by Lacey Black
All I see is her.
How in the hell am I going to get past this? Past her?
You know what you have to do.
Except Lyndee doesn’t seem like the type of woman to just get naked with someone to blow off steam.
Unless…
With starting her own business running her ragged, I’m sure dating is at the bottom of her to-do list. She might actually be interested in that no-strings idea that keeps popping into my head. Perhaps it would be just what she needs right now.
Like me.
Smiling, I ignore my rock-hard dick and settle against my pillow. My eyes close almost instantly and my body starts to relax as sleep draws near. I may not have figured out how I’m going to pitch this idea, but I’m feeling confident she’ll see the benefits of it.
And believe me, I have plenty of hard benefits to offer.
***
“You know, if you weren’t such an asshole to your staff, you might actually get them to stick around longer than a few months.”
“Not now,” I grumble, without a glance up at Walker. I keep my focus on making five perfect burgers for a late order.
“Mal says you made the girl cry.”
Sighing deeply, I glance up and meet his gaze. “She mixed up the regular mayo and the chipotle mayo, Walk,” I argue, hating how three plates came back on Tuesday with complaints about the wrong condiment. “That’s not acceptable in this restaurant.”
Walker crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “So you made Petra cry?”
I shrug, returning my focus to the five grilled buns and the freshly grilled patties I’m adding to them. “Not my fault she can’t handle the kitchen.”
“Sounds like it’s more about not being able to handle your criticism than the kitchen, actually. You have to stop making our employees cry.”
“I don’t do it on purpose,” I claim, adding fresh fries to the plates and hollering, “Order up!” I can sense Walker’s smile as I scrape the grill. “Isaac’s on it. He’ll find me a day shift assistant chef.”
Walker sighs. “He was out of applicants, Jasp. He’s relying on social media to spread the word now,” he replies. “You’re probably going to have to work without one for a bit.”
“I’ve been without for two days already,” I gripe, recalling how my day took a crap on Tuesday and I have yet to be able to catch up with Lyndee. “Besides, Patrick is doing a killer job helping out,” I add, noting our dishwasher has stepped up and fills in where he can.
Patrick glances over from the dishwasher and gives me a smile.
“I’m sure he is,” Walker states, smiling at the young man who, besides my three best friends, may be the only other person I can’t scare off. “I’ll let you get back to it.” Then Walker heads out of the kitchen, probably to return to the bar.
I try not to let it bother me, that I can’t seem to hold employees. I don’t expect perfection, but I do expect minimal mistakes. Little things like mixing up regular mayonnaise and chipotle mayo—especially when they’re not even the same color—or forgetting to label the containers of cheese so we know which one is which. Stupid, idiotic errors that send my blood pressure through the roof like a helium balloon floating to the ceiling when you accidentally let go of the string.
See? I can totally handle the little things.
I work hard until Ross arrives, then happily retreat to my office. It’s not every day I willingly turn over the grill for some quiet. I’ve been at it for three days and am actually quite grateful Ross is working this evening. As much as I love being in the kitchen, not having an assistant these last three days is taxing. It actually reminds me of when we first opened and maintained our business with minimal staff.
Spending the next few hours in my office, I’m able to dig myself out of the paperwork and orders that have accumulated throughout the week. It’s only Thursday, and shit still piles up if you don’t stay on top of it. I sort the invoices and confirmations and put them into the bin for Isaac, ignoring the way my stomach growls with hunger. Sure, I could slip out of my office and make a quick hamburger, but ever since I talked about pizza with Lyndee on Monday, I’ve had a crazy hankering for a homemade pie.
It’s near seven when there’s a tentative knock on my office door. “Come in.”
I’m sure it’s Isaac.
When I glance up, I’m surprised to see Lyndee peeking through the opening. “Am I interrupting?” she asks hesitantly.
I sit up straight. “No, of course not. Come on in.”
She slips into my office, a white plastic bag in her hand. “I’m sorry to bother you when you’re working, but I took a chance,” she states nervously, wiping her hand against her jeans, “that, uh, maybe, you were looking for dessert. I mean, you can take it home with you…or give it away, if you want. You don’t have to eat it.”
I’m already smiling. Her sputtering is endearing as hell. I like it.
“Lyndee?” She looks up at me with gorgeous wide eyes. “What’d ya make me?”
She clears her throat and steps forward, setting the white bag down on my desk. “I was experimenting with peppermint for the shop. Since it’s close to Christmas, I wanted to offer a few items that feel holiday-ee.”
“Holiday-ee?” I ask, grinning like a lunatic and feeling lighter than I have in days.
“Of course,” she says, pulling the small white box out of the bag. “There are two different baked goods. A cranberry white chocolate muffin and a peppermint twist scone.”
My stomach chooses that moment once again to growl. “Those sound great,” I admit, examining the muffin with a critical eye before taking a small bite from the top. My tastebuds explode with the sweet, yet tangy treat I’m sure is going to be a hit. “Very good.”
“Thanks.” She beams, before pointing over her shoulder. “Well, I should go. Dustin is in the car waiting. We’re going to head home and make dinner.”
I’m up and out of my seat before I can stop myself. “Wait.”
She stops moving and meets my gaze. “What?”
“I’m, uh, getting ready to head home now. I was gonna make a pizza. The homemade kind, not the ones you pull from the freezer,” I tease. “Why don’t you and Dustin join me?”
She opens her mouth, no doubt to decline, but the words seem to stick to her tongue. I use that to my advantage.
“It wouldn’t take too long to make. You could probably be home and in bed by nine,” I blurt out, taking a few steps around my desk until I’m standing in front of her.
“I, uh, don’t want to impose,” she maintains, shaking her head.
“You’re not. If anything, you’re helping me by ensuring I don’t have nearly as many leftovers.” I throw in a panty-melting grin, just to seal the deal.
“Pizza, you say?” she asks, her eyes dancing with hope and excitement.
“Margherita.”
“Really? I haven’t had that in years. Dustin won’t eat it though.”
“Well, good thing I have some pepperoni too. So what do you say? Will you and your brother let me feed you dinner tonight?” I try not to sound hopeful, but I’ll admit, it’s hard. I really want her to say yes.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods.
“Great. Let me grab my coat and we can head out. Do you guys want to ride with me?” I ask, shutting down my laptop.
“That’s silly, Jasper. You’d have to drive me back here then afterward, and that’s not reasonable when you’re already home.”
I give her a small smile. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“Still, I can just drive.”
“All right,” I reply, grabbing my coat and the dessert she brought, and flip off my light switch. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Twelve
Lyndee
I’ve made a terrible mistake. The moment Jasper opens his front door for Dustin and me, I realize my error. Sure, I thought twice—hell, a million times—about my decision to agree to dinner on my
way to his place, but Dustin talked a mile a minute the entire trip, ensuring I barely got a word or thought in edgewise. Now, I’m stepping into the foyer of his gorgeous home and recognizing I should have declined his offer. This place is…wow.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside to allow us entrance. “Let me take your coats.”
I slip off my puffer coat and unwrap the scarf around my neck. “Wow, this place is gorgeous,” I state as he hangs our coats in the entry closet.
“Thank you. It’s a touch on the big side, but I’ve always been a fan of the Tudor-style architecture. How about I start on the pizzas, and we do a tour later?”
“Sounds good! I’m starving,” Dustin replies quickly, following behind Jasper as we head to the kitchen.
And what a kitchen it is.
It’s a chef’s space, for sure. Gorgeous cabinets, a massive island in the middle of the room, and a double oven I’m totally jealous of. Sure I might have plenty of baking space at work, but at home, I have a standard single unit. Then my sights land on the refrigerator. “Jesus,” I mumble, stepping up to the gleaming stainless steel and running my hand down the handle.
“It was a requirement when I remodeled the kitchen. A standard refrigerator wasn’t going to work for my needs,” he says, stepping up beside me and pulling items from within, including bottles of water. I steal a peek inside the space, smiling by how organized it is. The containers all have labels and dates.
Jasper moves to a massive pantry and grabs what he needs, setting it all on the island behind him. When my brother takes a seat on one of the barstools, I ask, “What can I do to help?”
“Do you want to pick a wine from the fridge?” he asks, washing his hands at the sink.
“Sure,” I reply, opening the big appliance, but not finding any wine.
“Oh, I have a wine refrigerator over there,” he adds, pointing to a cabinet along the side wall.
It’s only upon further inspection that I realize the handle is different. When I pull it open, I’m surprised to find a custom space just for wine. There are several bottles of whites and reds with vintage years older than me.
“There’s another cabinet next to it with room temperature reds, if you prefer that,” he adds.
Opening the cabinet, I find more bottles of expensive wine, as well as glasses and a variety of openers. I choose a chilled red that will pair well with pizza and use the electric opener to remove the cork. Plus, it’s a sweeter red, which my brother likes. Pouring two glasses, I set one down in front of Dustin and take the other around to Jasper. They’re in a heated conversation about the Reds and how their lackluster season played out this year.
“Thanks,” he says, reaching for the glass and taking a drink. “Aren’t you having any?”
“No, I’m driving,” I reply, reaching for one of the bottles of water.
Jasper nods and reaches into the bowl to start mixing the dough with his hands. I watch for a few minutes, ignoring the conversation they’re having, and just focus on his hands. They’re large and press the ingredients together so easily, so effortlessly it’s hypnotizing. All I can picture is those hands kneading other things…
“Lyndee?”
“Huh?” I ask, glancing up into Jasper’s chocolate orbs. His dance with delight, as if he knows what I was thinking about.
“I was just asking if you’d cut the tomatoes for me.”
I make a noise of confirmation before moving to the sink and washing my hands. I retrieve a large knife from the block on the island and find a bamboo cutting board in the cabinet below it. Carefully, I slice into the tomatoes. “Wow, these knives are amazing,” I state when there’s a lull in their conversation.
“I custom ordered these knives from Japan. They’re designed specifically for my hand. Expensive, but so very worth it. Once you use one of those babies, you’ll never buy another Target knife again,” he says, holding up his dough-covered hands.
Those big, capable hands…
“You know, if you slice the tomato this way, you’ll have minimal spilling of the seeds,” he says, reaching over and demonstrating how I should properly cut the tomatoes.
“But won’t I still end up with tomato slices by doing it this way?” I ask, my eyebrows arched in confusion. I realize there are different methods for cutting tomatoes, but this is the way we were taught in school for slim, perfect slices. I mean…it’s a tomato.
“Yes, but this way is better,” he replies boastfully.
“Your way?”
He gives me another of his full-wattage grins. “Exactly.”
Sighing, I shake my head and continue cutting the tomatoes my way, ignoring the look of exasperation he throws me. Instead, I cut the vine-ripe tomatoes into thin slices and set them aside, while Jasper rolls the dough out into two perfect circles.
“Will you grab the bowl of marinara?” he asks, nodding toward the glass bowl set between us.
“Is this homemade?” I ask, opening the lid and taking a whiff.
“It is. I’ve never used canned or jarred. That would be a travesty.”
“Lyn used jarred sauce the last time we made homemade pizza,” my traitor brother announces.
Jasper’s eyes widen comically. “How is this even possible? You went to culinary school.”
I shrug, sticking my fingertip into the tomato sauce and tasting. “I don’t know. I’m busy, but my preferred field was baking. I don’t really care about the cooking side, unless it’s making my own jam,” I reply, taking a second taste of the tangy sauce. Normally, I wouldn’t dare be licking my finger and sticking it back into whatever I’m making, but since this isn’t for the public, I decide to hell with it. Plus, there’s the prospect of annoying Jasper, which is always a plus. “This is good.”
He’s watching me, but if it bugs him that I’m swiping bites with my finger, he never complains. Instead, he seems to just observe me, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you,” he replies with a quick clearing of his throat. “I made a sweet onion jam for one of my burger creations.”
I lean forward, my hip resting against the island. “Really? Tell me more,” I inquire as he scoops sauce onto the crust.
Dustin groans. “Are you two gonna talk food now? I’m leaving,” he grumbles, spinning on his stool like he’s going to leave.
“Fine, we won’t geek out on food talk,” Jasper says, finishing up his pepperoni pizza with freshly grated mozzarella cheese. “But I will finish by saying, my onion jam would be delicious on some fresh soda bread or something.”
My eyes sparkle with possibilities. “Oh, I bet that would be fantastic. Maybe I’ll make a few loaves this weekend and you and the guys could try it out.”
“Or you could join us Sunday night here and bring it. My friends and I always get together before Christmas and do a dinner, hang out, you know?” He says the words casually, his eyes cast down at the pizza he’s prepping.
“Oh,” I stammer, unsure of what to say. My eyes glance up to my brother, who’s just smiling and watching.
Jasper finally glances up and meets my gaze. “No pressure. We don’t do gifts or anything. Well, except for Lizard. We’ll get her stuff, but otherwise, we just hang out and eat.” He looks across the counter to my brother. “You’re welcome to come too.”
I look down at the cut tomatoes. “I don’t want to impose if you and your friends just do your own thing,” I insist.
He sets the pepperoni pizza aside and begins constructing the margherita one. “You’re not. The others are bringing their girlfriends,” he replies before realizing what he said. “I’m not saying you’re my…you know.”
“Right, right,” I quickly claim. “That would be…yeah. No,” I stammer with an awkward chuckle.
“Right,” Jasper replies, a little too quickly. I mean, it’s not like we’re actually dating, and I did just insist that would be bad, but hearing him confirm it deflates that miniscule bubble of excitement that formed in my chest. “Just a few friends hangin
g out. If you and Dustin aren’t doing anything, you’re welcome to come by.”
I look over at my brother again, the eagerness in his eyes shining brightly. If it weren’t an open invitation to the both of us, I’d decline, but I can’t dismiss the excitement on my brother’s face. I want him to make friends, even if that person is Jasper. Sure, I might think he’s part devil, but he’s been nothing but cordial and accommodating to my brother. In fact, they seem to get along great when they talk. Even the other guys have been friendly and open with Dustin, which is probably why I find myself replying, “That sounds nice.”
Jasper smiles. It’s such a pretty smile, and if I’m not careful, I’ll end up swooning over that grin in a completely inappropriate way. “Great. I’m making prime rib, creamy ranch potatoes, and roasted asparagus.”
“What can we bring?” I ask as he finishes up the second pizza and places it the oven behind us.
“The bread is fine. This Saturday’s special is the burger requiring the jam, so I’ll make extra to bring home,” he says, closing the oven and turning back to me.
“I’ll bring some desserts too,” I insist, grabbing my bottle of water and taking a drink. If I’m going to subject myself to Jasper on a Sunday night, the occasion calls for some sweets. But then again, he’s not too bad tonight.
If you don’t count the tomato incident.
Jasper and Dustin dive right into more baseball talk, and before we know it, the oven timer is sounding. The aroma of freshly cooked pizza fills the air, causing my whole mouth to water in anticipation. I will admit—but only to myself—the real deal smells much better than the frozen ones we’ve been cooking at home.
“I know everyone recommends bamboo or silicone trivets, but I’ve discovered Enamel-covered cast iron ones actually work better at protecting the pan coating and what’s beneath it,” Jasper states, pulling two trivets from a drawer and placing them on the counter. “You should check them out.”
“I use cooling racks.”
“At home?”
Straightening up, I narrow my eyes a little. “No. I use hotpot holders. They’re just easier.”