by Robin Kaye
He had obviously interrupted one of the sous chef’s comedy routines—a crude one from the looks of it. “Harrison, could you spend some time with Skye rearranging the storeroom? She’s having a hard time reaching things.”
“Sure.” He shot a cocky grin at the rest of the kitchen staff.
Logan realized what he’d interrupted. It wasn’t Harrison’s skit; it was Harrison talking about Skye. Shit. He tamped down the urge to pick him up by his collar and bang him into the wall a few times. “Wipe that smile off your face, Bubba—I’m not sending you in there to play spin the bottle. Skye’s your boss, and although she might not look it, she’s tough as nails.”
Harrison’s smile vanished. “I wasn’t—”
Logan’s eyes locked on his.
The man took a giant step back and nodded.
“Good. See that you don’t.” He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. “And on your way home, pick up a sturdy step stool so she doesn’t kill herself climbing around back there. Make sure you bring me the receipt and change.”
“Will do.” Harrison took the cash, shoved it in his pocket, and stepped out of Logan’s reach, double-timing it to the kitchen.
Logan stared at each one of the crew in turn. “That goes for all of you.”
Every one of them nodded and slid off his stool, heading for the door as if someone just lit a fire under his ass. Okay, maybe he was being a little heavy-handed when it came to Skye and the opposite sex. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t take care of herself. She’d had no problem giving him the brush-off. Still, he felt territorial when it came to Skye. If he were a cat, Pop would have him neutered. No, she wasn’t his and he wasn’t even available. He was just being a good manager; there’d be no sexual harassment under his watch—and he’d be watching.
He was tempted to follow Harrison into the kitchen to make sure he behaved. Yet he knew he should give her some room and let her handle Harrison. After what he’d seen of her, Harrison was nothing Skye couldn’t manage.
He followed the crew out, shaking his head. Was it Skye he didn’t understand or women in general? He was almost glad Payton was a low-maintenance kind of woman. She didn’t expect much from him, he didn’t expect much from her, and neither of them seemed to mind. He’d bet his left nut Skye would be just the opposite.
Skye probably wasn’t used to the way things were done at the Crow’s Nest. Pop thought of everyone involved as family, and Logan had fallen back into the fold over the last month. Going to one of the crew’s apartments wasn’t unusual. Hell, he’d already made friends with most of the staff. It was pretty obvious that Skye had never worked in a family-run restaurant. It had taken him a while to cool down enough to look at the situation from her point of view. She hadn’t been rude—just cautious. She was alone in an unfamiliar city—maybe for the first time—and was in a new apartment with a strange man who was twice her size. That would make any woman a little nervous.
That morning he’d been determined to respect her boundaries, and was relieved when at the meeting with the kitchen staff she was relaxed, in charge, and friendly. Within a few minutes, she’d put everyone at ease. She talked about her style of cooking and her expectations. She seemed tough but fair, and spent more time smiling than not. He’d been impressed.
Pepperoni met him at the door with the remnants of a light pink lacy bra in her mouth. Logan bent to pet the little scrap of a dog and swiped the bra. “What have you gotten into?” The apartment was strewn with shoes and clothing. He doubted Skye left the mess. “Why didn’t she put you in your crate, you little monster?” He tossed one of Pepperoni’s bones into the crate and locked the puppy in as soon as her butt crossed the threshold. “There you go.”
He picked up a shoe the dog had gnawed the heel off. “Damn, Skye’s not going to be happy with you when she finds this.” He turned the slingback over and blew out a breath when he saw they were Manolo Blahniks. He didn’t know much about women’s shoes, but these were the kind of shoes Payton wore, and she didn’t wear anything on her feet that cost less than a grand. What was a woman making forty-five thousand a year doing wearing that kind of footwear? He looked at the puppy, then stared at the shoe. “You’ll be lucky if Skye doesn’t turn you into next week’s special. It’s a good thing she’s already taken her knives to work.”
He picked up Skye’s slightly wet, mostly gnawed, and barely there unmentionables and placed them on the bed, noting that her taste in lingerie was as expensive as her shoes. Shit, she’d been there less than twenty-four hours and the room already smelled like her—he’d recognize whatever her scent was anywhere. It wasn’t something out of a bottle. It was a little sweet, a little earthy, and a whole lot sexy with a hint of puppy.
He backed out of her bedroom and grabbed the tiramisu, wondering how he was going to break the news of the mess to Skye. Maybe he’d tell her after a full bottle of wine and the port.
CHAPTER 6
Skye ran through the dining room on her way to the kitchen after her lunch break. She had taken her first paycheck from the Crow’s Nest out for a spin and had found great buys at the local thrift store. Unfortunately, the only place she’d been able to afford to shop wasn’t her usual haunt—Nordstrom. Heck, she didn’t even know if they had Nordies in New York, but then she’d never found a pair of Jones New York slacks for a dollar before either.
She held her bags in front of her and wove her way through the tables, smiling at some of the customers she recognized.
Her first week and a half at her new job had been a success. She and her kitchen staff were getting into the swing of working together. Harrison had finally realized his X-ray vision was on the fritz and stopped staring at her boobs, and Randy and Travis stopped fighting over the waitress they both wanted to date. Of course, all it took to keep Randy and Travis from a fight in the back alley was a look from Logan. She’d been about to jump into the fray when he appeared out of nowhere and, with one well-placed sexy-as-sin raised eyebrow, had the boys cowering.
Think of the devil. Logan stepped in front of her and eyed her packages. “Do you have a moment?”
She checked her watch. The answer was no, but she mentally restructured her to-do list to make one—something she never would have done had one of her brothers asked the same question in their kitchens. “Sure.”
He motioned toward the office and followed her back.
Skye placed her bags on the chair instead of sitting, so he’d know she didn’t have all day without her having to tell him. Tact—that was something else her mother had kept hoping she’d discover. The woman finally got her wish—sort of, as Skye was now practicing on her new boss.
He closed the door, slid by her to take a seat at his desk, and nodded toward her packages. “Pepperoni get more of your things?”
“No.” Her face flamed remembering her first day of work. After a leisurely lunch and a full bottle of wine Logan had told her about Pepperoni’s penchant for destruction when left alone outside her crate. Of course he hadn’t mentioned exactly what he’d found, something she was eternally grateful for once she’d seen the pile of bras and undies he must have gathered and placed neatly in a pile on her unmade bed. “I didn’t bring much in the way of clothes with me—just one suitcase. I’m filling the gaps in my wardrobe. So you wanted me?”
His eyebrows rose, and she probably turned even redder. “Yes. I got a call from someone at Foods of New York Tours. They have food tours through Chelsea Market, Nolita, Greenwich Village, Chinatown, and the like. They’re looking into starting a tour in Brooklyn and requested a private tasting. They heard we had a new chef and someone in-house raved about the food.”
“When?”
“Monday afternoon. Do you have plans?”
“My social calendar is all filled up.”
He did that sexy eyebrow thing again.
“Kidding.” She tossed her bags on the floor and took a seat. “This is great. How often do they have them?”
He l
eaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. “I don’t know.”
“How many restaurants are on a tour?”
“Another good question. I bought two tickets to a tour this Sunday of Central Greenwich Village and SoHo. I thought you could join me if you were free. Think of it as a working lunch.”
“Okay. That doesn’t leave me much time for planning, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good.” He sat forward and twirled a pencil through his fingers—the man even had nice hands. “I think this will be a great way to attract new customers. Pop’s never been much for marketing, and Bree’s had her hands full for the last few months. I’m trying to pick up the slack. You’re doing a great job, Skye. It’s thanks to you we have this opportunity.”
She didn’t know what to say, having never been in this particular position before. Thanks for noticing? You’re welcome? She just nodded and smiled, grabbed her bags, and rushed out the door, almost running over one of the servers.
“Sorry, Wendy. I didn’t see you there.”
“Is Logan in the office? There’s some high-society chick demanding to speak to him.”
“Huh?” Skye peeked around the corner and swore. Payton Billingsly stood beside the bar glaring at everyone and holding her oversized Fendi bag under her arm as if she were about to be swarmed by thieves. Skye slid back to safety. “Someone had better tell Logan that his fiancée is here and she’s looking none too pleased.”
“That’s her?”
“Yes. I saw the article about them in Food & Wine.” Good save. Now all she had to do was get her ass into the kitchen and stay there for the duration of Payton’s visit, which, from the look on Payton’s face, wouldn’t be long. Skye eyed the door she’d just shut. “Go keep her busy. I’ll tell Logan.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. And whatever you do, don’t let her come back here.”
She knocked on the door, let herself in without waiting for a response, and closed it quickly behind her, pressing her back against the cool wood. Logan looked up from whatever he was working on and smiled before he leaned back in his chair. “Are you hiding from someone?”
“Um…no.” If he only knew. “I just ran into Wendy.”
“Did it hurt?”
“No. I wasn’t being literal.”
“Okay.” He lowered his head to sign a check. “Did you come back to tell me that?” He eyed her, ripped out the check, and stuffed it into an envelope, concentrating on making sure the address showed through the cellophane panel. “I don’t know why my dad doesn’t just bite the bullet and do his bill paying online like a normal person. It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake.”
“There’s someone out front to see you.”
He was still fooling with the envelope.
“Your fiancée is out front, and she doesn’t look happy.”
Logan’s head reared up so quickly, he might have given himself whiplash.
“Excuse me?”
“Your fiancée—tall, blond, and as skinny as a swizzle stick. Ring a bell?”
His face drained of all color, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was sweating even though the room always felt like a freezer. “How did she find me?”
“I wasn’t aware you were hiding.” But she could certainly see why. She’d been avoiding Payton Billingsly for years.
Logan stood and his expressionless face looked as if he wore a mask. Gone was the easy smile—it was replaced by emptiness. His expression went blank, and his once beautiful eyes seemed dull and lifeless. “I’m not hiding. I just wasn’t expecting her.” He rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his cuffs with a weird kind of military precision she’d never seen in him before, cursed under his breath, and then ran his hands through his hair.
Obviously not a happy reunion.
Logan nodded at her as if she were some kind of servant and then stepped around his desk. His whole bearing had changed. He looked like an actor stepping into the role of a man headed for the gallows.
The man standing before her now was not the man she’d spent the last week and a half getting to know. Before her very eyes, he’d turned back into the man she’d thought he’d been at their first meeting.
She took a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. At least she no longer had the drooling problem she’d had a minute ago. Her mouth had suddenly gone as dry as a desert martini.
* * *
Logan wondered what the hell had happened. Skye stared at him wearing the same expression he’d seen that first day they’d met—one full of derision. He’d thought they’d made progress. He’d thought they’d become friends. Apparently he’d thought wrong.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter; he had bigger problems to deal with than Skye’s personality disorder.
Payton.
Fuck.
He was finally going to have to come clean—about everything. On the bright side, at least the problem he’d had the entire time Skye had been in the office deflated quicker than a helium balloon at a frat party. “Is Pop on the floor or behind the bar?”
Skye blinked at him with her mouth hanging open. She shut it and shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him when I came in, but I wasn’t exactly looking for him either.”
“Okay. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get out there.” He wished she’d give him a smile, something. She just nodded and stepped aside to let him pass. He felt her eyes on him and went to meet his fate.
Women.
Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath, and did his best to smile.
Payton stood beside the bar like a queen among peasants. She was tall and beautiful—in an unnaturally perfect way. Her lips were enhanced with collagen, her breasts enhanced with silicone or whatever they used these days, and her body was sculpted by a personal trainer. Her makeup was perfect, her clothing designer, and her jewelry twenty-four karat or platinum.
Payton’s eyes locked on his. She was pissed. She didn’t have to say a word; her anger slapped his face as hard as a hand.
“You should have told me you were coming.”
She tossed a length of blond hair over her shoulder. “How was I supposed to do that? You never answer your phone or return my calls.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.” Every eye in the house was glued on Payton. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
She stepped away and drew her lips back in a fake smile. “You said you were from New York.” She spoke through clenched teeth.
“I am. Brooklyn, New York. It’s one of the five boroughs.”
She waved a hand to encompass the restaurant. “This was not what I expected. You lied to me.”
“I never lied. You just never asked. Let’s go upstairs where we can talk without the entire neighborhood listening in.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and applied pressure.
She didn’t move. “Upstairs? This place has a second floor?”
“Yes, our apartment.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re actually living above this dump?”
Logan thought he’d feel embarrassment, but no. All he felt was the hot, sharp edge of rage. “Come with me.” He grabbed her wrist, and dragged her through the throng of gawkers to his office before slamming the door.
Payton took one look at him and stepped back so far, she hit the desk. In heels, she was only a few inches shorter than him, almost eye to eye, and hers were blazing. “Don’t you dare drag me around like some kind of unruly child ever again.”
“If you want me to stop treating you like a brat, then stop acting like one. Now, what the hell are you doing here, Payton? I doubt your intention in coming was to insult me and piss me off, both of which you could have done over the phone.”
“Oh really? How? You never answer your phone. It was as if you just dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I called you last week. Unlike you, I have a job to do. I’ve been busy. Believe it or not, a bar and resta
urant don’t run themselves.”
She looked around his office as if she expected to find a dead rodent somewhere. “I came to bring you home.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I told you. I can’t leave until Slater gets here to relieve me. Bree and Storm are still on their honeymoon.”
“If you don’t come home now, we may never have a honeymoon.”
He held on to his temper by a thread. “Is that a threat? Think about what you’re saying.”
“Logan.” She stepped forward as if someone had instantly deflated her anger like popping a balloon. She slid her hand up his chest, leaning in. “Honey, I’ve missed you,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. Her other hand slid lower and toyed with the waistband of his jeans before she kissed him.
Payton tasted like waxy lipstick, the cigarette she must have snuck before she came in, and Altoids—her cover-up of choice. He waited to feel the rush. He had a beautiful woman in his arms, her tongue in his mouth, and she was practically dry-humping him. But he felt nothing. Not a fucking thing. He tried to set aside his anger, his embarrassment, and the feeling of being caught in a lie of his own making and concentrated on her. They’d always worked well together, in bed and out of it. He slid his hand under her jacket and reached her breast. Nope, that wasn’t cutting it either—at least not for him. Her hand moved lower and stilled over his fly, which, for the first time in recent memory, was not bulging. Damn.
She dragged her mouth away from his and stared into his eyes. Hers were wide with shock. “What’s wrong?”
Logan shook his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Lipstick. Shit. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m in my office. Anyone can walk in.”
She reached around him and locked the door. “Now”—she nuzzled his neck—“where were we?”
The doorknob rattled and then he heard the jingle of keys.
“Shit. This is not a good time.” He stepped away from her and opened the door. “Pop.” Could this day get any worse? The answer was hell yes, but only if he’d been sporting a hard-on. He wasn’t sure which was more embarrassing, getting caught with a woody by his dad, or getting caught without one by his fiancée. Neither was something he’d experienced.