It’s from the adrenaline rush.
It’s not from feelings.
I don’t feel a thing.
I leave the men’s room, take a drink from the water fountain, and wipe my hand across my mouth.
When I look up, she’s there.
With outstretched arms, she spins in a circle, waiting for an appraisal of her new outfit.
Her new, jaw-dropping, sexy-as-sin, might-as-well-throw-in-the-towel-and-raise-the-white-flag-of-surrender outfit.
What the hell was I thinking?
I clearly wasn’t using my brain at all. Because she’s even more alluring in this garb.
She’s only wearing the chef jacket and heels.
“Are you . . .?” I gesture to the outfit, the end of my words making my meaning clear. Are you naked under that?
She rolls her eyes. “Please. I have on my alpaca panties.”
“Alpaca panties?”
Her eyes twinkle. “I couldn’t resist. There was a sale on cute animal print undies with faces, you know, right here.” She gestures to her pelvis. “A six pack of giraffes, zebras, dolphins, and llamas too.” She casts her eyes down. “Wait. I have on the llama ones. I always get them confused.”
“Alpacas have shorter ears. Llama ears are banana length.”
She snaps her fingers. “Yes. Exactly. I’m wearing the big-eared animal undies, so it’s totally fine.”
Great. Now I’m thinking of her in underwear. In fucking llama underwear. Precisely the visual I’ve assembled way too many times without help, thank you very much. Minus the llamas, of course.
She tugs at the hem of the jacket, revealing the bare flesh of her thigh.
“Lulu.” It comes out like a warning.
She laughs at me. “Relax. I’m tiny; this jacket is huge. It’s like a short dress on me.”
“A very short dress.”
“I can handle a short dress. I’ve worn shorter.”
“Shorter as in ass-cheek length, Lulu?”
Her eyebrows wiggle. Her eyes—green and not so green—sparkle. “Yes. I’ve worn ass-cheek length, Leo. But I’m still decent. And you’re still my hero.”
She leans closer, rises on tippy toes, and moves her lips close, closer, closest. She dusts those lips across my cheek, and it’s like she’s an arsonist.
In one swift move, I’m on fire.
She grabs the plastic bag from my hand, stuffs her ruined dress in it, and hands me back the bag.
When she swivels around and walks toward the demo stage, “decent” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.
More like decadent.
The jacket hits the top of her thighs. Her legs are toned from kickboxing—and I know why she boxes, I know why she started, I know why she doesn’t miss her kickboxing sessions with her girlfriends, and my heart squeezes from knowing this.
Llama panty–wearing Lulu makes it to the cooking stage at master food critic James Carson’s booth, steps up, slides on a lapel mic, and smiles.
As if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do a chocolate demo dressed like the sexiest chef in the world. Looking like the woman I fell in love with ten years ago.
Mad, crazy, unrequited love that required years to get over.
And seeing her now, commanding an enrapt audience, wearing a Heavenly jacket, having concocted a chili pepper chocolate truffle that made my taste buds sing the “Macarena,” it hits me.
Lulu should be our next rising star.
4LULU
Earlier today I was swimming in a sea of chocolate.
Now?
I’m shaking hands with the woman who runs Heavenly Chocolates. Kingsley goes by her last name only, like the badass businesswoman she is. She doesn’t simply nab honors as a top female CEO or a top Asian-American female CEO—she’s plain and simple a top CEO. She’s become renowned for her market acumen, her fabulous holiday parties, and her tastemaker skills.
The company launched its Rising Star line last year to highlight, market, and distribute artisan chocolate alongside its bigger, mass-produced treats, and it was a huge hit. It never occurred to me I’d be in contention for a role as Rising Star chocolate-maker, much less chosen in one freaking day.
