Killian Jones had a lazy smirk, perfectly disheveled hair, questionably tight dark jeans and a way of undressing you with his eyes that was all too appealing when one's guard was down. Not that Emma Swan ever let her guard down around him. From the moment she met him she saw him for what he was: an arrogant skirt chaser who was also chasing her job.

When Archie Hopper, head chef and owner of 'Archibald's' had announced that he would be taking on a another sous chef, Emma had been furious. She'd spent three years working her ass off to climb the hierarchy at Boston's best French restaurant, sacrificing anything resembling a social life to achieve her dream of culinary success. Six months ago when she had been promoted to second in command she'd been elated.

The next step would be her own kitchen. She knew if she continued to show her dedication that Archie would notice; he'd already hinted about opening another restaurant and she knew she had a shot at the head chef position.

But when Archie had formally revealed the opening of another outlet on the other side of town, instead of looking to hire (or promote) another executive chef, he instead employed a second sous chef to work at the original restaurant and began to split his time between the two businesses. Which was completely demoralizing when she was the one who should be in charge. To make matters worse her new 'co-chef' (as Archie had called them) was an arrogant Brit who thought he knew everything about French cuisine;'I'm European, darling," he would drawl. In addition, he was an incorrigible flirt and he spent far too much time with the waitresses - and waiters.

And, yes, maybe he cooked the perfect risotto - a dish she had never fully mastered- but that was nowhere near enough to redeem him in her eyes.

Their cagey working relationship first came to a head the weekend before Columbus Day, when Chef Jones had been in situ for six weeks and Chef Swan had spent her time keeping as far away as possible from him. But then he messed with her soup.

"Ruby, is that a new lipstick?" he purred as he stirred through a vat of beef stew. The head waitress was walking past him, the usual swing in her step pausing as she spun to face him.

"How observant," she said, cocking out her hip. "It's called 'Ravishing Red."

Emma watched as his eyes flickered over Ruby's just-this-side-of-acceptably-tight uniform before he took a step closer. She scowled, wishing a shift could go by where he didn't have to get overly friendly with the staff.

"My, now that is appropriate."

Ruby's grin was growing wider and Emma wanted to walk away… until she saw the precious pot of stew begin to bubble over.

"Jesus Jones, can you flirt on your own time?"

She marched over and turned down the dial of the gas hob, taking a small seed of satisfaction at the way he flinched and jumped back from the cooker. She took the spoon from his hand and checked to see the stew hadn't burnt.

"Why Swan, I'd flirt with you any time. You just have to ask."

Ruby laughed lightly before shaking her head at Emma and walking away. Emma made a mental note to talk to her later about her uniform and then turned back to Killian. She hoped the blank look she gave him was answer enough to his question. In the kitchen, she was the only woman yet to fall for his charms. Even Belle, their patissiere and usually a very savvy woman was not immune to a flutter of his eyelids when he was trying to sneak out a spare desert.

"Now I have your attention," she continued, "I actually wanted to ask you, why has the soup been changed?"

He grinned, nonchalantly folding his arms. "Oh, so this avoiding me thing is over now?"

Emma gave him a confused look.

"I'm not stupid, Swan. A man knows when he is being shunned by a beautiful woman. You may think that splitting the kitchen into two sections would have pulled the wool over my eyes but I know a ruse when I see one."

Quickly, she folded her arms. "Fine. I've been avoiding you. But you have not been avoiding my soup, and you know that department is in my section of the kitchen."

"Hmm," he nodded, sticking out his chin to mirror her posture. "Your soup was dull. I thought mine was better."

"The garbure has been on the menu for weeks."

"Which is why we needed a change."

"And tourin was that change? All that garlic will not sit well with the duck." She rolled her eyes in exasperation before continuing, "Did Archie approve this?"

Killian ran a hand over his thick layer of stubble and smiled. "Hopper always approves of my judgement."

(No one - no one called Archie 'Hopper'. Ever.)

"Hmm, really? So if I put in a call to him over at The Cricket, he'll be au fait with that?"

Then she saw his expression falter a little. But he recovered just as quickly.

"Why of course."

"Fine," she quipped. "I'll call him now."

"You do that."

"I will."

"Good."

If looks could kill, she was pretty sure that Killian would have been dead in seconds by the ferocity of the stare she was giving him. Eyeball to eyeball (even with a five-inch height difference), staring right into those kitchen-famous baby blues. She would not back down. She would not blink. She would not start counting those luscious dark lashes that she was just a little jealous of.

(He looked away first.)

Archie didn't know.

(But he liked Jones' idea for the soup and they ran with it.)

One-nil to Jones.

The restaurant would be closed on Thanksgiving, so Emma had let the staff leave a little earlier than usual that Wednesday, offering to finish clearing the remains of the worked such long hours that it was just a little something she could give them to show they were appreciated. Once she had finished the last of the nightly chores, she holed herself up in the small administration office at the back of the kitchen with a notepad, a delivery list and a copy of the menu that was meant to be debuting that Friday… but wasn't because of a huge fuck up with their suppliers meaning that the seasonal ingredients they needed were not going to be available in sufficient quantities. Meaning half the dishes needed to be tweaked or completely reworked.

She was hunched over the menu, the office dark apart from the stark halogen bulb of the old-fashioned reading light that illuminated the workspace. Cross referencing each item against the revised order list was time consuming but it wasn't like she had any grand plans for the holiday that she was being kept away from.

There was a sharp little rap at the door. Glancing up, she saw it was Killian. She'd forgotten he was still there. Or maybe she'd hoped he'd already gone.

"I'm about to head off, you okay to lock up?"

She nodded, mumbling non-committedly as her eyes begun to blur over the figures.

"Problem, love?"

"Just a little menu rotation."

He took a step into the room.

"I can help-"

Her eyes snapped to meet his. "I don't need your help, Jones. I'm more than capable."

His jaw went loose and his hand went to rub against his neck. "I never said you weren't."

With a snort, she dropped the pen she was holding with a haughty shrug of her shoulders. "Could have fooled me."

He approached the desk, walking as he always did in that predatory way where his hips moved first, before he planted his hands onto the oak surface.

"You know, Swan, if you gave me a chance we could be a great team."

"I don't need a partner."

He smirked, his lips raising on one side, giving her the smoothest look. "Actually, love, apartner is probably something you could really make use of." The way he said 'partner' was so salacious she almost blushed at the innuendo. He'd never really tried to flirt with her but he sure seemed to be now. She fueled the heat of the blush into a sharp retort.

"Oh, and you fit the bill?"

His reply was an irreverent shrug. Damn, he seemed to think he could just snap his fingers and women's panties would drop, she thought.

Emma gritted her teeth. "Here's the thing Jones, if there is one thing I can tell you about Archibald's, it's that I am off the menu. For you."

"Hmph," he nodded, tilting his head so he could see the paperwork in front of her before she could cover it with her hands. Then he pulled back, standing tall again, giving her a perfect view of the way his jeans hugged his hips. "Well that is a pity."

She looked away before the urge to stare overcame her. "Goodnight Jones."

"Goodnight Swan." A few steps towards the door, he seemed to think better of it, pausing and turning back. "You know love, mackerel would work much better than halibut."

She ignored him.

Fuck, he was right.

She substituted the mackerel.

He didn't mention it.

The period from Thanksgiving to Christmas was, as normal, pretty much a whirlwind. Working six days a week, 13 hours a day was something she had gotten used to over the years but it never got any easier.

Archie was spending more and more time at The Cricket as the new venue really came into its own with its fusion of French and American fare. Emma had felt a little puff of pride when Archie had stipulated that she was to have the final say on decisions in his absence, but in reality that meant paperwork and arguing back and forth with their delivery service- neither task being her forte.

There were dozens of Christmas party bookings coming up in the week that led to the day itself and Emma had been left with the task of double checking the stock of non-perishables. While she would rather be getting prep done for the night ahead, she instead found herself atop a none-too sturdy step ladder counting boxes of risotto rice.

"Need a hand?"

She took a deep breath. Killian. Again. He had this awfully bad habit of discovering her whereabouts when she was not in the mood for his verbal jousting.

She schooled her features into a scowl. "Not from you."

"Ooohhh, so hostile." he hummed.

She twisted back on the ladder, keeping a firm hold onto it with one hand. "You should be used to it by now. Why don't you go expend your efforts on one of your fan club members. Or have you worked your way through them already?"

"Come again?"

"Come on. I'm not blind. I've seen the flirting."

He seemed to toss that thought around in his mind for a moment. "You seem to have the complete wrong impression of me, lass."

"I can only go on what I'm given," she shrugged before trying to return to her task.

But her feet did not want to cooperate. Her shoes (oh-so-practical Crocs) were hygienic but not maneuverable and suddenly her foot was catching on the rung of the ladder, her shoe was flying off and she was falling.

In the instant panic of feeling the earth move from beneath her, Emma didn't have time to scream. Instead, she froze, her body tensing in anticipation of an impact. An impact that didn't happen. Instead she landed firmly in Killian's outstretched arms.

He groaned softly. One of his arms had found its way around her waist, the other around one of her legs. It was an awkward catch to be sure, but certainly less perilous than landing on the floor with all the injuries that could afford. For a second, they were still. She could hear his breathing at her neck and the firmness of his chest where he was holding her against him. The shock of the fall combined with his current closeness was disconcerting and the racing of her heart was difficult to affix a cause to. A moment passed by where both seemed frozen in position. Until Emma shook her head and reminded herself just who was currently manhandling her.

"Um, thanks," she mumbled, (suddenly quite aware of just how close his hand was to her ass).

Gently, he lowered her to the ground, her feet landing in front of his, one bare of its shoe. Slowly she turned to face him. His eyes scanned over her - but not in the way she saw him eye up Ruby when she wore a particularly tight shirt.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes full of genuine concern.

"Just my pride," she shrugged. Then she swallowed some of her remaining pride, "If you hadn't have been there-"

"Well, I was. And maybe it was a little my fault."

"Oh?"

"I distracted you."

He was certainly distracting her now. Somehow in the store room's dim light, his attractiveness was even more evident. In the time they had worked together, she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on his handsome face, or the blueness of his eyes, or the way he just held himself so confidently. Finding reasons to dislike him had superseded that. Now though it was difficult, his presence almost hypnotic at this proximity. She was almost able to understand his sway among the ladies who she worked with.

Emma shrugged, giving her best appearance of indifference, "Yeah. I guess you did."

Conflicting thoughts made thinking straight difficult. He'd caught her. She'd felt his arms around her and now was just inches away from his irritatingly perfect face. He was also not trying to tease her about her fall… Yet he was still the same guy who'd flirted so terribly with her and tried to mess with her menu.

"Well, I've done enough damage here. I'd best head up prep."

There was something about the way he looked at her before he left. It was just for a second. Barely enough to register, but she noticed. It was the way he tilted his head and his eyes seemed to narrow just a little. But it - and he- was gone before she could dwell on what it meant. Well, not too much anyway.

Christmas Eve meant one last day of work and then a whole two days off thanks to the way the days fell that week. Emma intended on using these to catch up on her sorely neglected Netflix queue and work on the tub of Italian gelato that she had been hoarding in her freezer. As stressful as she knew the day would be, she bound into the restaurant with a light spring in her step at the prospect of a mini-vacation.

The junior chefs were already at work prepping the mountains of vegetables needed for three full sittings. Belle was supervising the construction of their special Christmas desserts and most everyone else was engaged in some kind of activity which gave the whole kitchen a pleasant buzz.

Someone had turned on the radio and Christmas tunes were their soundtrack to work. For once, Emma didn't grumble, in fact the music seemed to be putting her in a festive mood. So much so that as she walked past Killian's station, she took a moment to stop and wish him Merry Christmas.

"Thanks Swan," he replied, his voice lacking its usual melodical spark.

She paused, watching as he filleted a cod, his sharp knife carefully maneuvering through the silvery flesh. She had to admit, he was pretty good at it.

"Any plans?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

He shook his head. "Nope, aside from a Skype call with my brother and his family tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me."

With a frown, Emma placed her hand over his, halting his knife.

"Have I done something to you?"

After a second's pause, he lifted his head. "Not at all," he drawled. Emma could smell lies a mile off.

"Then what is it?"

He placed the knife down and sighed. "It is acceptable to dislike the holidays, love, especially when your loved ones are thousands of miles away."

"Oh," she frowned, realizing she knew nothing about his family. She smoothed her hands over her apron.

He seemed to notice her reaction and his own posture softened somewhat. "I've only got my brother left and he's in London. Last year he made it over here but he and his wife just had a child and, you know." He gave her a sad little smile. It was strange seeing him so melancholy.

"Sorry, that must be hard." She hesitated, before adding, "I wouldn't know, I don't have any family."

"You don't?"

She looked away. "Foster kid," she shrugged.

"I had no idea," he said softly.

"I don't advertise it. I usually spend the holidays solo," she explained before offering him her own small smile. "I guess we have something in common then. The whole 'alone for the holidays' thing."

"So it seems," he nodded. "Though I do hope that isn't the only thing."

And there it was- that little spark back again, the timbre of his voice and the flirty glance that she didn't seem to mind so much anymore.

Maybe it was because it was the holidays, or maybe it was Emma feeling just a little sorry for him. Either way, she decided that making peace with Killian Jones would be her good deed for the Christmas season.

Karma and all that.

With this frame of mind, it was just past closing when she marched up to his station. "Jones, you busy after work?"

He cocked his eyebrow before a slow grin spread across his face.

Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm not propositioning you," she drawled, "I need your help."

"Oh?"

"Gepetto's has this new soup that the critics cannot get enough of, and guess who has procured a sample?"

Killian gave her a look of admiration. "Why Swan, I never took you for one to partake in espionage."

"Hardly. He fired a busboy who happens to be friends with one of our pot washers. He figured the soup could buy him a trial here. He was right."

"And you need my help to-?"

"Figure out what the hell is in it."

"Hmm. I do love a challenge. Give me half an hour."

"You've got 20 minutes."

The small pot of soup was waiting on one of the metal prep benches when he finally sauntered over just as the last of the waiters left. He'd taken off his chef's whites and replaced them with a pair of faded black jeans and a midnight blue button down whose sleeves he had rolled up to his elbows. Emma felt a little involuntary jolt of attraction when he approached. Somehow, the tiredness of his eyes had added to his appeal, giving him a drowsy, almost dreamy look which shouldn't have worked but did.

"About time, Jones," she quipped.

"I had to get something." He held up a long, thin piece of dark material.

"What the hell is that?"

"It's a blindfold, Swan. Have you never done a blind tasting?"

Emma shook her head, glancing warily at the item in his hands. "Sounds like something you made up."

He took the last few steps to where she stood, hunching over so they were eye to eye. "The idea is to dull your other senses and therefore increase your sensitivity to taste."

"And that works?"

"You'll just have to find out."

It took Emma a second to nod her agreement, slowly, not taking her eyes of him as he winked and held up the cloth. She placed her hands on the table in front of her and let him wrap the blindfold around her face, his hands quickly tying a gentle knot.

"Not what?" she asked.

There was no reply. Instead she heard the sound of the stood next to her scraping against the tiled floor, a soft clang as he picked up a spoon, the gently sloshing of liquid as he stirred the soup.

"Open wide, Swan."

The spoon was at her lips. She parted them slowly, allowing it to slip into her mouth, her lips closing over it and taking the soup with them as he gently withdrew the silverware.

"What can you taste?" he asked. He was so close, his voice barely above a whisper but so loud in the quiet kitchen.

Emma let the soup roll over her tongue. It was delicious. "Celery… shallot… leek, garlic - mmm, is that clove?"

She tugged the blindfold up onto her forehead.

Hell, he was closer than she thought, just inches away from her. Her eyes flickered automatically to his mouth as she tried to hold the memory of the flavours in her mind... as she also told herself to remember all the reasons why Killian Jones was a bad idea.

So why did she suddenly want to kiss him? He was looking at her so intensely- but not in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. Rather, it was like she was seeing him without the persona he wore in the kitchen. Like somehow she was seeing a real part of him, like she had earlier than day when he'd talked about his family.

Clawing the blindfold from her head, she faltered as she tossed it to him. "H-here," she said, "Your turn."

Titling his head to one side (in that curious way she had seen him do many times when he was intrigued) he said nothing, but merely nodded and complied with her request.

She stirred the soup, the spoon swirling the liquid until she raised the cutlery from the bowl. She had to lean a little closer to bring it to his lips.

"Open," she whispered. She watched the spoon disappear into the pinkness of his mouth, his tongue peeking out to take the last drops from his full, luscious lips as Emma's hand wrapped around the spoon and clutched onto it for dear life.

Free of his eyes on her, she stared at his face: his sharp jaw that met a strong neck, the muscles that contracted as he swallowed, the crop of thick, dark hair that fell over his forehead. It was quite the visage to be sure.

"Yes, clove," he finally muttered, "And, maybe saffron?" He gestured to her with his hand. "Another Swan."

Dipping the spoon back into the soup, she dawdled-

"Anytime you please," he chuckled, his smile unbearably tempting-

She dropped the spoon, her hands moving instead to cup his face, her lips meeting his a moment later, kissing him, tasting the soup on his lips-

It seems he was taken by surprise - indeed she was - and it took a moment for him to kiss her back, to bring his hands to her waist, to part his lips and swipe his tongue between hers. It was altogether intoxicating, the way they moved together and the pace increased-

In a moment of clarity, she was able to stop herself. Pulling back just a little, she used her hands to tug the blindfold down and around his neck.

His cheeks were delightfully flushed, his eyes bright.

She faltered. "I… I mean, I'm…"

She wasn't really sure what to say. The man she had been determined to hate had now became the man she wanted to kiss again, more than anything. Killian's hands found their way from her waist to her hands. He held them firmly.

"I've wanted to kiss you for quite some time," he admitted.

Emma blushed and looked away. "Yeah, to add to your list of conquests in the kitchen."

She glanced back at him. He looked almost… hurt.

"Why do you think that about me?" he asked, his grip on her hands loosening.

She could only be honest. "Jones, you flirt with everyone. Well, everyone except me."

He stared at her, like he was willing her to see something. "Aye, love. With everyone except you."

"Like I said…" she began.

"Emma - haven't you realised it's not real? That's all just an act - my chef persona if you will. You play the serious, stern one in the kitchen, my choice is the jovial flirt."

Her heart began to beat faster as she understood his meaning. He was right - she wasn't that strict taskmaster when she was at home - she was fan of grilled cheese, bad romantic comedies, sleeping past noon and never clearing away a dirty dish without a damn good reason. Her work persona was all part of building her career and commanding the kitchen.

It must have been her expression that told him she got it. Because he was kissing her again, this time with more purpose; hands cupping her face, their knees jostling together as she faced him on the stools upon which they sat.

Her toes curled in pleasure, looping her hands around his shoulders as she let him pull her into his lap so his mouth could press kisses onto her neck- and that spot behind her ear that produced a burning tingle that went straight to her gut and reminded her just how long it had been since she'd been kissed (and that she'd never been kissed like that).

There was a fleeting moment as she undid the buttons of his shirt and he pulled at the pins holding her hair back that she wondered if what this was leading to was wise-

"What are you thinking, Swan?" he murmured against her chest, where his lips were finding the bare skin.

"That this is crazy," she sighed as he nipped against her flesh.

Pausing, he looked up. "Do you want to stop?"

It took one look into those blue eyes to tell her the answer to that question.

"No. No I don't."

It was the morning after Christmas.

The day after a day spent mostly naked and mainly in Killian Jones' bed.

"Morning love," he whispered as she stirred against him.

"Morning," she cooed, stretching out like a cat until he wrapped his arm around her waist.

"So, breakfast and then a walk maybe? We really should get some air at some point."

She gave him a false pout. "But then I'd have to put on clothes."

"Which I agree is a mighty shame-"

She squealed as he pulled her closer and peppered kisses over every inch of skin he could reach until she begged for mercy.

Twisting to face him, she suddenly felt awfully domestic. And that's when the cold feet struck.

"Hey, Killian, this has been, well, it's been great."

"I agree," he nodded, and by god she just wanted to kiss him again. She looked away from his face to the sharp bones of his collar.

"I - just so you know - don't do more than one night. I thought you should know."

He raised a brow, almost comically.

"By my calculations, you already have."

He was right, yes, kind of.

"Yeah, I mean, technically-"

"And you haven't turned into a pumpkin and the sky hasn't fallen in and the world still turns-"

"What are you trying to say?"

He smiled again and pressed a kiss onto her forehead. "I'm trying to say, Chef Swan, that I would very much like to get to know you outside of that bloody kitchen. Both with - and without - clothes."

Was it bad to say that was about the most romantic thing a guy had said to her in years? Probably. But right then, she didn't care. Because she did want to get to know him better too and see what lay beyond the tight jeans and pretty awesome sexual prowess.

"I could handle that," she said, all attempts at sounding nonchalant falling flat as she grinned back at him.

The Ship and Swan gastro pub opened two years later; a perfect fusion of her perfectionism and his flare. It was a roaring hit with the critics.

As was the way he proposed that opening night, in the middle of the dining room.

She said yes.

A/N: Thank you for reading!