Carter

H ow did I get myself into this mess? I'm teaching cooking 101 to a bunch of punky kids—I'm a three-star Michelin world-class chef, for Christ's sake.

Okay, so I might have exaggerated. The kids aren't really kids; they're eighteen and nineteen-year-olds who still believe that life is full of rainbows and fairy tales. I hate to be the one to tell them life isn't that easy.

In all my thirty-five years, I've never once had anything handed to me—I've worked hard for every little scrap. And now, because of some stupid bet I lost to my best friend, I'm stuck teaching these kids how to boil a fucking egg for the next semester.

An idea pops into my head—if I sabotage my lectures, Garrett will have to fire me. He can't have anything but the best at his precious culinary school.

It's the perfect plan—the sooner I teach these kids my "special techniques," the sooner I can return to the real world.

My mood sours even more as I watch the students file into the lecture hall. They look even younger than I anticipated, each face more hopeful and excited than the next.

Tired of looking at their fresh young faces, oozing with enthusiasm, I flip through the syllabus, and the words Food Preparation 101 staring back at me. I can barely control my eyes from rolling at the list of mundane tasks listed on the paper. It could be worse—I could be teaching Sanitation and Safety 101.

The last student rushes into the classroom, neglecting to shut the door behind him. With a sigh, I push myself out of the chair and walk toward the open door, cursing the damn bet I made with Garrett.

My hand reaches for the doorknob just as another hand reaches for it from outside the classroom. The delicate hand lands under my much bigger one, and I jerk my head from the hand on the doorknob to its owner.

Her forest green eyes blink at me, and I realize she's not one of the young students I was expecting. She's at least in her late twenties, if not early thirties, "Sorry, I'm late. It won't happen again." Her sultry voice has me frozen on the spot. What I wouldn't give to hear that same voice calling out my name when I'm buried nine inches deep in her pussy. "Um, excuse me." that same sultry voice says.

Shit, did I say that out loud?

"Professor, can you let go of my hand so I can get into the classroom?" she whispers. "They're starting to stare." She nods to the other students, already in their seats, waiting for me to start today's lecture.

Right, I'm supposed to teach them everything I know about choosing the correct knife or thickening soups and sauces. But there's something thickening right now, and it has nothing to do with soups or sauces.

I shake my head, trying to clear the dangerous thoughts of the beauty standing in front of me.

Taking my hand off hers, I straighten my tie. "Yes, you're late. Don't let it happen again." I turn and walk back to my desk, trying to put our little interaction behind me—but she intrigues me more than I care to admit, and I don't even know her name.

I force my eyes not to follow her as she takes the only open seat in the classroom—dead center right in front of me. Needing a distraction from how her curvy hips slide in the chair, I sit, shuffling through the papers on my desk. I've already read the syllabus. What's next? My eyes land on the attendance sheet. Perfect, I'll find out my little spitfire's name from the student list.

I stand and move to the front of my desk, then sit on the corner of the desk. With the student attendance list in my hand, I let my eyes roam over the students, trying not to spend too much time on my little spitfire sitting in the front row. "My name is Professor . When I call your name, stand and introduce yourself to the class."

A chorus of groans fills the air, and believe me, the last thing I want to hear about is anyone else besides the smoking hot little redhead with the angry forest green eyes that are currently shooting daggers at me.

I begin the roll call, impatiently tapping my foot on the desk when each name I call isn't hers. Ending each student's introduction with a, you may sit down before moving on to the next student.

Finally, I reach the last name on the list, "Hannah Winston."

She slides out of her chair like the other students but is more graceful than any of them. Her hands run over the curve of her ass as she straightens her skirt—fuck me, she might be tiny, but her legs are long, and all I can do is picture them wrapped around my waist as I…

"Professor." Her stern voice cuts through my unholy thoughts of what I want to do to her.

"I'm sorry, what was that, Miss Winston?" Damn, did I completely miss everything she said while I was thinking about her sexy legs?

"I'm done telling the class about myself. Can I sit down now?" Her voice is sweet and calm, but those eyes—those eyes are filled with fire—a fire I want to stoke and see how high I can make it burn.

"Yes, take a seat." I motion for her to sit down, but I can't take my eyes off her as she bends at the waist, causing her ass to move backward and her breasts to push forward as she slides into the chair hooked to her desk. I almost swallow my tongue at the sight of her hard nipples pressing against her white blouse.

Focus .

"Alright, class, who can tell me the proper way to boil an egg?"