Page 28 of Stolen Dreams
Kaya unwraps her silverware, sets it on the table, and places the napkin in her lap. “Ulaakut.” A faint blush colors her cheeks. “Good morning. Sorry if you’ve been waiting long.”
Sparkling copper-brown irises meet mine and I forget how to breathe, how to speak, how to do anything other than look like a bumbling fool.
A small teapot being set on the table snaps me out of my daze.
“Brought you a variety,” Trudie says, placing a wooden caddy with several tea options on the table.
“Thank you.” Kaya gives her a bright, genuine smile.
Pen poised on a guest check, Trudie glances at me. “Ready to order?”
I peer over at Kaya, and she nods then sifts through the tea selection. Picking up the menu, I hand it to Trudie. “Caprese omelet, home fries, and bacon, extra crispy.”
Trudie scribbles furiously. “And for you, sweetheart?”
Kaya hands over her menu. “Smoked fish bowl, poached egg, heavy on the toasted sesame oil.”
Is it too soon to fall in love with what she eats? Probably. But there is nothing like a woman with a unique food palate.
Awkward silence dances between us the moment Trudie walks away. It’s not uncomfortable, just odd. Different than what I’m used to.
I’ve never been this enchanted by a woman yet so gobsmacked in her presence. When I want something, self-control is my biggest weakness. Anyone who knows me will agree. Without argument, they’ll call me uninhibited, flirtatious, typically the life of the party. A ladies’ man. That I’m more likely to make spontaneous, unwise decisions. Act the fool to make others laugh.
Quiet, subtle, or discreet are not adjectives my friends use to depict my personality.
But something about Kaya urges me to pause and pay attention. To absorb the subtle yet formidable way she takes up space in the room. To bask in the addictive, enthralling energy she exudes so effortlessly. To revel inher.
In a single glance, her coppery-brown gaze warms me more than the summer sun. And I eagerly indulge in her light.
Kaya dunks a tea bag in the pot, my eyes glued to the delicate way she moves. Almost as if it were a dance.
“So…” The single word on her tongue brings me back to reality, though I’d rather stay in her haze. “Tell me more about what I signed up for.”
Ah, yes. The actual reason she agreed to meet for breakfast.
Setting down my mug, I hand her the folder. Her eyes roam the cover before she opens it and thumbs through the small packet and brochure. I give her a moment to peruse the details before I interrupt with my spiel.
“The program is six weeks of classes, and we skip the first week in July.” I lean back in my seat and lay my hands in my lap. “Half a day, Monday through Friday.”
My gaze roams her face as she stares down at the packet, and I get momentarily distracted when an endearing smile tugs at her perfect lips. So full, so pink. A hint of gloss.
Quit staring at her lips.
Shaking my head, I pick up where I left off. “Week one is more verbal instruction than hands on as we teach the kids basic skills and kitchen safety. But we have an incredible lineup each week and plan to show them something new every day.”
Kaya opens the brochure André had Skylar at CKI—the queen of marketing for Calhoun-Kemp Industries—put together. I study Kaya as she skims over the gourmet food, kitchen, and chefs’ images. Do my best to only read her body language and not ogle like a creep. Her gaze stays in one spot longer than anywhere else, but she isn’t reading.
When I sit straighter to see what’s caught her attention, she closes the brochure.
Her gaze meets mine, and I’m trapped in a swirl of cinnamon and honey. Her lips move, but I don’t hear a word.
“Sorry.” I blink, lean forward, rest my forearms on the table, and curse my distracted mind. “What was that?”
Biting her bottom lip to repress a smile, Kaya pours tea into her mug and clasps it with both hands. “I asked what I’ll be doing with the kids.”
Get it together and quit embarrassing yourself.
“André”—I start then correct—“Sorry, Chef Beaulieu and Finley Boland, a cook in our kitchen, will join the class duringthe first week. Primarily to make sure everyone is following safety protocols and to help guide them if they’re not.” I take a sip of coffee and lean forward more. “A couple parents have volunteered to help here and there. Staff from the various Calhoun-Kemp restaurants also offered their time. But other than me and you, no one is available throughout the entire course.” I drop my gaze to my mug as I lift a finger to trace the rim. “You’ll be working alongside the kids, chopping and cooking”—a corner of my mouth crooks up as I meet her addictive gaze once more—“and helping me translate chef speak into kid talk. Maybe assist me with keeping them in line.”