KINSLEY:
I’m too hot and bothered. In fact, I need a cold shower. If you were here, you could join me.
REAPER:
Damn, woman, you’re killing me. I’ve got to get back to work.
KINSLEY:
See you soon.
Chapter 32
Kinsley
Baking Helps Me Think
The video Alek sentwouldn’t stop looping through my head. His mouth. That voice. That look. Torture. Pure, maddening torture. I tossed my phone on the bed and pushed to my feet. Baking. That was what I needed—flour, butter, focus. If I was going to put together a proper list of hard and soft limits, I needed something to do with my hands. Something to slow my pulse.
I stepped into the hallway and waved down the maid who’d helped me unpack. “Renee, quick question for you.”
“Yes, of course. What can I help you with?”
“I’m wondering about the chef in this house?”
She cast a peculiar look my way. “Chef Bonfils is world-renowned. He attended the Westminster Catering College.”
I laughed. “No, I’m sure he is a wonderful chef. I was wondering if he allowed stragglers into his kitchen, or is he extremely territorial?”
She grimaced. “He’s actually quite a terror, and I’m afraid to say territorial would be an accurate description of him.”
“Oh, well, that’s unfortunate,” I mumbled.
“Yes, he has been known to make every one of his assistants cry. Even the current one still has at least one breakdown a week. Why are you asking?”
“I’d like to bake something—anything, really. When I get emotional, I sing, when I get anxious, I dance, and when I need to think things through, I bake.”
“Ah, I see. You have something you need to think through, then. I suppose you could give it a go, as long as you don’t mind crying.” She pointed toward the kitchen, and I followed her direction.How bad could it be? Right?
I walked in, and it was like a well-oiled machine. Everything was meticulous. The appliances were spotless and shined like they were brand new. It was an enormous kitchen. Neither Chef Bonfils nor his assistant had seen me yet, so Icleared my throat. Chef Bonfils whirled around, then sized me up. He was a tall, lanky man, probably around fifty, and had a full head of short gray hair.
He was wearing a full long-sleeved work shirt and apron. His black pants were perfectly creased, and the assistant sported the same look. He looked every bit the professional Renee boasted about.
“My kitchen is off-limits to the likes of you, young lady. I’ll have no spies in my space. Out.”
With a dramatic flourish, he whipped off the towel that had been draped over his shoulder and turned it into a weapon of dismissal, flapping it toward me like a flag of war. His thick French accent made the whole thing feel like I’d wandered into a live-action cartoon.
I bit back a chuckle as his assistant looked nervous.
“Chef, I can assure you—”
“Mrs. Patterson sent you, didn’t she? That evil woman, forever trying to one-up me. I willnothave it.” An angry blush spread across his face.
“Not at all, Chef. I was hoping to make a dessert for Aleksandr tonight. He’s coming for dinner,” I said shyly, lowering my eyes.
“Master Alek has a very refined palette, and you look entirely too young to possess the skills necessary to bake anything other than silly American recipes. I’ve heard all about you.” He looked down his nose, wrinkling it almost.
“Please, Chef. I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll bake anything, you name it, and I’ll bake it, provided you have the ingredients.”
