by Jill Winters
Right now the bartender was handing a pink drink to an orange-haired woman Gretchen didn't recognize. But that wasn't exactly news; she didn't recognize a lot of the people here.
"Hmm, where should we start?" Susanna mused aloud as she tugged Gretchen farther into the room, locking elbows even tighter. Come on, what was this? Gretchen typically preferred to be a free agent at parties, and more importantly, she didn't want to give off the impression that she was Susanna's lackey. She'd had her job only a week; she still had yet to meet most of the people who worked at TCN. It was bad enough that Susanna had already introduced Gretchen to several people as her "assist—um, set supervisor."
As they walked toward the clusters of people laughing and talking, Gretchen felt antsy. Inexplicably, all she wanted to do was glance behind her and see if Rick had come upstairs yet. Was he planning to? Or was Mr. Issues going to hang alone in the dark all night?
Forget it already.
One, you have no time to date. Two, dating a relative of a coworker would be too sticky even if you wanted to do it. Three, you don't want to do it, period. Oh, yeah, and finally: Four, no one is asking.
Besides, whenever she thought about what happened at Terra Cottage the other day—the way Rick had abruptly shifted his whole attitude, and pretty much blown her off—Gretchen had to admit, the thing was over before it started.
Chapter 11
After making small talk with Cady Angle and her producer, Marjorie Bass, they found Abe—and Gretchen finally gave Susanna the slip. While Susanna talked shop with her producer, Gretchen ducked through the crowd, heading to the bar. On her way, she spotted Brett laughing it up with some girl—wait, it was that tall, orange-haired one with the pink drink again. As she made her way across the room, Gretchen's eyes wandered and suddenly fell on Rick again. So he'd joined the party. If you could call standing by himself with a beer in his hand "joining."
For some reason, he didn't look the least bit awkward, even though he wasn't talking to a soul. Quickly, she averted her gaze. She tried to act natural as she continued toward the bar. She stole a glance back and found him watching her—his expression serious, his eyes nearly smoldering her to the ground.
Her eyes darted away and she kept moving.
Even though she wasn't looking at him anymore, his image lingered powerfully in her mind. He was clean-shaven tonight, but his dark hair was almost rumpled, like he'd done little more than tumble out of bed before coming here. Honestly? It was kind of adorable.
She couldn't help herself—she stole another peek, arching her back to see past Susanna, who was obstructing her view from this angle. Now Rick wasn't watching her. Brett had approached him and was introducing him to that orange-haired woman. Damn it, who was she? Gretchen hadn't given a flying fuck till this very moment.
She felt an irrational stab of jealousy. Was Brett setting them up?
Trying to get a love connection going for his disturbed, overly dependent brother? And why do I even care? Gretchen thought angrily. This was absurd. Where were her standards? Was she into head cases now, too?
Why were her hormones reacting so unreasonably? Why were they clouding all her common sense, her good judgment? Granted, that was pretty much par for the course with hormones, but still.
The bartender was busy chatting with a group of people who were leaning against the bar. He'd set out two rows of martini glasses, each filled with a cinnamon-colored concoction that Brett had announced earlier as his very own "hottie toddy." Mildly curious, Gretchen reached for one and took a sip. Whew. The drink stung as it slid down her throat. But then a thoroughly relaxing wave of heat rolled through her chest. She sighed. Took another sip. She didn't even know what she wanted right now, but this was a good start, because she was suddenly feeling antsy and pissed off and slightly jittery, hell if she understood why.
"Having fun?"
She turned at the voice. Gulp. Rick was right in front of her, standing much taller than she, looking nowhere near as nervous. Inexplicably, her pulse started racing and her palms began to sweat. She surreptitiously wiped them on her black pants as she forced a casual smile.
Instead of smiling back, Rick eyed her for a long moment, his expression unreadable as his gaze raked down her body... then back up. Swallowing hard, Gretchen felt a warm fluttering between her legs. She nearly moaned when she caught a hint of his clean, masculine scent, but luckily, only a sigh slipped out. Her mind went fuzzy on what she wanted to say. Rick's presence just had a way of consuming the entire space between them, of stealing her breath, her ability to make good small talk.
Biting her lip, she found herself momentarily preoccupied with Rick's chest... strong and powerful the way his navy sweater covered his thick upper body... his broad shoulders... his arms... his back...
"Hello?" he said, waving the beer bottle in his hand in front of her to break her trance.
"Oh... sorry, what?"
"I asked if you were having a good time," he said. His voice was deep and rough; it sent little shivers rolling across her skin.
"Yeah, it's great," she fibbed, and was about to ask him if he was having a good time or something equally innocuous except her attention got snagged by his hand, coming up from his side to scratch his jaw. Had he missed a spot shaving? Or maybe he'd shaved too close? The thought of him shaving brought other images to her mind—hey, it wasn't like she enjoyed being a slave to her imagination, but there it was. Rick shaving, after his shower, his hair still wet and ruffled, with only a towel riding low on his waist...
She wondered if he had hair on his chest. But then, he was Italian—he had to have at least some, didn't he? With a gentle lick of her lips, she tried to do something about her dry mouth—she tried to remember where she was, what she'd been about to say. She tried to think clearly even as her lower body thrummed with heat.
She found her sudden fixation on Rick Pellucci's naked body to be bordering on a sickness. Or an obsessive compulsion anyway. Because once she'd wandered down that path, she couldn't seem to find her way back. Now she had a horny girl's slide show going again. Rick naked, muscular, sweaty, aroused, in the throes of a hot, splintering climax... His back, his stomach, his... Well, she could go on and on. But then she'd officially need professional help.
"That's the second time you've zoned out on me. I must be pretty bad at small talk," Rick said dryly. "Though you're not exactly great at it, either. After I ask if you're having fun, you're supposed to ask if I'm having fun, too."
"Oh..." She felt like an idiot. Shaking her head, resetting her mind, Gretchen rejoined the land of the lucid. She was a college graduate, for pete's sake; she should be able to act like one for five minutes. "Sorry," she said with a breathy little laugh. "Are you? Having fun, I mean?"
"Oh, I'm just thrilled," he replied in a deadpan tone. Hmm, maybe Brett wasn't spending enough time with him? Brett had said once that being around other people often made Rick "skittish." Although... he seemed perfectly confident and at ease right now as he brought his bottle of beer to his lips and tipped it back to take a drink.
He had a good idea there; she drank more of her "hottie toddy," feeling the burn, which began moving from her chest, down her arms, into her belly, and lower.
"So what are you doing here anyway?" she said breezily, leaning her behind against the bar. "Don't you have some fires to put out?"
"Nope," he said, the corner of his mouth hitching up. "Unless you've done something I should know about."
"Oh, shoot!" she said, hitting her palm to her forehead. "I was making s'mores in my living room earlier and I just realized I forgot to put out the bonfire." She snapped her fingers. "Darn."
Rick smiled at her then, revealing some of his straight white teeth; she hadn't noticed those before. So he was scruffy but clean. And God, so adorable. How was it possible for him to be so ruggedly sexy, yet so boyishly cute at the same time? The smile, that was it. When he smiled, the fierce intensity about him seemed to melt away. When he smiled, he became
all rumpled hair and cuteness.
She was surprised to find herself looking up into an empty glass. Where had it all gone? When she tipped it forward again, she glanced up at Rick, who raised his eyebrows. "Guess I drank it all," she said, stating the obvious.
With a grin, he stepped closer and leaned forward, reaching behind her to grab another glass off the bar. Her breath caught in her throat for a few alarming seconds when he was nearly up against her—but just as quickly, he was gone. After giving the drink to her, he stepped back to give her more space and she inched back a bit herself.
"So that's a pretty cool apartment you have," Rick said casually. "Who did you say you lived with again? Boyfriend?"
"Cousin," she said.
"That's right. Male or female?"
With a little crease in her forehead, Gretchen said, "Female," even as she was thinking, Did that really matter? It was her cousin, for pete's sake. And wait. Why was he asking? Was she getting some legitimate signals from him here? Searching his eyes, she felt a whimsical kind of appreciation for their iridescence, their blueness, their clarity, and she felt a silly kind of tilt of her mouth.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said, holding back a smile as she took her next sip. And the one after that. "So how long have you been a firefighter?" she asked afterward.
"Five years," he said.
"Oh... and you can take time away? I just mean... you know, because you've been visiting the network. I mean, I've seen you around the studio, and... now here you are."
"Well, I'm on vacation till Monday" was all he said by way of explanation.
Nodding, Gretchen silently digested that. So on Rick's vacations, he chose to hang around his famous brother, to go to work with him, to meander around the Culinary Network, even though there were endless other places one could go. And on the weekend, he came to his brother's house in the Catskills. It all seemed to confirm what Brett had said about him—the dependency, the lack of his own life—but still, something was off. Studying him curiously, Gretchen tried to figure out what it was, but she couldn't. Rick became more of an enigma all the time. Too bad mysterious could be a bad thing just as easily as it could be intriguing.
"Do you... like to cook?" Gretchen asked.
"Nope."
"Not at all?" she asked, surprised.
"I can't cook for shit," he stated bluntly.
Okay, there went that theory. She thought that perhaps Rick was hanging around Brett because they'd had the same dreams and he was trying to live those dreams vicariously. Oh well. She sipped her drink again, and before she knew it, that one was gone, too.
Back to the matter at hand. So Rick couldn't cook (for shit). Interesting... can't cook... Briefly, Gretchen wondered if he had a girlfriend or wife who cooked for him. No ring plus no wife at the party equaled not married as far as she was concerned. But surely a girlfriend. And if not a girlfriend, then he was probably a pig. In fact, now that Gretchen thought about it, everyone knew the stereotype about firemen. They were players—dogs, to be technical—so he was probably juggling several girls already. She would be a fool to assume Rick was totally free and clear and available.
Then again...
Hadn't Brett indicated that at the staff meeting? Hadn't he said his brother was single? Now Gretchen racked her brain to recall his exact wording, but the more she tried to remember, the fuzzier her mind became. And dizzier.
"So where are you from?" Rick asked her now.
"Um... Connecticut. But I've been living in California till recently," she replied. "What about you? Oh, that's right. You and Brett are from Brooklyn, right?"
"Nope. Jersey."
She paused, confused.
"We're from Newark," Rick expanded. "Ever been there?"
Actually, she'd only heard about Newark—the White Castle and the assorted gang warfare, though so far she hadn't had the pleasure.
"We lived in Brooklyn for about five minutes," he added dryly, then motioned with his head toward her. "So what about you? How come you moved back to the East Coast?"
"Job opportunity. Working for Susanna Tate, you know... I couldn't pass that up..."
Unfortunately she couldn't think of anything more stimulating to say on that because the effects of her two hot toddies and Rick's potent presence already had her overstimulated. Lust stirred like hot lava bubbling in her veins, pooling down between her legs. She bit her lip and tried to act... what was it again? Oh, right—casual. Platonic. Normal.
"You should have your own show," he offered with a quirk of his mouth. "You're a chef; you've got the looks." He was complimenting her, which initially made her smile. But she retracted it. Definitely a player, she reminded herself.
She changed subjects. "So you never finished explaining to me this block you have about cooking. I thought I'd read that Brett learned from your dad—didn't he teach you, too?"
Impassively, Rick shrugged. "Brett takes after him. Helped out at his restaurant since he was—Jesus, I don't even remember how far back."
"Your dad owns a restaurant?"
"Owned, yeah. La Tavola Buona."
"Where, Newark?"
"Yeah, it was, but my dad sold the chain last year." Then he clarified. "He'd turned it into two restaurants by the time we were in high school. The other Tavola Buona was in Livingston—my parents moved there about ten years ago. My mom still lives there. Anyway, in answer to your question, yes, Brett learned how to cook from my dad."
"Wow," Gretchen said, nodding, "that's impressive. I mean that he had no formal training. And what about your mom?"
"My mom helped, worked at the place, handled the books," Rick explained, then added, "but she can't cook for shit either. By the time my dad sold the business, though, I think she was just as happy to retire from it for a while—it had a good run, plus my dad was sick."
Suddenly Gretchen understood. Her chest tightened as the realization set in; it was like a fist gently squeezing her heart. Rick's dad had been sick... he'd sold the business he'd spent much of his adult life building... Rick hadn't mentioned him in the present tense even once. So his dad had died—and just this past year. Wow, that put a whole new slant on everything. (Of course, if she were sober, she'd be able to recall the old slant a little better.)
Now she opened her mouth to say something, but then thought better of it and pressed her lips together. Suddenly it made sense.
That explained what was going on—that must have been why things were so tough for Rick. He was the older son of the family and his dad had died and he wasn't himself. Surely that accounted for, or at least factored into, his various "issues."
Now Gretchen's lust turned into something different. Something more tender. More caring. Of course, she still wanted to throw Rick down—to peel his sweater off, run her tongue down his stomach, unzip his fly with her teeth. Sure she wanted that, but now there was something else. She looked into his glimmering blue eyes and saw another human being, someone with real pain, with vulnerability and sadness, like anyone else.
Okay, now the alcohol was past the lust phase and into sappy sentimental phase. All she'd need now is for someone to put on some Joni Mitchell and she'd sink to the floor like a crumpled mess and start bawling. Why had she let herself drink too much?
Suddenly she felt hot and gooey and a little dazed. It seemed like all her emotional and sexual impulses hummed very close to the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to go spilling into some outer reality. The last thing she wanted or needed was to catch Susanna's eye across the room. Now Susanna was motioning to her and mouthing something. Gretchen barely stifled an eye roll. Ugh, what did she want now?
Gretchen was finally feeling happy that she'd come to this soiree and there was Susanna to remind her she was still on call for any and all of the boss lady's neurotic requests. She mouthed the words again, whatever they were. Then Susanna started unsubtly jerking her head to the side and darting her eyes to the far left corner of her brain. Confused and ir
ritated, Gretchen followed the direction of Susanna's eyeballs.
The orange-haired, pink drink woman again.
With a slight shrug, Gretchen raised her eyebrows questioningly at Susanna, who just jerked harder, really throwing her shoulders into it this time. Ask him, she mouthed more clearly now. Go. Ask. Brett.
Finally she understood. Damn it all—Susanna was pestering her about this now?
"Gretchen?" Rick said, his smooth, deep voice like velvet caressing her skin. It was the first time she'd heard him say her name. She wanted to ask him to say it again because she loved how it had sounded.
"Uh... I'm sorry, it's just my boss..." Susanna's eyes were bugging out in panic now, like maybe she was afraid she'd been too subtle. Brett, she mouthed. Go. Now.
Holding back a sigh, Gretchen glanced around but she didn't see Brett anywhere. Susanna obviously wasn't going to relent. "I should go," she said suddenly, looking up at Rick with a half smile, trying to conceal her acute disappointment.
"Okay," he said simply.
"By the way, do you know where your brother went?" At that, Rick stiffened. When he didn't respond right away but eyed her suspiciously, Gretchen smiled sweetly and said, "I have to ask him something. It's important."
Standing up straighter, his eyes roved over her face, but his gaze was suddenly cool. Finally he gave her a derisive smile and said, "Just follow the smell of women." He seemed to be mocking her as he stepped aside to let her to pass.
Speechless—stunned—what had just happened?—Gretchen didn't have a chance to address Rick's mood shift, because she saw her boss twenty feet away, with her hand on her hip, craning her head to the side, doing her version of "I'm a little Teapot" (short and annoying). It was beyond time to go. Neutrally, Gretchen tried to smile good-bye, but Rick's face was blank, devoid of the friendliness that had just been there. She walked away anyway, confused and pissed. Was he jealous just because she'd asked to talk to his brother? Or was he just so close to Brett that he was overprotective to the point of incomprehensible?