she did it by looking overly guilty.
“Was there that one time you had a fever of 103?” I teased.
She laughed at herself. “I know I spoil her a little. But she’s working really hard earning her degree. And our parents never exactly took care of her.”
“You’re working really hard. Who’s taking care of you?”
She looked at me and, not having a good answer, sipped her glass of wine. Thought so.
“What time do you wake up every day to get that bakery of yours going?”
She gave me a run-down of her daily schedule and, I had to admit, it impressed me. I obviously ran a much larger company valued at roughly a billion times her business’s worth, but I also had a well-trained team of people dedicated to keeping the enterprise running full steam ahead. She had herself.
I supposed if I saw her as a true adversary, I might have delighted in her vulnerability. As it was, I felt myself wanting to help her out. I’d done a lot over the past year to grow Heath’s fledgling art and furniture business. I’d seen first hand how much of a difference a few well-placed connections and resources could make. Plus, it would give me a reason to see this tasty treat of a woman again. I hadn’t even had her yet, but I already knew once wouldn’t be enough.
After we landed, a car took us from the airport over the bridge into the city. This time of day it didn’t take long. We were headed the opposite direction of most of the rush hour traffic.
“I’d better get something in my stomach before I have another.” She declined a glass of wine offered in the car. I had to admit, I liked how she thought. I wanted her nice and relaxed, maybe slightly tipsy, but I wanted her sober enough to feel every second with me. I planned to make the flight back up to Oregon one she’d always remember.
I took her hand and stroked her fingers, exploring them.
“What’s this?” I asked, looking at a small red mark on the side of her left index finger.
“Oh, a burn.” She dismissed it as if it were nothing.
“When did you get it?” It didn’t look bad, but had she taken care of it properly?
“I don’t even remember. It happens all the time.”
I brought her hand up to my lips and kissed it, gently. She held her breath as I did it, and then her eyelids dropped slightly as my tongue traveled down her palm, over to her wrist. I could feel her pulse picking up as I licked her. She smelled so good, like strawberries or cherries and cream and I wondered if she’d been baking with them earlier that day.
“Do you always smell so delicious?” I murmured, one hand on her bare knee, stroking just the start of her inner thigh with my thumb. I worked my way up her arm, kissing, tasting, up to her neck. She tilted back and purred.
“You feel so good,” I marveled, still trying to hold myself back but having less success. If she didn’t respond so eagerly, it would be easier to resist her. But when she melted like butter it was almost impossible not to dive in.
The car stopped. Reluctantly, I pulled myself away. I wanted her as my meal, but I guessed it made sense to eat an actual meal first.
The plain, unadorned brick front to San Francisco’s most expensive restaurant made it feel like you were in on a secret. A Michelin-award-winning secret, but nevertheless it added to the charm. With the feel of a warehouse, exposed piping ran along the thirty-foot ceilings. I was struck again by the difference between New York and San Francisco. Restaurants in my hometown liked to knock you over the head with a bold statement, something that would wow you and keep you talking whether you loved or hated it. San Francisco delighted in its understated lack of refinement, with its priciest restaurants deliberately using rustic wooden bowls and Mason jars to serve up exquisitely prepared courses.
Caroline seemed startled when the waitstaff began setting out our first course.
“Aren’t we going to order?” she asked.
“It’s a single menu,” I explained. With twelve courses, there should be plenty to please even the fussiest of eaters.
But Caroline wasn’t fussy. She delighted in each and every dish, the presentation, the flavors. With each one she grew more animated like a kid in a candy shop, asking questions about preparation and ingredients. Halfway through I excused myself and brought the executive chef over to our table to introduce him.
“Oh!” Caroline stood up to shake his hand, as excited as if she were meeting a celebrity. “You’re food is so amazing!”
“Caroline’s a pastry chef,” I explained, tooting her horn since I was pretty sure she wouldn’t do it herself.
“Oh, no,” she shook her head, but then I got to see her in her element, asking him how he got his inspirations, where he’d done his training. She had a voracious appetite for learning. It seemed to me the chef enjoyed the conversation as much as she did. He also enjoyed checking out her voluptuous figure. I couldn’t blame him, but I could escort him back to his kitchen. Then I returned to my woman so I could enjoy the view all by myself.
“That was amazing!” Caroline looked at me like I’d performed a miracle. “How did you get him to come over here?”
“I asked.” He probably would have come out eventually, anyway. In my experience, the best restaurants always knew how to welcome their best patrons. Complimentary extras and greetings from renown chefs were not exactly a novelty to me.
Caroline laughed and shook her head as if I’d said something remarkable. “Rich people are so funny.”
“What’s that?” Obviously, I was rich but I wasn’t used to people calling me out on it or commenting on my kind so directly.
“You just ask for stuff.” She sighed. “I guess it occurs to you to ask because you’re used to getting what you want.”
I nodded. She was probably right about that. But Caroline had such a bright spark in her. Didn’t she feel empowered to ask for what she wanted?
“That brings up a good point,” I reminded her “You had an assignment for tonight.”
“Are you my professor?” she asked, and I instantly got all the wrong images in my head. Her coming to me in a tiny skirt, asking for an extension on an assignment
. I’d have to take her over my knee and give her a firm spanking for being so naughty.
“I’m happy to teach you,” I informed her, my voice husky. “But I have to warn you, I have high expectations. And I can be a very firm disciplinarian.”
She gave a nervous laugh, a flush stealing over her skin. And she offered me so much skin, her shoulders and delicious chest, the exposed upper mounds of her breasts. She bit her lip, looking away, that mix of arousal and nervousness stirring my blood. I wondered just how inexperienced she was.
Clearing her throat, she steered us into safer territory. “So, you asked me to dream big,” she began, and she started telling me about her ideal store. Room for seating, bright lights, big windows, sleek and uncluttered but welcoming décor. In back, she really got into details. She knew exactly which six-burner chef’s stove she wanted, which refrigerator and freezer, the layout for her work spaces right down to the hanging rack of pots and pans over the prep island.
“Seems like you’ve got it all figured out,” I complimented her. She might not know it, but she had all the hallmarks of a successful entrepreneur. Passion and dedication plus planning down to every little detail.
“I’m adding to it all the time,” she explained. “Every time I see a cooking show or read a profile of a pastry chef.”
“Sounds like you’re really serious about this.”
“I am.” Despite the strength of her reply, doubt clouded her sweet face.
“But what?”
“No, I don’t mean to…” She trailed off, wrestling with her own self-doubts, perhaps wondering whether she should share them with me. “The problem is I don’t have any formal training.”
“But people like what you bake,” I reassured her. I’d seen some guys with Harvard MBAs who couldn’t navigate their way out of a paper bag, never mind a complex business deal. I’d also seen some self-starter entrepreneurs who kept pushing and pushing, challenges thrown in their way only serving to strengthen their resolve. They might not have formal degrees, but they never stopped until their dreams became reality. “You don’t always need the diploma.”