James gave a low whistle under his breath. “Wow, these must be some very rowdy after-hours plans for you to look that guilty. I take it Gwen has schemed something to cheer you up?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to dwell on her roommate’s dire warnings. “Nothing like that. I’m just grabbing a late dinner with Heath.”
“Heath Jensen? Nice.” He bumped her shoulder with his own. “But I’m a little miffed you haven’t mentioned until now that something’s going on.”
An automatic protest sprang to her lips, but she stopped herself from assuring him that she and Heath were platonic buddies. After all, the plan was for people to think there was something between the two of them, right? “I ran into him at the party Saturday,” she said. “And our encounter took a...surprising turn. I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure what will happen yet.”
James’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “Well, go find out.”
* * *
AS THE ELEVATOR slowly made the climb to what Heath jokingly called his seventh-floor penthouse, Phoebe tried to ignore the mirrored doors. Even though she’d changed out of her kitchen uniform of double-breasted jacket, elastic-waisted dark pants and pin-striped baker’s cap, no one was going to mistake her for a femme fatale. Her face, devoid of makeup, was still flushed from hours in a hot kitchen, and her loose bun was trying to escape its confines via frizz. The black skirt with dark metallic polka dots was cute, although a conservative length that stopped just above her knees; the loose blouse she wore over a copper-colored tank top was mostly shapeless. And her flat scandals screamed sensible.
As the doors parted, panic flitted through her. A plan that had seemed almost reasonable yesterday morning suddenly seemed insane. How could anyone make her a seductress? Gwen was right. This is a huge mistake.
Embarrassment churning in her stomach, she almost turned to go. She could call Heath from her car and tell him something had come up—work, or a headache, or alien abduction. But aren’t you sick of always trying so hard to avoid mistakes?
She’d spent the better part of her adolescence feeling like she was a mistake. Her mother certainly hadn’t planned to get pregnant as a teenager. The woman’s constant dire warnings, intended to keep her daughter from repeating her bad choices, had left Phoebe terrified of doing anything wrong. Phoebe had wanted to be the perfect daughter, to atone for her existence. And hadn’t she tried to be the perfect girlfriend to Cam? That sure as hell hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Anger heated her skin, and she ripped the blouse that suddenly felt claustrophobic over her head, shoving it into her shoulder bag.
Every time she put a dessert in the oven, she hoped it would turn out perfectly. But sometimes soufflés fell and crème brûlée torches led to fire extinguishers. Was that a reason to stop cooking?
The door swung open, startling her from her thoughts. Heath stood barefoot in a pair of dark slacks, his royal blue shirt untucked and rolled up at the sleeves. “I thought I heard the elevator.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you planning to come inside?”
She lifted her chin. To hell with being afraid—maybe it was time to start making some mistakes. “You bet your ass I am.”
HEATH STEPPED ASIDE to let in Phoebe, assessing her mood. He’d heard the elevator in the hall ding almost five minutes ago, but no knock had followed. He’d assumed that meant Phoebe was having second thoughts, yet there wasn’t a trace of hesitation in her body language as she marched into the loft, her posture regal and her shapely arms displayed to full advantage by a silky tank top.
His apartment often impressed his dates. This would be when the oohs and aahs took place. Phoebe, however, had been here a dozen times. She didn’t gush over the skyline view through the floor-to-ceiling window or the gleaming hardwood floors or the blown-glass sculptures that added splashes of vibrant color against the white leather furniture. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—Heath couldn’t help noticing the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her top.
“Mmm. I love the smell of fresh basil.”
“Hope you like the way it tastes, too.” He led her to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by a marble-topped counter. “My plan is to sear scallops and serve them alla caprese.”
Taking a seat atop one of the bar stools, she sighed happily. “It’s so decadent having someone cook for me. When you’re a chef, you’re used to doing the food preparation, not just at work but for family and friends.”
“Cam’s an executive chef. Didn’t he cook for you?” The question was an automatic response to her words, but he regretted asking. The last thing he’d intended was to bring up the guy who’d jilted her, not when she was looking so relaxed and happy.
“Frequently. But it was...” She paused, considering. “When he had me try new dishes, it was a matter of wanting my professional opinion on how to make his creation better. He called me his muse. It sounded romantic,” she said in a small voice. “But maybe it was just a glorified term for taste tester.”
For a second, Heath hated his business partner almost as much as he hated the self-doubt on Phoebe’s face. “Well, I don’t have any ‘creations’ I need to perfect. All I have is a limited culinary repertoire I use in a feeble attempt to impress women who turn me on.” He reached across the counter, tipping her chin up with his finger. “Gorgeous redheads, for instance, who kiss like pagan goddesses.”
She blinked at that, but then shook her head. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”
“Have you met me? I have no shame. I do, however, have excellent taste in wine. Can I pour you some of the pinot gris I have chilled?”
“Yes, please. In a really large glass.”
“Thirsty? Or nervous?”
“Trying to drown out my roommate’s voice in my head. Gwen thinks this is a terrible idea, my asking for your help.”
“Just because you asked doesn’t mean you’re committed to accepting it. You can leave anytime.” The words scraped against his throat—he wanted her here—but he made himself voice the disclaimer. He was willing to take advantage of the situation that had presented itself, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her.
“I know.” Her eyes locked with his.
Did she feel the same blast of heat that surged through him? The cold bottle of wine was a welcome respite. He poured two glasses, obligingly filling hers almost to the rim.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not just for the wine or dinner, but for all of this. It’s not like I can make Cam jealous by myself, right?”
“So you’ve decided you definitely want to win him back?” He reached for one of the skillets hanging over the kitchen island and smacked it down on the burner.
“I don’t know. My emotions are all jumbled up. But there was a married couple who came into the bar last week to celebrate their tenth anniversary—the man had the pianists serenade his wife with a song from their wedding. When I see people like that, part of me still imagines me and Cam ten or fifteen years from now. I thought he was my future.” She sipped her wine. “I suppose you never think about the future.”
“Sure I do. All the time.” He turned on the gas burner, then poured olive oil into the skillet. “Most of my waking hours lately have been spent thinking about scouting restaurant locations in Miami.” He’d made some excellent contacts over the past few years attending the South Beach Food and Wine Festival, and he’d identified several flourishing neighborhoods that might be a good fit for his and Cam’s second venture.
“I meant a romantic future,” Phoebe said. “Do you think you’ll ever want more than hot one-night