Turning Up The Heat. Tanya Michaels
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You are going to walk into that party at your most fabulous and show that ex of yours what he’s missing.”
Ah. So James did know. They ambushed me.
“Gotta run,” James said, “but Steve and I want to hear all the details tomorrow!” The line went dead.
Dropping the phone on the pale blue comforter, Phoebe turned to her roommate. “I hate you.”
“I can live with that.”
“And I’m getting a dead bolt for my bedroom door,” she proclaimed.
“We’ll pick one up while we’re out. Now you go shower while I make coffee. We have a big day of shopping ahead of us.”
“Ugh.” Phoebe flopped backward, pulling her pillow over her face. She loved shopping for recipe ingredients and kitchen supplies, but she doubted Gwen was taking her to look at infrared candy thermometers.
Gwen poked her in the shoulder. “You remember how determined you were in high school that you were going to tutor me into passing the geometry final? That’s how determined I am now. As far as I’m concerned, how a woman looks when she runs into her ex for the first time is tied in importance with how a bride looks on her wedding day.”
Weddings—the end result of getting engaged. Behind the pillow, Phoebe’s eyes watered. In hindsight, it was hilarious how wrong she’d been about her last date with Cam.
Painfully, agonizingly hilarious.
In addition to being lovers for two years, she and Chef Cameron Pala had been colleagues, working together at Piri, the newest Atlanta hotspot. Last month, Cam had begun hinting that if they were ever going to move in together or get married, maybe it would be healthier for their relationship if they didn’t also work together. So she’d taken the job at All the Right Notes. After she’d been there a few days, Cam had taken her for a walk in Piedmont Park, where they’d met. When he’d reached for her hand, his expression unusually somber, she’d actually believed...
Gwen lifted the corner of the pillow. “In retrospect, it was insensitive of me to mention brides, but you don’t really want to get married, Pheeb. You’re only twenty-five. Settle down in your thirties. Our twenties are the perfect time for wild, sexy adventures!”
The corner of Phoebe’s mouth twitched. Gwen had held a similar philosophy during their teenage years. “We have to live life to the fullest before we turn into boring adults, Pheeb,” she’d said. Her friend had been an audacious blonde bombshell since high school; she’d also been a sanity-saving counterbalance to Phoebe’s bitter mother.
Grateful for years of Gwen’s friendship, Phoebe sat up, pledging her cooperation. “All right. Make me fabulous.” If anyone could, it was Gwen Yeager, professional makeup artist. She worked on a television show that was shot outside Atlanta and occasionally freelanced for movies that filmed in the area.
“Yes!” With a triumphant smile, Gwen scrambled off the bed. “I can’t wait to find you the perfect dress. As relieved as I was when you finally stopped wearing baggy cargo pants—”
“They were considered fashionable when we were in high school.”
“—you still hide your bod in those long-sleeved, double-breasted jackets.”
“All chefs wear them!”
“Not tonight.” Gwen’s blue eyes lit with glee. “Tonight, you are a Gwen Yeager creation. Cameron will fall to his knees and beg you to take him back.”
“You really think so?” Traitorous hope warmed her heart.
“He’s absolutely going to want you back—if not today, then soon. You’re the best thing to ever happen to him.” She frowned. “The real question is, can you forgive him for hurting you like that?”
“I don’t know.” But Phoebe desperately wanted the chance to find out.
* * *
“FINALLY, HEATH JENSEN ARRIVES! Now it’s a party.” Bobbi Barrett, the guest of honor and Heath’s favorite food blogger, greeted him with a wide grin and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“Happy birthday, beautiful.” Heath scanned the room over her shoulder, impressed that Bobbi and her boyfriend had been able to cram so many people into their Buckhead condo. Guests filled the living room and kitchen and spilled out onto the balcony. A brunette he was pretty sure he’d slept with waved at him from her perch on the arm of a low-backed sofa. “Quite a crowd. Not worried the neighbors will complain?”
“Of course not. The neighbors were the first people we invited.”
“Smart. Where can I put this?” He held up the small gold box containing her birthday present.
“Ooh, I’ll take that!” She eyed the box speculatively, as if trying to guess its contents. “But you know the only gift you had to get me was a reservation. Booking a table at Piri is next to impossible. You and Cam must be thrilled.”
Heath had always believed the upscale Portuguese-fusion restaurant he’d opened with Chef Cameron Pala would be successful—he never would have invested such a significant chunk of money otherwise—but buzz had spread even faster than he’d hoped. “You don’t need a reservation. You’re welcome anytime.”
“In that case, you’re officially my favorite person. Just don’t tell everyone else.” She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Speaking of my other guests, I should warn you that the Kemp sisters have been doing shots. Brace yourself—they have a bet going on which one of them you’ll take home tonight.”
“How high are the stakes? I’d hate for anyone to lose on my account. Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do would be to invite them both back to my place.”
Bobbi smacked his arm. “You are terrible.”
“Maybe I’m just misunderstood.” He gazed into her eyes, making a halfhearted attempt to keep a straight face. “How do you know my torrid love life isn’t an attempt to comfort myself because I’m secretly pining for you and cursing that Matt met you first?”
“Did I hear my name?” Matt Grantham slid an arm around Bobbi’s waist and nuzzled her neck.
“I was just telling Bobbi that you’re the envy of all the single straight men in Atlanta,” Heath said. “She’s a hell of a woman.”
Matt nodded. “Gorgeous, smart, funny and dynamite in b—oof.” He grunted when Bobbi’s elbow connected with his rib cage.
She shot him a stern look, but the twitch of her lips showed she was fighting a smile. “That’s more than enough about me. Matt, why don’t you get Heath a drink while I mingle?”
“What’s your poison?” Matt asked, leading Heath to a bar in the corner of the living room.
Studying the selection of liquors, Heath chose a top-shelf bourbon. While Matt poured, they exchanged opinions on the baseball season. Heath was analyzing the Braves’ pitching when he caught a flash of familiar red-gold waves in his peripheral vision. Phoebe? Last time he’d talked to her, she’d said she had to work and wouldn’t be here tonight. Nonetheless, he tried to get a better look at the woman as she stepped outside through the open balcony doors. He’d never seen Phoebe wear anything as short as that glittery navy dress, yet recognition sparked through him.
His gaze dipped to her heart-shaped ass and supple legs. Definitely Phoebe. A better man might feel guilt over how well he knew her body. It wasn’t entirely appropriate that he’d memorized the curves of a friend and former employee—but Heath hadn’t earned his reputation by being appropriate.
He interrupted whatever Matt was saying. “I just saw Phoebe Mars. I should go say hi.”
“Oh, right. She worked at Piri, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. She was our pastry chef.” Until Heath’s business partner had talked