Santa’s Pretty Helper (Cam Show Crush)

1. Gabe

One

Gabe

Fire flares in front of my eyes, heat searing my skin as I shake the stainless steel pan in my hand with practiced precision. The liquor I just poured over the simmering bananas slowly burns off, the flames shrinking back down to nothing.

There’s something immensely satisfying about watching ingredients come together exactly as I’ve intended. Cooking is a symphony of heat and flavor and timing, and I’m the conductor. I coax perfection from raw, disparate ingredients and present people with a melody they’ll never forget. I do it every single night, over and over again. I come home from work sweaty and exhausted, hands cramping, and I can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.

There’s nothing else in the world I’d rather do. Food is my passion. My obsession.

Well, one of my obsessions.

The other is currently sitting in the dining room here at Haute Maison, the restaurant where I’ve been the head chef for the past two years.

Bella Holland. Younger sister of my best friend and sous chef Eric. Subject of every single one of my fantasies. The woman who consumes my thoughts every day and my dreams every night.

Twenty-year-old Bella Holland, I should add. Which makes me almost twice her age. I’m nearly forty. I graduated high school the year she was born, for fuck’s sake. I was cooking at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris while she was learning to read and write.

I wipe my forearm across my brow as though that will somehow wipe my tortured thoughts about Bella away. It doesn’t—I don’t think anything can—but it does bring me back to the present.

It’s a busy Friday night at Haute Maison, and the kitchen is a cacophony of sound. Shouted orders, the sizzling of a dozen pans, the clatter of knives on cutting boards, the clank of dishes in the sink. The dinner rush is always the busiest, most hectic part of our night. If the restaurant is a duck, the kitchen is the duck’s legs, paddling frantically beneath the surface to keep everything running smoothly.

I turn down the heat on the bananas, and then check on a pan of sizzling mushrooms. I add a splash more white wine to the pan, and while there are other things I should be checking on, my legs take me to the edge of the kitchen so I can see into the dining room.

Where I have a clear view to Bella’s table.

She’s dressed a festive red sweater that hugs her slender frame and emphasizes her full breasts. Her long, blond curls tumble over her shoulders, and my fingers tingle at the sight of those curls. I want to touch them. Wrap them around my hand. See how they look spilling over my pillow.

She’s sitting with her best friend and roommate Madison, and they’re talking and laughing easily over a glass of wine. She looks relaxed. Radiant. Like she’s glowing from within. She always looks like that, as though the best lighting crew in the world follows her around, making sure she always looks ethereal.

Bella shifts, and my attention dips down to her legs. She has this way of sitting that drives me absolutely insane for some reason. She crosses her slim legs, but then she tucks the ankle of her top leg behind the calf of her bottom leg, and it’s so simultaneously sexy and adorable that it makes my head explode a little each time she does it.

Goddamn, those legs. How many times have I stroked myself, imagining them wrapped around my waist as I lift her and pin her against a wall? As I—

“Chef! Bananas!”

Eric’s frantic shout snaps me out of my horny and completely inappropriate trance.

I whirl back towards the kitchen, but it’s too late—the sweet, sticky scent of burned sugar fills the air. The bananas Foster I was sautéing is now an inedible, blackened mess.

“Fuck,” I growl as I grab a towel and yank the pan off the heat, furious with myself for getting so distracted during the peak of dinner service. Normally I’m laser-focused in the kitchen, but knowing Bella is sitting out there, waiting to taste my food…I’m a mess.

I feel Eric beside me before I see him. He has the same blond curls as his sister, although his are cropped close. “All good?” he asks, and when I turn, I see his brow knitted in concern. Because he knows it’s not like me to let something as stupid as burning a simple dessert happen. I’m a model of focus and control in everything I do.

But not tonight, apparently.

“Fine,” I grit out, then suck in a breath. It’s not like I can tell him why I got distracted. What a fun conversation that would be. Sorry I ruined the bananas. It’s just that I was completely distracted perving on your twenty-year-old sister and wondering what she sounds like when she comes. He’d punch me in the face, and I’d goddamn well deserve it.

My face is hot as I scrape the ruined bananas into the garbage and quickly start a fresh batch. I can feel several pairs of eyes on me as I pour the rum onto the bananas, but no one dares to say anything.

Eric is still hovering, and for a second, I wonder if he saw me staring at Bella. I’ll deny it if he asks, obviously. His arms are crossed over his wide chest as he stares at me.

Maybe he’s not staring at me. Maybe he’s just making sure I don’t ruin another batch of tonight’s featured dessert.

“You sure?” he asks, so low his voice is barely audible over the din of the kitchen.

I nod, not looking at him because I don’t trust my face not to give me away. “Definitely.”

He claps me on the shoulder and then tosses a towel over his own. “Just don’t burn Bella’s food, okay? She’s having dinner with Madison tonight.”

I keep my eyes trained on the pan, stirring and tossing the bananas. “Oh, is she?” I ask, feigning the mildest hint of interest. I’ve known since I saw her name on the reservations list earlier today. I watched her come in, take her coat off, sit down, sip her wine, talk with her friend. I’ve been acutely aware of her presence ever since she stepped inside Haute Maison. “I’ll do my level best,” I say dryly, and Eric laughs. “In fact, I’ll personally prepare whatever she orders and take it to her table myself.” I’d always planned on doing exactly that, but better if Eric thinks it’s some kind of professional posturing instead of an unhealthy obsession with a girl almost half my age.

Eric laughs again, returning to his station, and I try to shrug off the tension lingering around my neck and shoulders. Knowing Bella is here has me wound up tight.

I hear Bella’s order come through the pass, the table and seat numbers she and Madison are in practically seared into my brain. I snatch the order before anyone else can grab it and set to work preparing her dinner. She’s ordered the beef tenderloin with truffle butter, roasted fingerling potatoes, and the sauteed broccolini with garlic. It’s exactly what I would’ve chosen from the menu tonight.

Preparing her food—along with Madison’s order of mushroom ravioli with cream sauce and a warm squash salad with a balsamic glaze—becomes my sole focus. I sear the tenderloin until it has a perfect crust, basting it repeatedly with the truffle butter. I toss the potatoes with garlic, rosemary and gorgeously flaky sea salt until their skins are crisp and their insides creamy. The broccolini gets a quick sauté in olive oil, garlic, and lemon, just enough to brighten its vibrant green color.

I plate everything carefully, eyeing it all with a critical gaze. I need it to be perfect. Bella eating food I’ve made is the closest I’ll ever get to any kind of intimacy with her, so I need to make it count. I need to make it memorable.

With the two plates in my hands, I make my way out of the heat and noise of the kitchen and into the soothing calm of the dining room. A fire glows merrily in the large hearth in the center of the room, soft candlelight flickering from all of the tables. A large Christmas tree stands proudly beside the hearth, decorated flawlessly in red and gold ornaments and warm twinkle lights. Jazz music floats on the air, the sounds mingling with the low conversations and scrape of cutlery on plates.

Bella’s back is to me, and for a second, I stop and drink in the sight of her. Those long, blond curls spilling down her back, the teasing swath of pale, creamy skin where her sweater has slipped down her shoulder. She’s otherworldly, she’s so damn beautiful. I can’t think of another way to describe her. She’s so achingly lovely that it’s almost inhuman.

I swallow hard as I make my way to her table, knowing I need to push all of these thoughts down. She’s far too young for me, and she’s Eric’s sister. It can never happen. Ever. No matter how much I want her.

I’m a few steps away when Bella turns, glancing at me over her shoulder. Her bright green eyes meet mine and it’s a miracle that my steps don’t falter. Heat courses through me and it feels as though my lungs are locked in a vise. I wink at her, and a blush creeps up her cheeks.

Bastard that I am, I love seeing that blush on her cheeks, even though I shouldn’t.

“Good evening ladies,” I say, carefully setting their plates down in front of them. “The mushroom ravioli and warmed squash salad, and the beef tenderloin with potatoes and broccolini.”

Bella leans forward and inhales deeply. “Thank you, Chef,” she says, glancing up at me and smiling before ducking away shyly. Christ, she’s sweet. There’s something about that shyness that makes me want her even more. Makes me want to corrupt her, bastard that I am.

She surveys her plate and inhales again, and I’m rapt at the way her curls fall forward, how her lashes cast shadows over her softly rounded cheeks.

“You’re welcome. Please don’t hesitate to let me or my staff know if there’s anything else you need,” I say, mentally patting myself on the back for how professional that sounded.

I know I should head back to the kitchen, but I linger, not quite able to tear myself away from her table yet. I need to see her take that first bite. Need to watch as her lips wrap around food I made just for her. I want to see her eyes flutter closed in bliss as the flavors burst over her tongue.

She looks up at me, blushing again, and then cuts into the tenderloin, slicing through the perfectly pink center. Bella lifts the bite to her lips, pausing for the briefest of moments. Her tongue darts out, swiping over her full bottom lip. My cock twitches in response. I curl my hands into fists, trying to anchor myself against the lust coursing through my veins, hot and thick.

But then she takes that first bite, closing her lips around her fork, and I feel it in my body. In the heat crackling down my spine, in the dull ache in my balls. Her eyes drift shut as she savors my food. A soft moan escapes her, and my cock thickens.

Fuck, that moan. I want to hear it over and over again, but not here. I want to hear it as she’s splayed naked in my bed, my face buried between her thighs. I’ve lost track of how much time I’ve spent considering the flavor profile of her pussy. Would she taste sweet, like honey and cream? Or more musky, with a citrus tang that lingers on my tongue?

My cock pulses, just as eager as I am for the answer, even though I know it’s a curiosity that will never be satisfied.

Bella chews slowly and then swallows, her delicate throat working. When her eyes open, they immediately find mine.

Fuck, I’m being such a perv right now.

“Gabe,” she says, her voice so light and sweet that it makes my balls throb again, “this is beyond delicious.”

I bow my head slightly in thanks. “Thank you, Bella,” I say, clearing my throat when my voice comes out all rusty. For a moment, our gazes hold. Tension radiates through my entire body. For a fraction of a second, I forget where I am, I’m so lost in the spring green of her eyes.

Bella’s tongue slips out again, catching a stray drop of truffle butter at the corner of her mouth. It takes everything I have not to groan. Not to reach out and run my thumb over her lower lip before kissing her so that I can taste my food on her tongue.

“It’s perfect,” she says, blushing so prettily that I might have a heart attack.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry, my skin hot and tight. “Enjoy the rest of your meal,” I say, and take a step back from her table before I lose all control.