He crosses his arms against his chest. Perfectly tanned forearms jut from the rolled sleeves of his crisp white chef’s jacket. Saliva coats my mouth as I take him in. He looks like some sort of male model–chef hybrid. The relaxed way he leans against the metal edge of the stove, easy smile on his face, it’s more like a still from a glamorous photo shoot than a real-time moment in a busy kitchen.

“You say that like you’re surprised,” he says.

“I’m not. It’s just cool seeing you in action. All those years of working in your gran’s bed-and-breakfast have paid off.”

“That helped me with my cooking skills more.” He turns to check on the temperature of the oven as it preheats. “I learned how to work a kitchen after spending my early twenties in restaurants.”

He gently wrings out his hands at his sides. Automatically, my eyes fixate on his thick fingers and how deftly they move.

“So that’s how come you’re so good with your hands,” I say.

His lips twitch upward ever so slightly. “It is. I can chop, sauté, dice, whisk, knead. Massage. And rub. Among other things.”

I bite my lip. This feels like some sort of indecent kitchen pillow talk. My eyes skim the shiny metal surface of the nearby prep table. If only there weren’t a handful of servers due back in the kitchen at any minute, I’d demand he bend me over the shiny cold surface and show me for the millionth time just how good he is with his hands. That’s a decidedly friends-with-benefits thought.

I shake my head and glance at the clock. Only four minutes of ogling time left.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” It’s as if he can read the naughty thoughts crowding my head.

My eyes fall to the floor. It’s time to rein in the pornographic kitchen euphemisms and focus back on the task at hand.

“I just hope they like the deconstructed lumpia. It’s a little pretentious. I don’t know why I didn’t just cook my regular recipe.”

Callum swipes a stainless steel saucepan from the shelf above him and sets it on a spider burner. “We tasted it before it went out, remember? How many times do I have to tell you that it’s bloody delicious?”

He flips on the burner and tosses a stick of butter in the pan.

I fetch a vat of diced scallions from the walk-in and set them next to the stove. I look up at him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He gazes down at the butter, which is slowly melting into a rich foam. “That idea you had to stack the fried wrapper sheets between the minced pork was genius. Foodies go wild for that stuff.”