Into the Fire by Amanda Usen Page A

side down at the exact same moment. The sizzle of fat sounded like his nerves felt standing so close to her.
    A few seconds ahead of him, she slid her chicken breast into the oven to finish cooking. “What’s it go with?” she asked.
    “I’ll show you.” He got out the triangles of polenta and seared them in a pan. They each pulled their chicken breasts out of the oven and checked them for doneness. She set hers aside, while he heated vegetables and sauce, then plated his dish and slid it into the window. He glanced at the clock and grinned. “Beat that.”
    Perry cursed.
    Lila was quiet, considering, then asked, “What’s your favorite thing about the dish, Jack?”
    He thought for a minute. “The herbs. The crispy chicken skin. It’s a warm dish. Comforting.” He could almost see wheels turning in her head.
    “What’s it need?” he asked. He had been asking himself that same question for a month now. His crew was silent, having stopped their heckling to listen.
    She stared at the chicken.
    He gritted his teeth, winced, and remembered his plan.
    She raised a fork to the chicken while he mentally removed all of her clothing except a lacy red thong that clashed with her hair. He stared at her breasts, full, bare and tipped with light pink nipples. His mouth watered at the memory, and he swallowed hard. He felt his fingers curl into fists as he fought the urge to reach for her. He lifted his gaze to her face and saw her looking back at him. Heat flared in her eyes.
    She cleared her throat. “I’m feeling fall in the air. Fire. Burning leaves. Indian summer. Corn. Yes, corn. We’re heading into fall soon, right?” She moved purposefully away from the line. He resisted the urge to follow her, needing a minute to recover from his thoughts. If he were a pile of leaves, he’d have already burst into flames. Had he imagined the answering fire in her eyes?
    She returned with an ear of corn, which she soaked with water then tossed on the grill. Then she disappeared into the storeroom for a minute and returned with a can of pumpkin. As soon as she got back to the sauté station, she reached underneath and grabbed chilies in adobe sauce. Silently, she went to work on the dish.
    Five minutes later, she put it in the window, transformed.
    He stared. It had basically the same plate components as his, but now it made him think of the late summer harvest. There were still root vegetables, polenta, chicken, and rosemary demi-glace on the plate, but she had added roasted corn and garnished the plate with a bit of husk, and there was pumpkin in the now-spicy sauce. It was exciting. Perfect. And it stuck in his throat.
    As his crew devoured the new dish, ignoring the plate he had made, he bent to whisper in Lila’s ear. “You know I hate you, right?”
    She tilted her head toward his. “Why? Because I’m brilliant? You knew that, Jack. That’s why you stole my competition recipes.” Her breath feathered his ear, and he hardened instantly. “That’s why you want me.”
    God help him, he did. He couldn’t move away. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and haul her against his body. It had taken her ten seconds to figure out what the dish needed. He’d tinkered with the chicken for months and made something utterly forgettable. It was infuriating—and arousing.
    She stepped away, leaving him in her sweet breeze.
    “Next,” he growled, glancing up at the menu. “Beef tenderloin medallions.”
    As he heated a pan, something tugged at his memory. “Wait—I didn’t steal your recipes. I stole a lie you spun out of thin air,” he reminded her.
    She frowned. “Mind your pan, hotshot. Your oil is smoking.”
    Her comment sparked a volley of helpful cooking advice from his staff as he laid the medallions in the pan. They howled with laughter when he responded—with his middle finger. Lila slid her pan into the oven and bent to peer into the reach-in.
    Jack kept his beef on the stove, wanting it rare,