Chopped by Peri Elizabeth Scott

Author:Peri Elizabeth Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, short story, contemporary, cooking, foodie, enemies to lovers
Publisher: Evernight

Chapter Ten

Malachi

I leaned back in my chair and lifted the glass with a subtly shaking hand, having just been issued the challenge of a lifetime—unless I was reading into the whole thing. Okay, Regan probably hadn’t known I was there until the end, unless she registered my heated stare. But that glance sent a message I had no difficulty interpreting, and I wasn’t about to ignore it. The ball was in my court. I needed to know if she was up again.

I signaled a server who trotted over. “Sir?”

“Do you know if Regan has another set?” I hoped she didn’t have a stage name, but I could always offer the description emblazoned on my brain.

She stared upward and looked pensive. “I think … after Julie. She’s after Monica, maybe?”

Clear as mud. But she was performing again, and that was what I needed to know. “Thanks. Another bourbon, please.”

I needed extra courage and battled impatience. For the first time in my history at The Salt Cellar, I’d walked out early, assigning the windup tasks randomly, my mind on something different than the restaurant. Besides, it had somehow survived the night.

“Sir?” My second drink was placed in front of me, and the server said, “That’s Darlene up there now. Then Monica. Julie. And then Regan!”

“Thanks.”

She beamed and moved off, having gone the extra mile for a customer.

A familiar blonde worked her way through a tune I only vaguely remembered, and then the woman—Monica—who’d scoffed at me my second night in the club blew onto the stage. Cheeky and irrepressible, she held the others in the palm of her hand as she danced her way through a song I soon recognized, and others sang along. But I wanted to see a certain redhead.

She needs a break, stupid! That routine wasn’t exactly a stroll in the park. My impatience didn’t ebb, despite the self-admonishment, and I suffered through the next dancer—Julie. My body was so tense I ached.

The heavy base beat of drums and opening riff announced Def Leppard’s famous tune as Regan undulated out on the stage. Sweet fuck. Talk about sugar. The lace leotard left nothing to the imagination, and that mass of hair had been tamed to pour like taffy around her face and shoulders.

When I could tear my gaze away, it was only to glare at the guys standing up from their tables to holler their appreciation. I wanted to be the only one where sugar was involved. I knew the best applications…

Filing her routine into my memory bank, I nearly groaned as she showcased all that flexibility, getting lost in everything Regan. She owned that stage—and more attention than I would have liked. Her body was supple, gliding into amazing configurations, her athleticism as clear as her luscious curves.

She planted both feet to mark the choosing chord, snapping her head up, shaking all that hair back. Her chest heaved as she dared me with her eyes, a follow-up to her last challenge. Message received.

Charging the stage was likely frowned upon, and the hefty guys flanking it enforced that supposition.

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