Read Online How to Get Over Your Ex by Nikki Logan - Free Book Online

each dragged a tall stool along one edge of
the oversized kitchen bench as Chef laid out a generous wine glass in front of
each place from the other side. Two women practically turned an ankle vying for
the spot closest to Zander who—wisely—took up the seat right at the end so that
he only had to negotiate one interested feminine neighbour.
    Georgia waited until last and found herself in the space
furthest from him. She filled her glass with water before anyone could put
anything more ill-advised in it from the rapidly emptying bottle of chardonnay
doing the rounds.
    Getting tipsy in front of Zander once was bad enough.
    ‘First point of the evening to the woman down the end. What’s
your name, petite fleur ?’
    All eyes snapped her way, including Zander’s.
    Every awful moment of her school career came rushing back with
the unexpected attention. It never paid to be the brightest—and poorest—at
secondary school. It led to all kinds of unwanted attention. ‘Georgia.’
    ‘Well, Miss Georgia,’ Chef improvised in ever-thickening
French, ‘while wine is perfection for enjoying the
consumption of a meal, water is, without question, the best choice for preparing
one. Until you know what you’re doing, of course. You want your tastebuds
unassailed. You want your nose and palate unconflicted and clear-headed as you assemblé the ingredients you’ll need...’
    ‘An unconflicted palate. Score one for me,’ she murmured.
    Their prosaic teacher was fully underway by now and his
continental theatrics and charm managed to recapture the focus of the women in
the room. But Zander still stared at her, eyes lightly creased.
    Stop smiling , her eyes urged him. We’re supposed to be strangers . Though there was
something just slightly breath-stealing about the game they were playing.
Pretending to be strangers. Hiding a secret from the whole room.
    It was vaguely...kinky.
    Which said a lot about how very not kinky her life usually
was.
    She forced her attention back to Chef. Did her best to listen
and understand what he was saying and not pay any further attention to Zander
perched at the end of the bench, deftly deflecting the interest of the two women
closest to him and studying everything that was happening in the room. Parts of
what the chef was saying really resonated for the scientist in her—the parts
about the chemistry of food and how ingredients worked together—but they were
totally overshadowed by his try-hard vocabulary and his staged theatrics, which
really didn’t work for her. She caught herself
smiling more than once at something ridiculous he said or the way he gushed over
his rapt female audience. She was fairly certain he wasn’t actually French.
    ‘Excuse me, Chef?’ she interrupted when he paused for a rare
breath and before she could change her mind. ‘Will we get to cook something
tonight?’
    ‘So enthousiaste ,’ he fawned, and
she groaned. ‘ Non , you won’t get hands-on until week
six. In Chef André Carlson’s class we first develop appréciation for the art of the food, then we progress to construction of the food.’
    And clearly much drinking of the wine, despite his own
protestations.
    She nodded, politely, and started counting the endless minutes
until her first class was over. How would Zander feel about her dumping the
first thing he’d sent her to? She glanced up. He had a resigned nothing
plastered to his face. It hit her then that she was wasting two people’s time on
this terrible class.
    ‘Excuse me, Chef?’ This time he looked more irritated to have
been interrupted mid-fake-French-stream. ‘I have a terrible migraine. I’m going
to have to leave.’
    Much clucking of concern and old fake-French remedies for
migraines later and she had her handbag over her shoulder and her feet pointing
towards the door. No one cared.
    ‘You’ll need someone to walk you to your car,’ Zander
volunteered and then excused himself from the woman next to him. That got