Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [137]
Familiar with the aphrodisiacal effects of an empty restaurant on a newlywed, or even just newly-in-lust couple, Devon cracked open the kitchen door with a measure of caution. He could stand to go his whole life without viewing Adam’s unmentionables doing the naked mambo with Miranda’s.
Not that he’d be opposed to seeing Miranda’s unmentionables—he’d be willing to bet she stripped down pretty well, for an obnoxious, snarky, red-headed firecracker.
But the sight that greeted Devon sent images of Miranda’s potential hotness flying out of his head.
A woman stood on the gleaming work counter running down the center of the kitchen, balanced precariously on the tips of her black leather clogs to reach the top shelf of stacked pots and pans. She was taller than Miranda, he registered instantly, and sported a halo of untamed dark curls obscuring her profile from view. The breathy moan he’d heard before sounded again. It rose and fell in a gentle, swelling rhythm that suddenly resolved itself into a tune, a snatch of song that tickled Devon’s memory.
He had a mere five seconds to admire the delectable roundness of the backside presented very conveniently near eye level before the woman’s ankle wobbled dangerously, causing a lightning-fast chain reaction of shriek, flail, slip, and hey, presto! Devon’s arms were full of warm, wriggling womanhood.
“Well, hello,” Devon said, amused.
The woman stopped squirming and peeked out from behind her mass of sable curls. Devon got a brief glimpse of bright green eyes and round, pink cheeks before she swept the curls back and revealed a fresh-scrubbed, pink-cheeked face, more interesting than strictly beautiful. Her chin was too pointed, her dark brows a touch too heavy for her face, and her skin was too pale, making her brilliant green eyes appear almost startling. This woman spent zero time at the spa getting buffed, plucked, and tanned. She looked nothing like the perfect, sophisticated women he usually dated, models and socialites and actresses, but there was something compelling about her, some mysterious allure in her sweet, wide-eyed gaze that kept Devon’s attention.
Even when he knew, instinctively and immediately, that she was way too nice for him.
“Hey there,” she said, the molasses-slow greeting drawled out low and husky, making him think of tobacco and bourbon. Devon blinked. It was a surprisingly sexy voice coming from a woman who clearly bathed in eau de innocence every morning.
She had the face of a nun and the voice of a phone sex operator.
“Not from around here, are you?” Devon asked. Of all the many and varied accents heard around New York City, one of the rarest was a real Southern drawl. Grant Holloway, Market’s incomparable manager and maitre d’, was the only Southerner Devon could think of among his acquaintances.
“What was your first clue, sugar?” she countered with a toss of that messy head. “And not that I don’t appreciate the White Knight routine, but do you think you might be willing to let a lady stand on her own two feet?”
“I don’t know,” Devon said, curiously unwilling to surrender his burden. That drawl was killing him. “You didn’t seem to be doing such a good job of that up on the bar.”
She shrugged cheerfully, not a hint of blush or embarrassment darkening her cheeks. “I’m better on good ol’ Terra Firma. Well, not tons better, I’m still pretty much Queen of the Klutzes, but at least there’s not as far to fall and therefore less chance of a broken ankle.” She twisted in his arms, eyeing the distance from her perch to the ground. “Speaking of broken ankles—be careful when you put me down. I just got this job; I can’t afford to be limping around the restaurant.”
“Adam hired you?” He’d never seen her before, he was certain,