After the Storm Read online

  “Nutty, tangy, spicy.”

  “With a good dose of sugar.” Tessa grinned as Chef gave up the tentative bites and shoved a huge forkful into his mouth.

  “It’s really good,” he managed to get out.

  “So glad you like it.” Tessa beamed. He was the epitome of daunting executive chef. Broad shoulders, straight spine, sharp gaze, tawny hair clipped close to his head, away from his eyes. His voice was low but clear and, when not muffled by cake, his diction was precise. In that kitchen, Caleb Winters was a general, his staff highly trained captains, lieutenants, and soldiers who knew how to execute orders before he finished yelling them.

  Tessa didn’t fall directly under his command, but she was part of the same team. She had to work just as well in that kitchen, leading her own army of pastry chefs as they crafted delicate works of art for guests.

  The early mornings, the swollen feet, the burnt fingers, and the less-than-glamorous pay faded to the background when Tessa saw someone enjoying food she’d made. The smile, the second bite, the eyes closed in appreciation. It was Tessa’s version of applause. It was a hit of the drug that kept her coming back for more.

  Chef swallowed his last bite and looked at Tessa expectantly. “What’s next?”

  They’d already tasted the frozen chocolate mousse cake, the coconut-lime shortbread, the caramel-dipped pears, and the passion fruit cheesecake.

  “Just one more,” Tessa said as she opened the fridge, excited for Caleb to sample her favorite dessert.

  Tessa stopped short. Swallowing a curse, she pulled out the plate that should have contained a tower of delicate chocolate crêpes layered with Baileys whipped cream. Instead, it held one tragic, lonely piece. The edges were jagged, as if someone had sawed through it with a dull knife. The layers were lopsided, the cream leaking out where someone had pushed down too hard.

  Tessa scoured the fridge and the nearby counters. Nothing. No note, no explanation. No apology. Just a mangled pile of what should have been the best part of her presentation.

  Fuck.

  “Everything okay?”

  Tessa faced Caleb. “Sorry, Chef. It seems that…” She trailed off, not knowing how to explain the mushy mess.

  Caleb considered the sad slice of cake. “Looks like someone got hungry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “At least they had good taste.” The corners of Chef’s mouth quirked up as he looked at Tessa. “He went for the best stuff first.”

  “He?” Tessa’s anger spiked when she thought of the tall, dark stranger who’d stolen her food the day before.

  “Yup.” Caleb grinned at her, pointing at the plate. “To eat that much? Definitely a ‘he.’”

  “Oh.” Tessa frowned, trying to ignore the flare of disappointment. “It sounded like you knew who it was.”

  Caleb was shrugging off his white chef’s coat, but looked up with an impish grin. “Oh, I definitely know who it was. Only one nosy bastard on this island who would have the balls to come into my kitchen and eat food without asking.”

  Tessa waited for a name, but Caleb turned, heading for the door.

  “You aren’t going to tell me who it is?”

  Caleb laughed. “Oh, no. I have a far better idea.” He glanced at his watch. “Come back in about eight hours. Around ten tonight. You can meet him yourself.”

  Tessa’s eyes were wide in astonishment. “He does this on a regular basis?”

  Caleb nodded, his grin bright. “Pissed the shit out of me in the beginning. But we got used to it pretty fast. Don’t worry. Consider this your initiation. Now that he’s eaten your food, you’re one of us.”

  “But…” Tessa didn’t know what to say. Embarrassment and curiosity were creating an unwelcome sensation in her stomach. Caleb’s obvious amusement only made it worse. Tessa glared at the plate and bit back a groan. “Fine. We can finish this tomorrow. I’ll have another cake ready. A whole one, this time.”

  “I look forward to it, Chef.”

  Tessa looked up at the use of her title, some of her anger fading. Caleb’s smile was softer, the teasing gone.

  “Your work is excellent, Tessa. Really delighted to have you at the Seven Winds.”

  “Thanks, Chef.”

  Tessa returned his nod and waited for the man to disappear through the swinging doors before shoving the offending piece of cake back into the fridge.

  * * *

  “You have some fucking nerve.”

  “Christ!” Tristan caught the plate just before it fell to the floor. “What the hell are you doing?” He turned around and came face to face with the pixie-sized woman who’d yelled at him the day before. Tessa Armstrong, the newly-arrived executive pastry chef.

  “I could ask you the same thing!” she shouted back, her hands propped on her hips, her long, dark hair a wild mess around her delicate face.

  Tristan’s fingers itched to weave themselves into that thickness, tangling it even more. What? No. Shut that shit down, man. He gripped the plate harder.

  She scowled. “You could have cost me my job.” Tessa pointed her finger at the single slice of cake. “That was supposed to be the grand finale of my presentation. And you totally fucked it up.”

  “Hey.” Tristan frowned down at her, making a concerted effort to ignore how bright her eyes were. Did that only happen when she was mad? Or would something else make them burn brighter? Dude, what is wrong with you?! Tristan’s frown deepened. “You can stop cursing at me.”

  “And you can stop eating my food!”

  She tried to yank the cake out of his hands, but Tristan moved fast, lifting it above his head. She jumped, reaching for it, but was too short. Tristan felt his lips shift. Weird. It couldn’t possibly be a smile. But, possible or not, it was there. Small, only a half-tilt of the mouth. And it was enough to set her off.

  “Don’t you laugh.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, her hands back on her hips.

  This woman, she was so angry at him. She was practically vibrating with it. And, God help him, Tristan wanted to laugh. She was fierce and so fucking adorable, glaring up at him like he didn’t have a foot and a half and at least one hundred pounds on her.

  “You’re an ass,” Tessa muttered, the sweet curve of her mouth distracting him. He didn’t anticipate her attack. Then it was too late.

  With his arm raised, Tristan’s side was exposed and the woman, God bless her, used it to her advantage. She tickled him.

  Fucking tickled him.

  Tristan swallowed a shout when her tiny fingers dug into his side, his brain torn between yanking away and preventing the slice of cake from falling on her gorgeous head. Though if the tingling in his dick was any indication, he was enjoying her surprise attack way more than he should.

  “Jesus,” he wheezed, trying to wiggle away without dropping the cake. “Stop. Stop!”

  She did the opposite. As Tristan moved, the infuriating creature found an unprotected stretch on his other side, both of her hands digging into him just above the waist. Tristan was writhing within her tenacious grip and didn’t know what to do first.

  He could throw the cake down and easily haul her away, her tenacity no match for his strength.

  He could threaten her. He could try to fire her, this scowling, astonishing woman who had no idea she was attacking her temporary boss.

  He could laugh. Which, if his body had any say in the matter, was what was about to happen. Which was insane. Because it never happened.

  It began as a rattle in the back of his throat, a rumble that felt unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

  Tristan’s head tilted back as he gave in to the sensation, his chest expanding, his lungs working overtime as a rusty chuckle broke free. It was rough, scratchy. Not a charming sound. But it didn’t stop. Tristan felt the foreign curve of a real smile on his lips, his mouth opening wider, a burst of laughter sneaking past.

  It was loud, unexpected, and startled Tessa enough that she stopped. Her fingers gripped the sides of his shirt, unmoving. She
stared up at him in shock.

  “Oh my God.” She released him and stepped back, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Christ!” Her hand shifted to cover her eyes. “I am so, so sorry.”

  Tristan caught his breath and placed the abandoned cake on the counter before smoothing his shirt down. He took a small step forward and bent his knees so he was more level with her face.

  “I deserved it.”

  “No,” she mumbled, eyes still covered.

  “Yes. It was an interesting strategy, I’ll give you that. But a tactical success all the same.”

  Tessa relaxed her fingers just enough so she could peek through the gap. “Really?”

  “Really,” Tristan confirmed. “I’ll definitely think twice before stealing your food again.”

  “Shit,” she muttered, dropping her hand. “Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. You had that cocky half-smile thing going on, holding the cake up like a playground bully.” She shook her head, brushing the riot of hair off her face. “I can’t believe I just did that. I never do that. I don’t tickle people. I don’t know what happened. Shit, I don’t even know you.”

  For the second time in a matter of minutes Tristan chuckled. Tessa flinched and he clamped his mouth shut. But not before marveling at the fact that he hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Months, even. Yet just a few minutes in her presence and his cheeks already ached with the forgotten sensation.

  “How about this?” Tristan waited for her eyes to meet his. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He stuck out his hand and waited.

  Tessa hesitated before she slipped her palm against his. They stood locked like that for several seconds before she blinked and broke away.

  “Agreed,” she said, backing up. “But you still owe me an explanation.”

  Tristan mirrored her stance, leaning against the opposite counter. “I was hungry.”

  “And you don’t have access to any other food?”

  Tristan scrubbed the back of his neck and wondered why his body seemed to enjoy the scolding look she was giving him. It made no fucking sense at all. “No. I just like yours best.”

  She didn’t say anything. A loud growl from Tristan’s stomach broke the silence.

  “Still am, apparently.” He gave his lean abdomen a pat. “Since the cake is off the table, anything else you can suggest?”

  Tessa frowned. “You’re not going to leave till I feed you, are you?”

  Tristan shook his head.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “But you sit.”

  “Great.” Tristan flattened his hands on the counter behind him and hauled himself up. When she muttered, “I didn’t mean there,” he crossed his ankles, the heels of his shoes tapping out a rhythm against the lower cabinet.

  “You’re impossible, you know that.”

  “I have heard that before,” he said, watching her get to work.

  * * *

  Tessa had never felt so off-balance. She couldn’t look at him. She was mortified. What the hell had she been thinking?

  She could practically feel him behind her, the energy radiating off his long, lithe body, the slight breeze generated by the swing of his legs. His vibrant, intense eyes were scorching the back of her neck. Shit! The feel of him was practically burned into her fingertips.

  She was going to feed him. Then she was going to kick him out.

  It took her only a few minutes to find what she needed.

  Neither of them spoke as she worked, the only sounds the crack of the eggs against the bowl, the whir of the whisk as she beat them with milk and salt and pepper.

  Tessa thought she felt him lean closer when she poured the liquid into the buttered pan, that first sizzle filling the room. She turned just enough to see him over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved, and he hadn’t looked away.

  She focused on the food, anxious to avoid his watchful gaze. She yanked the leaves off the thyme a little too hard. A small piece of stem dropped into the pan.

  “What are you making?”

  “Be patient.”

  “I could just come look.”

  “You could,” she shot over her shoulder. Their eyes met. He gripped the edge of the counter as they considered one another. “But you won’t.”

  He did shift then, his torso leaning forward, his thick shoulders bunching, preparing to jump. Tessa needed to keep him away.

  “Toast.”

  “What?”

  “Do you want toast?”

  “Always, yes.”

  Tessa smiled before she realized she was doing it. She cleared her throat. “There is a fresh loaf over there.” She waved her spatula towards the unlit corner of the kitchen. “Cut yourself some. The toaster is there too. Butter here.” She pushed the small dish as far away as she could without abandoning her spot at the stove.

  Her unsettling guest did as he was told, which gave Tessa enough time to grate some cheese into the center of the pan and carefully fold the omelet over itself. By the time he was buttering his toast, his arm softly brushing her sleeve as he moved the knife in slow strokes, Tessa had his dinner ready.

  She flipped the omelet onto a plate and slid it to the seat left over from her meeting with Caleb.

  “There.” She pointed at the chair. “Dinner is served.”

  “Eggs?”

  “A Gruyère and thyme omelet.”

  “Pretty sure the cake is better.”

  “Pretty sure you won’t know till you try,” she shot back, irritation chasing away any lingering embarrassment.

  His only response was to grab his toast and sit down. He did nod his head in thanks when Tessa handed him a fork.

  Tessa shifted over to the sink and began washing the pan. She could still see him from the corner of her eye and couldn’t hold back her smile when he took a bite and his eyes widened, then closed in appreciation.

  He ate several more forkfuls in rapid succession before looking up. “I didn’t know omelets tasted like that.”

  The fleeting half-smile from before didn’t return, but the open pleasure in his voice was enough to have Tessa scrubbing the pan harder than necessary.

  “Good omelets should. Taste like that.”

  “I had no idea,” he mumbled before taking another bite.

  Tessa frowned when he chased it with a hunk of toast. He was going to choke if he didn’t slow down.

  “I get that you’re hungry but you can stop to breathe, you know.”

  Still chewing, his gaze flicked up. In the back of her mind, Tessa wondered if he noticed her eyes drop from his mouth to his neck, her attention fixated by the slow, rhythmic movement of his strong throat. When he coughed, his brows drawn down over his eyes, she guessed the answer was yes.

  “My eating technique hasn’t been criticized before.”

  Tessa scrubbed harder, the tips of her ears burning beneath her thick hair. “I just don’t want you to choke.”

  “Makes two of us,” he responded, before swallowing down the rest of the omelet. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  “Hmm?” Tessa looked up just in time to watch him lick a wayward drop of butter off his index finger, his teeth catching the pad of skin before pulling away. God, who knew watching this man eat could make you so fucking hungry….

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he repeated, “the next time you feed me.”

  “I feed—” Tessa’s voice stopped on a squeak and she threw the sponge into the sink, splashing soapy water against her chest.

  “Believe me, there won’t be a next time.” Tessa yanked her bag from her cubby and stormed to the double doors. She only turned back to point at his dirty dishes. “I cooked. You clean. This place better be spotless by the time I start work tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Chef,” he murmured, his gaze no less intense across the length of the kitchen.

  “What was that?” She must be losing her mind. He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t possibly.

  “Nothing. Don’t worry. It’ll be as if
I was never here.”

  “If only,” she huffed, pushing through the doors, letting them swing shut behind her.

  Tessa told herself that when she heard him respond, “Till next time, Tessa,” she was just imagining things.

  4

  Tristan didn’t fight the current.

  He’d taught himself long ago to enjoy the feel of it pulling him farther and farther from shore. It was a rebellious sort of freedom, giving in to something he had no power to control.

  There, in the ocean, Tristan wasn’t himself. At least, not the man people had come to know, the Tristan he was forced to be when his feet were cemented to dry earth, sculpted and hardened by expectation and his family name and a pain that was still so sharp, so palpable he couldn’t understand why, all these years later, he had yet to bleed out.

  Tristan stared up at the clear Caribbean sky and wondered, like he so often did, when the wound would finally turn fatal. He spread his fingers wide across the soft, salty surface and didn’t wince when his brain idly answered that this would be as good a place as any. Better, perhaps. Here it would be peaceful. Here, he’d just sink below that beautiful sea, the warmth of the sun dimming, the light around him fading, his limbs moving without purpose. His heart finally too broken to keep beating.

  Not that he sought it out. Nor did he enjoy the idea that the day would, in fact, come. But Tristan was aware of its inevitability. He couldn’t expect to keep living as he did. As he had for twenty years. It was impossible. He was constructed of tender flesh and malleable muscle, same as everyone else. No matter how hard and well-polished his facade, he knew the vulnerability of his own body. His own soul.

  No person, woman or man, could spend so long forcing themselves to feel so little and possibly survive. Tristan knew one day it would come crashing down. The past, the pain. The truth he couldn’t yet force himself to find. It would break against him and drag him under, drowning him for sure. A tsunami he’d be helpless to fight.

  That was one of the reasons he enjoyed the ocean so much. He was an infinitesimal speck on the oldest, most powerful thing on earth. Floating up and down, relinquishing his body to the water, the threat growing inside of him, day by day, nothing compared to the strength of the sea.