It made her cast her glance away to the far corner of the kitchen where Cosmos cracked eggs on the flat grill.
But Nikos moved into her line of vision. He gave her a sly gaze, his eyes, like a river of chocolate she wanted to jump into and do the backstroke, smoldered.
She shook her head, repeating the question. “So what’s my job again?”
He raised an eyebrow with a lascivious arch to it. “I told you, Frankie. You’re mine. All mine.”
Chapter Four
From the still reluctant journal of ex-trophy wife Frankie Bennett: I don’t care what Mitch says. Meatloaf and brown gravy with fries might well be fit only for cavemen, but the way Nikos Antonakas prepares it makes a girl want to grab her pelt and start a fire with two sticks and the sunshiny rays of high noon. Cavemen rule. Greek cavemen really rule. And oh, damn, look. I wrote this entry in pen. Note to self: Next time use a pencil with a big eraser in case of open-mouth, insert-foot emergency, genius.
Nikos’s statement sent a shiver of awareness along her arms and up the back of her neck.
Cosmos laughed maniacally like some old horror movie villain.
Clearly catching her anxious dismay, Nikos chuckled. “Another joke, Frankie. I crack wise. You humor me and laugh,” he teased, the fresh scent of his breath fanning her heated cheeks.
She gulped. Where had her sense of humor gone? Down the shitter when you found out the joke was on you. “Right. Joking. So being yours, all yours, what am I doing?”
Nikos pulled two aprons off a hook on the wall, tying one around his lean waist, leaving Frankie mesmerized by his long fingers. “You’re my assistant.”
“What am I assisting?”
He handed her an apron, then smiled. “Making my day a whole lot easier on my eyes.”
She tilted her head to the right in question just as an older man pushed his way through the exit door directly in the back of the kitchen. His gray and black eyebrows knit together in a frown. The thick fall of his hair trailed over his forehead in deep ebony and silver waves as he dumped a bag on the island with a grunt. He brushed his button-down beige sweater with strong, thick hands.
“You.” He pointed a finger that might have been Nikos’s if not for the liver spots at Frankie. “You chop.”
“Papa,” Nikos chided with obvious affection in his tone. “Say hello to Frankie. She’s our new prep chef.”
Nikos’s father scanned her from head to toe with a cynical gaze, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deep with hesitation.
He lifted his round chin and clucked his tongue. “Hello.”
Brrrrr. It wasn’t just cold outside.
Her hand flew out, hoping to turn this awkwardly strange moment around. “Frankie. Frankie Bennett. Nice to meet you, Mr. Antonakas.” She tacked on a smile she hoped came across as genuine without being forced.
His lips pursed in clear skepticism. “Uh-huh. Yes. I know all about the skeeny Frankie Bennett who blew her gasket on the television. I like your dog, Kooky.”
There was something to be said for honesty—it really sucked. “Um, Kiki,” she offered in bright tones.
Nikos got behind him and pushed his father’s arm outward, making his hand take Frankie’s to move up and down in a handshake. He mimicked his father’s tone of voice and accent perfectly when he said, “Nice to meet you, Frankie Bennett. I am Barnabas Antonakas, the cranky old man who’s upset with his oldest son for making him rest instead of standing on his feet for fourteen hours a day. He’s a bad, inconsiderate son, my Nikos.”
Frankie fought a smile. Now she understood. She was taking over Barnabas’s duties as a prep chef of sorts, and he was resentful for the intrusion. Nobody got downsizing and trading up better than Frankie.
“So I’m aiding and abetting, eh?” she teased.
Barnabas yanked his hand from Nikos’s and tweaked his cheek. “You are a fresh boy. Nobody chops like Barnabas. You need me here, Nikos. You will regret the day you kicked me to the grass,” he warned, but his eyes were loving when they gazed upon his eldest son.
“It’s curb, Papa, and I won’t regret not seeing you in the hospital with a bunch of tubes sticking out of that big schnoz of yours. Now go do something productive like watch Family Feud, and let me handle everything else.”
Barnabas snorted in disgust over his shoulder when he muttered, “You will see. The skeeny Frankie won’t chop like me. She’ll be here all day long just trying to catch up to old Barnabas . . .” His voice trailed off as he pushed his way through the kitchen doors.
Nikos grinned. “Sorry. He’s cantankerous, but he isn’t intentionally rude. Just depressed as one era ends in his life and another begins.”
Frankie eyed the bag Barnabas brought and realized it was filled with onions. Many onions. “I can definitely see how depression would set in if he couldn’t chop onions. I’d be sad, too. Thankfully, it looks like my depression is in for a much-needed breather.” What had she gotten herself into?
Nikos grabbed a shiny knife and winked with another chuckle. “You do have a sense of humor. For now just peel, and I’ll chop. But if you show me your Jedi skills, I promise you, too, can chop.”
“You’re afraid to give me a knife, aren’t you?”
His eyes met hers. “Say again?”
“I said, you’re afraid to give me a knife because they’re sharp and pointy, and I’m unstable and unpredictable,” she joked. Well, it was only sort of a joke. She had been unpredictable.
Nikos cocked his head back with a wink. “I love unpredictable, but I love unstable even more. So you’ll be like the cement that holds my crazy together.”
Now Frankie laughed, popping open the bag of onions, relaxing just a little. “I’ve got plenty of crazy.”
“Good to know. You’ll need it here. Now start peeling. By the looks of the orders piling up, we have hash browns and omelets to make.”
Frankie looked down at the bag, pulling out the first onion, avoiding his dark gaze. “So how many do you need? Three? Four?” She handed him the first peeled onion, her eyes just barely beginning that familiar sting.
“The whole bag.”
All ten pounds? No way.
He nodded his sleek head without looking up from the chopping board as though he’d read her mind. “Yes way.”
“Why wouldn’t you buy them prechopped?”
His hand rocked the knife back and forth over the onions with the skill of any trained chef she’d ever seen. “First, they’re not fresh, and everything we do here at the diner is fresh and made to order except some of the pastries and pies, and they don’t hang around more than a day. Second, they’re expensive. Third, if I did that, you’d have no job security.” The corners of his lips lifted when he wiped his eyes on the shoulder of his black T-shirt.
Frankie wiped the tears in her own eyes with her sleeve while she peeled. “Point.”
“I occasionally have them. Not often, but when it happens, it’s usually categorized as historic.”
Frankie muffled a snicker, keeping her eyes on her work. Yet they kept straying to Nikos’s hands, so fluid and graceful as he chopped. It was probably better he had the knife. She’d be here all day without the Slap Chop.
The back door in the kitchen creaked, capturing Frankie’s attention.
“Morning, Nikos,” cooed a lean young woman with a long, dark brown braid down her back and the best legs Frankie had ever seen. She pulled off a cute, knee-length jacket and hung it on a hook by the aprons.
Nikos barely looked up but muttered a polite, “Morning, Chloe.”
She stopped short at the island where Nikos and Frankie worked and gave Frankie a thorough once-over with her round silver-gray eyes, making no bones about the fact that she was sizing her up.
“And who’s this?”
Manners, manners, manners. She must remember to use them in social settings. If that wasn’t in Maxine’s handy-dandy notebook, then it should be. Frankie wiped her watering eyes across the sleeve of her shirt,
then swiped her hand on her apron.
She jammed it in Chloe’s direction, forgetting the constant source of embarrassment her name brought her as of late. “Frankie Bennett.”
Chloe wrinkled her nose without extending her hand in return. “I know you. Your husband was on that show Mitch in the Kitchen.”
Okay. So embarrassment was back.
Nikos’s head snapped up, his eyes following Chloe’s gaze with something hidden in them Frankie couldn’t place. “Chloe Gianopoulos, meet Frankie Bennett, my new assistant. Frankie—Chloe, one of our waitresses.”
“Nice to meet you,” Frankie said, though, from the eyeball glare Chloe was giving her, Frankie suspected the feeling was not mutual.
Chole gave her a quick smile and muttered, “You, too,” before turning to Nikos. “So I’ll see you later on my break? Save me some meatloaf and gravy.” She brushed a hand over Nikos’s arm in very obvious possession, shooting a pointed glance in Frankie’s direction before skirting out of the kitchen.
Though Frankie noted Nikos didn’t outwardly shun Chloe’s affection, he didn’t acknowledge it either.
Yet clearly, Chloe meant for Frankie to know Nikos was hers.
And okay. Message received. She didn’t need or want a man. Especially this man. This beautifully hard, fantastical man. He had to be major maintenance in the mirror department. Not to mention the women who must line up in scads to take a shot at grabbing his attention. His body obviously didn’t lack a good, hard workout either. Nikos Antonakas was work.
No more high-maintenance men.
Or maybe just no more men, high or low or anything in between maintenance.
She cast a furtive glance at Nikos through oniony eyes.
If he belonged to Chloe, and she was so totally okay with it, why did the idea make her more depressed than she already was? That was ridiculous.
They’d only just met, for Pete’s sake.
Nikos stared at Frankie’s slender back while she did half spins on the stool at the front counter, flipping through a magazine, headphones in her ears. She looked exhausted and grateful for her break. He busied himself counting her ribs, cursing Mitch in the Fucking Kitchen in a moment of protective anger. The surge took him by surprise when it crawled along the back of his neck and settled in his clenched fist.
There was no love lost between him and a cheat. What it had so visibly done to Frankie made him want to wrap his fingers around Mitch Bennett’s throat and shake the hell out of him until he shit gallstones.
“You’re staring,” his brother commented from over his shoulder.
“Was not.”
“Were, too.”
“Yep, you were,” Hector parroted, joining Cosmos.
Nikos gave them both pointed looks. “So?”
“So, you probably don’t want to tussle with that, bro. She comes with baggage, lots and lots of baggage. You’ve been down that road—remember—”
Nikos swung around and flicked his brother’s hair with two fingers. “No one said anything about tussling with anyone. Shut the hell up.”
Cosmos grinned, displaying a set of perfect white teeth. “Could’ve fooled me by the way your eyes go all moony when she’s in the room.”
Nikos clenched his jaw. Usually, Cosmos couldn’t get to him, but with no warning, Frankie’d become a sensitive subject. “She’s not my type.” And she wasn’t. He liked them hippier, fuller, rounder, darker haired with an occasional blonde. Yet...
Yet what, Antonakas?
Yet shit. No more damsels in distress.
Cosmos crossed his arms over his chest covered in his dirty lunch hour apron. “That’s because she looks like she hasn’t eaten in a year. Wait until she puts on twenty pounds. I saw all those pictures of her during that feeding frenzy the tabloids had with her after her divorce. She’s pretty hot. Seriously hot, Nik. She has crazy long legs and an ass—”
“Shut it. Stop objectifying her,” Nikos warned with a growl of words he found he could barely contain. The hell?
Cosmos held up his hands like two white flags, but his playful grin remained. “Chill, Mr. She’s Not My Type.”
“She’s not, but would it kill you to give her a little respect?”
“Anyway, Mama’s right. She looks like she’ll keel over at any minute if she doesn’t eat.”
Nikos rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek in thought, forgetting Cosmos’s rude comments. “Hook me up with some meatloaf and gravy, would ya?”
Cosmos grunted. “You got it.” He gave Nikos a shove to his shoulder. “Quit staring. She’ll have holes in the back of her sweater. She can’t afford less insulation on her scrawny body, or she’ll freeze to death.”
Nikos ignored Cosmos and headed toward the stool next to Frankie, brushing against her when he sat with an unceremonious flop. His shoulder brushed hers, making her jolt a little. He motioned to her to take her earphones out.
“So do you hate me yet?” Her red-gold hair, pulled back in a mussed ponytail, reeked of onions and garlic.
Frankie’s red-rimmed, amber eyes gave him a thoughtful glance before returning to the magazine she was reading. “Well, I wasn’t in love with you after onion ten or so, but the garlic really was uncalled for. So while ‘hate’ is a strong word, I wouldn’t one hundred percent rule it out.” She wrinkled her pert nose to show her distaste for the dozens of garlic cloves she’d peeled and mashed for him to use in a marinade.
Nikos folded his hands on top of the flecked countertop and smiled. “So I guess I should wait on my marriage proposal?”
He managed to elicit a small smile from her when she turned up one corner of her full, strawberry-colored lips, unadorned by gloss. Admittedly, it pleased him to garner that kind of reaction from someone so deadpan most of the time.
“Uh, yeah. At least until I get the smell of onions out of my hair.”
“Damn. And I was already booking the doves and fireworks.”
“Birds are messy, and fireworks are sort of pretentious.”
“Hah! You don’t know my family. Doves and fireworks aren’t even the half of it.”
“Speaking of family ...your dad . . .”
“He’s crotchety and feeling displaced.”
Her head bobbed in agreement as she set the magazine down. “By me. Thanks for that. Between bouts with Ellen DeGeneres, he’s poked his head into the kitchen at last count eight times to scoff at my chopping skills—openly and with vigor.”
“Don’t let him get to you. My father isn’t one to keep his feelings on the inside. He’s not angry with you. He’s angry with me for finally putting my foot down and making him let go of his duty to the diner when he had a bout with colon cancer.”
“I noticed he’s not afraid to express an opinion.”
Nikos grinned at her “That particular gene runs in the family.”
Frankie sighed. “Are there more of you who’re unafraid to express their opinions? Because if so, I think we should just have one Frankie Bennett viewing and get all the ‘she’s too skeeny—Mitch is a letch’ comments over at once. It works toward good time-management skills.”
His glance in her direction revealed she was teasing, and Nikos found he’d been holding his breath while she spoke. “Speaking of skeeny,” he said as Cos placed a plate in front of her, “eat. No one goes without a meal here.”
“For the lady,” Cosmos said, pushing a fork and knife in her direction before winking lasciviously at his brother.
“Oh, I’m not hungry,” she protested, letting her head fall to her chest in her now familiar gesture of withdrawal. “But thank you.” She flipped back through the magazine with distracted turns of the page.
Nikos pushed the side of the fork through the slab of meatloaf on the plate and used his other hand to tilt her chin up, holding the utensil to her mouth. Her skin was so soft he had to fight to keep from tracing his thumb over it. “Thank me after you taste this, and don’t make me get Mama or you’ll find out just how much drama one litt
le Greek woman can create.” He pressed the fork to her lips in encouragement.
Frankie’s pretty eyes rolled when she opened her mouth, leaving Nikos fighting to ignore the kind of sensual visual she created. They widened when the flavors of Greek Meets Eat’s famous meatloaf tantalized her taste buds.
“This is the famous meatloaf my Aunt Gail was talking about, isn’t it?”
“Beats reading a crocheting magazine, don’t you think?”
Frankie smirked, a dimple appearing on the left side of her mouth. “I’m trying to find a hobby. Because it seems I’ve never had one. Being married to Mitch . . .” She stopped short, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of red. “Yes. That meatloaf is amazing. It totally beats crocheting.”
His nod was smug when she cooed her approval, taking the fork from his fingers. “I know. It’s like ground beef and gravy nirvana, right? Mama’s the only one who ever lays hands on the meatloaf. It’s almost the only dish she won’t let anyone else prepare.”
Frankie wiped her mouth with the napkin and nodded with a grin. “It’s delicious. I’ve never had meatloaf this spectacular.”
“There’ve been three food critics and one franchise who’ve wanted to pay Mama for the recipe for that meatloaf, and she’s turned every one of them down. I’d put it to the test against any professional chef’s fig-and-goat-cheese-encrusted whatever.”
Her head dropped again in a quick change of mood. “I’m not a food snob.”
Shit. She was offended. “I didn’t say you were.”
Pushing away from the counter, Frankie scooped up the plate with one hand and pursed her lips at him in obvious disapproval. “You didn’t have to. Everyone thinks because I was married to a famous chef, I can’t eat anything that isn’t impossible to pronounce, never mind spell, and prepared by the hand of someone trained at Le Cordon Bleu. Yet not one of you have any idea just how many hot dogs and ramen noodles I’ve consumed in this lifetime.”
Burning Down The Spouse (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 2) Page 7