That was the kind of guy Zain was. The kind of life he led. It was a life I didn’t want to get tangled up in.
It was better to just stay away. To keep my distance.
In fact, I had resolved to keep my distance so much that when I arrived at my next baking class, I approached the instructor, first thing.
“Excuse me?” I asked him. “Would it be possible to switch baking stations?”
The instructor, who looked every bit the French chef with his traditional apron and hat, barely paid me any attention as he flipped through a ream of papers.
“If there is a free station, you may take it,” he said in his accented English.
I looked around. The classroom was full. Every station already had a student situated behind it, except for mine and the one next to me. The one that Zain had claimed.
With a sigh, I went to my usual station. I glanced at the doorway every few seconds as I waited for class to start. My shoulders raised higher and higher in tense anticipation until they were nearly touching my ears.
But Zain didn’t show up.
I tried not to feel disappointed, but I couldn’t help it. Despite my intention to stay away from him, a small part of me wanted to see him again. The part of me that liked to needle him, and tease him, and bring his ego down a notch.
I had fun with Zain; I couldn’t deny it. And I also couldn’t deny the effect he had on me. Grinding my hips down against his had only been meant to taunt him, but it had sparked something deep inside me. A flame of arousal that hadn’t since been extinguished.
That slight tinge of disappointment didn’t fade as I attempted — and failed — to make a cheese soufflé. It wasn’t like I thought I’d have done any better if Zain had been here, but at least I might have felt a little less glum. Everyone else in the classroom seemed to have no problem with today’s task. If Zain had been here I probably would have had fun even though I’d ruined the savory dish.
I was cleaning up my station, which meant cleaning up the scorched and deflated mess I’d made, when I was approached by the girl who had asked Zain for a selfie.
“Excuse me?” she asked nervously.
“Yes?” I replied when she didn’t say anything else.
She took a breath as if gathering her courage.
“Are you friends with Zain Weston?” she blurted out.
“Friends?” I blinked at her. I wasn’t sure how to answer. We weren’t exactly friends. Flirty acquaintances, maybe. “No, we’re not.”
“He seemed to already know you,” she said.
“We’ve met before,” I explained.
Her eyes lit up.
“Are you in the music industry, too?” she asked.
Hardly. I wondered where she was going with all this.
“I met him at one of his concerts,” I told her. “My friend had VIP tickets.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I thought maybe you were close.”
“Why?” I asked, tensing up again.
She looked hesitant as she stood there wringing her hands.
“I’m doing a silent auction at a fundraiser for a charity I volunteer for,” she said. “I was wondering if he would maybe sign something I could auction off. But I don’t want to bug him. I know how annoying it must be to always be approached by fans.”
It was a sweet request. I lowered my guard, easing my raised hackles.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind doing something like that,” I told her.
