“Thank you,” I say, astonished that I’m mere inches away from him.
Davis Morgan is more edible than the mouth-watering dishes he creates. For two years, he’s been Brooklyn’s most eligible bachelor. He’s been featured on every type of media filmed in the city. He’d be the city’s prince if there were such a thing as royalty. Okay, maybe that’s a little bit of an exaggeration.
“Davis,” Shawn says, stepping aside to allow him to take over.
Davis’s lips turn up one more time before he flips his attention to his employees. “Thanks, Shawn. I was just welcoming our new . . . bartender?” he questions.
Shawn nods.
“Where do you find these girls?” His focus turns to me. “Can you even lift a keg of beer?”
The room bursts with fake laughter. Yeah, these people know who signs their paychecks.
His eyes find mine again and my throat constricts, attempting to swallow the little amount of saliva in my mouth.
“She’s Todd’s friend,” Shawn says, answering a question I’m not sure Davis was seeking an answer to.
Davis turns to Todd then looks back my way again.
My cheeks must be flaming red about now. I’ve hated being the center of attention ever since that time in fifth grade when I had to do my presentation on Indonesia, only to stutter my way through the word archipelago.
A look of disbelief and curiosity crosses Davis’s face for a second. “Well, welcome, Amelia. If you need assistance with those kegs, come grab me. I’d be more than willing to help you.”
He winks, and three gossiping girls’ heads snap my way.
Oh, my God, I think I just stopped breathing. I try to collect myself after flirting with the boss. As I pick up my head, I find Todd’s eyes locked in my direction.
Focusing his attention on the staff once again, Davis discusses the specials for tonight, and I attempt to focus on the dishes he’s featuring instead of his strong hands gripping the chopping knife slicing through onions. I try to remember the savory ingredients rather than noticing the light stubble across his cheeks and jaw. His eyes veer my way when he finishes a sentence, and my breathing halts again.
Five mini heart attacks and half an hour later, we’re released to our stations to prepare the restaurant for opening.
I dash to the restroom to compose myself. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
Oh, how I can already visualize those hands gripping my hips and hoisting me up onto that metal table. My legs would easily slide open to allow him entry, and my back would arch off the cool surface as his hand cupped my face. His warm fingertips would breeze over my breasts, igniting a rush of tingles—
“Get your ass out here!” Todd hollers into the women’s restroom, my daydream screeching to a halt.
Stopping my wild imagination, I inhale and exhale, repeating my mantra to the mirror. Resting with my hand on the restroom door handle, I close my eyes and suck in one last breath before opening the door.
My heart drops when I find Davis waiting on the other side. He pushes himself off the wall and breaks the distance between us. “So, let’s see how great of a bartender you are. Come make me a drink.” He nods in the direction of the bar.
“What’s your drink of choice?” I attempt my best casual and easy voice, praying my nervous stuttering can stay hidden for a little longer.
“Guess.” He smirks and sits down on one of the barstools. “What kind of guy do I seem like? Beer? Rum and Coke? Maybe a wine spritzer?”
Our eyes meet with amusement.
“I hope you aren’t a wine spritzer guy, but I’d bet you had your fair share of Zimas back in the day.”
He shrugs, clearly keeping that information under his vest.
I investigate the foreign bar, biting the inside of my cheek. Lifting the cooler, I spot the supply of beer. Grabbing a chilled tall glass, I place it in front of him on a cocktail napkin and he smiles, revealing that I’m getting warm. Now that I know I’m close to his drink preference, I decide the middle of the road is best. Pulling out a Stella Artois, I grab a bottle opener and easily pry open the cap on the glass bottle. He slowly nods, and I pour the beer into the glass. Our eyes lock, and the light-colored sudsy liquid almost spills over the edge.
“So, I was right?”
“Very good choice, Miss Fiore.” He lifts the glass to his mouth, sipping the beer. His tongue snakes across his upper lip to lick the white suds off. “Just the right amount of head.”
He winks, and my stomach somersaults.
“I’ve never had any complaints.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” he says with intense, seductive eyes piercing into my own.
An awkward silence fills the small space between us, and my body leans over the bar. His crisp cologne surrounds us.
“Well”—I clear my throat—“I’d better find my way around this place.”
He’s your boss, Amelia. Stay away . . . far, far away.
“Thank you for the beer.” He raises the glass in the air, sips it again, and places it down on the cocktail napkin. “Time to dictate to the chefs.” His lips curl at the corners and he steps through the swinging doors, giving me no time to respond.
The rest of the evening goes by like the flick of a lighter. Luckily, Victor, the head bartender, and Megan, another bartender, were here to show me the ropes. They saved me too many times for me to ever pay them back. Saturday night packed the stools, which profited my pocket.
A big ole hug to Todd is in order tonight.
Once Shawn escorts the last table out the front door, he locks it then leans against it. “That’s it tonight. Great job, everyone.”
The last of the wait staff and I shuffle down the hallway to the employee locker room.
I push my shoulders back, stretching the ache that formed from hunching over coolers and faucets the whole night. I would have thought my body was conditioned to being on my feet all night, but I’d never opened as many wine bottles in any of my other jobs. My eyes peer up to find my way to my locker.
Dressed in his street clothes, Todd is sitting down on a metal folding chair, fiddling with his phone.
“What are you doing here?” I go to my locker to get out of the cardboard-stiff white shirt.
“I’m here to walk you home.” He tucks his phone away in his jacket pocket. “Or entice you to have a nightcap with me.”
I peek over my shoulder and shake my head. “A nightcap? What decade did you morph back from?” My locker clicks open, and I debate in my head about sneaking off to the restroom to change. I have a tank top on, but it doesn’t cover a lot. Looking right and left, I find most of my coworkers are ignorant of me, so I go for it.
“Figured we’d have a congratulations drink on your first day.”
I sense Todd behind me as I sneak my arms out of the shirt. God, I hope he’s concentrating on anything but me.
“A simple ’way to go’ is good enough.” I shed myself from my shirt and throw my sweatshirt over my head like a teenage girl in a locker room.
“I know you made killer tips. You at least owe me a thank-you drink.”
From the distance of his voice, I gather he’s still on the chair. I pray his eyes were fixated on something else, or that he had the decency to look away.
“Fine.” I release a huff. It’s not because I wouldn’t love to show my appreciation to Todd for finding this position for me. I’m just completely exhausted from being up early for my day job at Art on Wells.
I twist around and swing my purse over my shoulder.
“You know how many girls would kill to go out with this?” He lifts his shirt, showing me his six-pack of well-defined abs.
“Put those away. You forget, I’ve photographed you, so I’ve seen it all.”
His abs still make my pulse quicken, but I’d never tell him that.
“Bye, guys,” Victor says. He and Megan wave good-bye and exit through the door.
“Bye,” Todd and I respond in unison.
&nbs
p; I shut my locker.
He stands up and swings his arm around my shoulders. “You can thank me another time. I know you’re probably dead tired.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, and ours eyes meet. He’s so handsome in the high-school-quarterback kind of way. I imagine he was Mr. Popularity or the King of Prom—the guy who never gave me the time of day, the guy I was invisible to in the halls. But Todd is so sweet and kind; he may be a little self-centered, but I swear, he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.
“What?” he asks, his strong hand gripping my shoulder tight.
I shake my head and smile. “Thank you for getting me the job.”
“Sure, Noodle, but I have a favor to ask.”
My feet skid to a stop right before we venture outside, and I quizzically look up at him.
CHAPTER TWO
Todd
I glance down to my feet, thinking how I can word this so I won’t sound like a complete dipshit. Of course, I got her the job at CHOPs with no strings attached, but then a brilliant plan came to me when we were in the kitchen, and I saw the way Davis looked at her.
“The boss seems to like you.”
“Davis? He’s nice.”
She continues to walk, but I sense her apprehension from the way her hands are tucked into her pockets. She’s waiting patiently for the bomb to drop.
“He is . . . well, from what I know of him, he’s a workaholic.”
I bite my lip. There are times when I feel as though I know Noodle well, and other times, I don’t. We’ve had a few conversations when she’s taken my pictures, but she keeps a lot of herself closed off. I’ve wondered if it’s because of the guy I saw running out on her the day I moved in. The image of her broken, in her doorway, has never left me. She tried to wipe the tears and act normal, but I saw through her facade. Whoever that guy is, he’s an asshole, and I hope she knows that.
“It’s paid off for him.” Her head faces forward. She bears no emotion.
“Yeah. I was thinking . . . since he’s definitely into you—”
Her head springs my way. “You think he’s into me?” she interrupts. Her eyes open wide in surprise.
Now, she’s perked up.
“Yes.”
A small smile creeps up the corners of her mouth, and she shakes her head in disbelief.
“I think he was just being a nice boss.” She focuses down and I wonder what’s going on in that head of hers. I sensed her low self-esteem a few times, but she usually smiles through it—at least in front of me.
“Trust me, Noodle. He’s interested.”
She shrugs.
“So, I was thinking that you could keep him distracted and get him to go out—at least, out of the kitchen.”
“What?” She stops, and hurt fills her eyes before confusion sets in. “You trying to whore me out or something?”
Shit. I should have led into that easier. Slower, for sure.
A deep chuckle pours out of me. “No.” I attempt to calm my humor down. “I’m not asking you to screw him. Just flirt a little. Keep him out of the kitchen. You might even like him.”
“Is this a stipulation of you getting me the job?” She crosses her arms over her chest and juts out her hip.
She’s oddly cute when she’s mad and damn—those tits.
“No. I already got you the job. I was thinking this would be more of a thank-you gesture.” My shoulders lift.
She inhales a deep breath. “How about just the ‘nightcap’?” She puts nightcap in air quotes.
“I’ll buy the nightcap. Just put yourself out there, and see if he bites.”
This might be getting worse instead of better.
“Seriously, Todd, you are demented.”
She shakes her head and steadily proceeds toward the subway.
I jog to catch up to her. “Hold up.”
I grip her arm, but she yanks it out of my grasp.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I want to find investors for my own place. He’s always there, never letting me showcase any of my dishes. I’ve tried to go through the chain, asking him to let me create a special here or there, but he’s refused me every time.” I hold her vision with mine until the corners of her lips turn. “Forget I asked.” My shoulders deflate as I realize it was a dick move. I’ve officially lost it. My desperation is definitely clouding my judgment.
“Apology accepted.”
I stop. A warm feeling spurs in my stomach from her ability to forgive me so easily.
I follow her to the top of the subway stairs.
“I saw how he was looking at you in the kitchen, and I just thought it could be good for both of us.”
She giggles and shoves me. “So, you thought, ’yeah, I’ll whore Lia out’.”
“Actually, I thought, ‘I’ll whore Noodle out’.”
Her hand reaches out to shove me again, but I grab ahold of it and pull her in to me. A strawberry scent floats from her hair. This is the first time I’ve hugged her, and from her limp arms, I’m thinking I’ve made another dumbass move by initiating contact.
She laughs into my sweatshirt and steps back. “You’re a rare duck, you know that?” She jogs down the subway steps.
“More like a lone duck,” I mumble behind her.
CHAPTER THREE
Amelia
My lateness is quickly becoming a cause for concern. Ms. Cruella de Vil will surely punish me with what she assumes is a menial task of walking her two four-legged children to the dog park if I’m tardy again. Ugh . . . tardy. I hate that word, especially when it comes out of her mouth. I can just hear her sweet-as-pie voice trying to disguise her annoyance.
“Amelia, dear, you’re tardy again.”
When did I warp back to high school? Maybe next time I have to pee, I should ask her for a hall pass. Then again, high school doesn’t sound so bad. I wouldn’t mind getting caught in the locker room, lip-locked with a boy with his hand down my pants.
That never happened to me, but it sounds nice right about now.
My dry spell is turning into a damn drought with nothing but clear blue skies. That just makes my thoughts flicker to Davis, and oh my, is he sexy as all hell. I don’t care what Todd says—Davis is trouble. I’m sure of it.
I’ve been at CHOPs for a week now, and Todd was right. The staff is friendly. I think I’m beginning to fit in. I’ve even exchanged some private jokes about the regulars.
Those three girls who were huddled around the cell phone my first day—Heather, Cindy and, Ashley—shared some inside gossip with me the other night when we were closing. It was the usual restaurant crap—who’s slept with whom, who might have an STD, and who to stay away from because they absolutely do have an STD.
It’s the restaurant business, and I’m used to the whole everyone-knows-everything bit by now. In every restaurant I’ve ever worked at, the dating pool seems to consist of only coworkers until there’s no choice but to move outside of the circle to find someone. Not much can surprise me. I’ve heard it all.
The odd part of the whole conversation was that Davis wasn’t mentioned once. A flirty, hot boss should definitely be something to gossip about. He must have a serious girlfriend or a string of unattached women. I wouldn’t dare ask unless I wanted to be pinned with a scarlet letter on my uniform as the one who wanted to nail the boss.
I enter the stark gallery with art just as plain adorning the whitewashed walls. Weaving by the few sculptures sporadically placed throughout the middle of the room, my heels click on the medium-brown hardwood floor. Bette does everything to the norm, a conformist at her best. She never steps out of the box, even with the art she spotlights. I’m certain the only reason she’s teasing with the idea of showcasing me is because her friend just returned from Chicago. There’s a hoity-toity gallery that has a nude photographer, and everyone is raving about the pictures.
“Amelia, dear, you’re late,” she calls out from her office.
I know better than to respond until I reach her. Acc
ording to Bette, there’s absolutely no reason for anyone’s voice to rise above a whisper in Art on Wells. She even made up plaques that said, Don’t disturb the art. Whispers only, please, and placed them around the gallery.
“I’m sorry, Bette.” I should’ve thought of my excuse in the short distance to her office. Crap. “The new model I was shooting had some problems with her wardrobe . . . er . . . car,” I manage to stutter out.
In actuality, I was late because I couldn’t tear myself away from The Real Housewives of Orange County. Those women might be crazy, but the catfights make the lecture from Bette worth it.
“You aren’t using that hunky blond fellow you have in all your other pictures?” she asks, completely disregarding my lie.
Hunky? Did I just step back into the eighties during the fifteen-minute walk to work?
As if.
“Todd? Yeah—I mean, yes, I’m using him. But I thought I would get some more options, maybe a woman.”
She takes off her glasses and bites one arm between her heavily applied lipstick-covered lips. “Amelia, dear, my clients don’t care for women. It’s the men, like Todd, who will draw them in to buy your art. I don’t think I have to remind you how fortunate—” Her phone buzzes and she stops her usual feel-privileged-Amelia speech that goes something like, I treat you like shit, but hey, you can display your art for one night only, and I’ll take forty percent from the top.
“I know. Thank you again, Bette, for considering to showcase me.” I cower down, denying my urge to lean across her ornate desk and scream about how ignorant she is to any form of art, let alone the nude form. “I’ll go finish that invoice from the Gecko exhibit this past weekend,” I tell her, detailing my plans so I don’t have to adhere to her nails-on-the-chalkboard instructions.
I’m two steps away from escaping the confines of her office when she calls out, “Amelia, dear, take Jasmine and Jackson to the dog park for a while, will you? I’ve been terribly busy, and I haven’t had the time to even walk them for two days.”
My head drops, and my shoulders slump. “Love to.”
I turn around and enter their room, which would be most dogs’ wet dream. I’m fairly certain Wag Avenue, the elite store for dogs, came in and decorated the large space especially for them.
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