Heartbreaker (Rascals Book 3)

by Katie McCoy

  Pulling out my phone, I went to the website listed on the flyer. They were having a cooking class tomorrow night and the cost was reasonable; there were still spots available. It wasn’t that far from Rascals, so I could go after my early shift. I signed up quickly, excited about my new plans for tomorrow.

  The next morning, I was up before the sun rose. Apparently, my body had decided that I’d had enough late-morning lounging in bed, and it was time for me to get up and do things. I pulled on some work-out gear and headed to the river.

  My physical therapist had given me the OK to run, but she cautioned against going too hard too fast.

  “Start by walking the path you’re used to taking. Maybe jog a little, but you’re still recovering. It’s an ongoing process. Pushing yourself too soon will cause more damage than you’d expect,” she’d told me.

  And I took her advice seriously. Being bedridden during recovery had been unbearable, and the last thing I wanted was to be immobile again for months. So, I allowed myself a nice, leisurely pace, and walked along the water.

  It was quiet, with the sun just beginning to rise. I wasn’t alone—even this early, there were people out, doing exactly what I was doing, jogging along the waterfront. I’d come here a million times, but I’d always been focused on my workout. I listened to my music and put my head down when I run—not giving myself any time to observe my surroundings. But now, I took my time and soaked it all in. It was beautiful out here. And I had never noticed. I had been so focused that I hadn’t even stopped to look at what I was running past.

  The weather was perfect for this—the chill of night already beginning to burn up as the sky filled with light for another summer day. I had a light sweatshirt, but after the first mile, I took it off and tied it around my waist. It was nice to feel the wind on my skin, and even nicer to take a moment to appreciate it.

  Everyone around me was lost in their own world. I took a seat on one of the benches and indulged in some people-watching, imagining the lives they led and the world they were taking a break from. The guy with brand-new exercise gear huffing along, clearly having just made a resolution to get fit. The trio of focused women jogging in perfect sync, maybe training for a marathon together. Even the woman running behind a hi-tech baby-carrier, looking like she’d never given birth. I was enjoying the view and the sunshine, when I spotted a runner down the path.

  It was hard not to spot him. Even from a distance, it was easy to tell that he was gorgeous, even under the baseball cap that hid his face from view. He had clearly been running hard and long; his shirt was damp with sweat, and thankfully clung to every one of his quite defined chest and stomach muscles. I wanted to be that shirt of his, tightly suctioned onto his incredible upper body. Not that the rest of him was hard on the eyes. His workout shorts weren’t quite as clingy, but they definitely stuck to him in all the right places. And showed off a pair of muscular thighs and calves.

  I might have started drooling.

  As he came closer, I looked down, not wanting to get caught staring, but as I watched the ground, waiting for his shadow to indicate that he had passed by, instead, that shadow stopped and loomed over me. I glanced up, blinking in the bright light and found a familiar face standing in front of me.

  “Liam,” I managed, really, really hoping that he had not recognized me because he caught me staring at him.

  “Juliet,” he responded, that low voice of his sending a thrill right through me.

  I half expected him to make some brief small talk and then continue on with his run, but instead, he sat down next to me. He was still breathing heavily as he took a long swig of water, and I was unable to look away as he did so. My eyes followed the movement of his throat as he swallowed, then watched as a droplet of sweat went down the side of his neck before disappearing beneath his sweat-soaked shirt.

  I wanted to lick the sweat from his body.

  The impulse surprised me. The raw intensity of it—the existence of it. That wasn’t how I usually thought about men and their bodies. In the dance world, I was used to seeing bodies as fit and strong as Liam’s was. But none of my fellow dancers—for all their muscles and strength—had ever inspired this kind of intense desire.

  It was ironic, though, that I was feeling these kinds of things for the one guy that I couldn’t pursue.

  “Did you have a good run?” I asked Liam after he had finished off the rest of his water.

  He lifted a shoulder, and I couldn’t tell if he was doing it out of affirmation or in disagreement. He didn’t clarify, and the two of us just sat there for a moment in an awkward silence.

  Had he just come over to sit down on the bench and sit in silence?

  I glanced around, but there were tons of empty benches around me. He could have run by without saying hello, or just waved as he passed. There was no reason to come over unless he wanted to talk to me. Which he didn’t seem to want to do.

  He confused me.

  “I’m taking a cooking class tonight,” I blurted out after the silence became too much.

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “It’s homemade pasta,” I continued, words spewing forth without any filter. “There’s this place around the corner from Rascals—apparently they do cooking classes, and they had one tonight. Cook to Live, I think is the name of the place. You should come,” I finished, regretting the offer the minute I said it.

  Because Liam did not look like the kind of guy that went to cooking classes.

  “Could be fun,” I added lamely.

  “Could be,” he said, his statement deliberately noncommittal.

  Not that I blamed him. I sounded kind of crazy. Maybe he had just come over because he needed a break from running. Maybe I should just let him sit in silence.

  “Well, I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your morning.” I got up from the bench. “See you around.”

  I didn’t give him a chance to respond before I was jogging off, leaving the awkward bench and the awkward moment behind.

  6

  Juliet

  I was excited when it was time to head to my cooking class. Both Emerson and Chase had been way more encouraging than Liam had been, urging me to come bring them any leftovers, and I was starting to think that they were enjoying playing the role of older brother with me. Since I was an only child, I’d never had that kind of brotherly support before, so I welcomed it.

  The class took place in a place that looked a little like a warehouse that had been refurbished as several mini kitchens. When I walked in, the place already smelled amazing, further confirming my suspicions that signing up had been a freaking brilliant idea. It was only solidified when I was offered a glass of wine and shown to the work station.

  Where Liam was waiting for me.

  I almost dropped my wine glass.

  He looked good. Really good. So far, I’d seen him in a suit, and I’d seen him in exercise gear. But this was my first time seeing him in just jeans and a T-shirt, and I had to say that this was my favorite Liam so far. His hair was still annoying perfect, but his jeans were molded to his thighs and his T-shirt emphasized his broad shoulders, stretching tight across his pecs. It was a lot of handsome to take in at once. Especially when I hadn’t been expecting it.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, not even bothering with niceties.

  He had basically ignored me during our conversation by the waterfront this morning—how was I ever to suspect that not only had he been listening, but he had then decided to do the very thing I had been talking about?

  I was very confused.

  “Thought it was time to learn how to cook,” he told me, as if that explained anything.

  “Mmhmm.” I stood next to him at the counter, giving him a sideways look that I hope indicated that I did not believe that reasoning for one single second.

  A small, smug smile playing around the corner of his lips indicated that I was right to be suspicious.

  “Welcome to Cook to Live!” A short squat man in a gia
nt chef’s hat had stepped to the front of the room. His big, curly hair practically exploded from beneath the brim, his nose and cheeks bright red. “Today we are going to teach you how to make pasta!” He kissed his fingers. “Muy bueno!”

  “Yep, that sounds about right,” Liam said dryly, just loud enough for me to hear.

  “You didn’t have to come,” I countered, even though I too thought it was a little weird that we were taking an Italian pasta-making class and the instructor was speaking Spanish.

  As it turned out, that was far from the weirdest thing he did that night.

  In fact, the entire experience was weird. Informative—since we did actually learn how to make pasta—but weird from beginning to end.

  First, he made all of us wash our hands—which was completely expected. What wasn’t expected was that our instructor—Chef Jim—would watch us carefully as we washed our hands and then force us to run them under a UV lamp so he could tell us if we were clean enough.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he told one of the students. “I can still see the dirt under your nails.”

  “That’s my manicure,” she snapped after being sent back to the sink for the fifth time.

  “Clean hands are happy hands,” he said as she stomped over to her station. “And happy hands make happy food.”

  “I would hate for my food to be sad,” Liam commented. “Especially since I’m going to eat it.”

  I hid my giggle. I still didn’t understand why he was here, especially after he had basically ignored me that morning. I was also really annoyed that he looked as good as he did in a pair of jeans and t-shirt, while I was practically busting out of my only pair of jeans—a skinny cut that had fit perfectly before my accident. Perhaps my choice of learning how to make pasta was ill-advised, especially in terms of my closet and my rapidly growing waistline.

  I decided I didn’t care. I could afford new clothes with my new job, and I didn’t need to be stick thin anymore. I could have some curves.

  And I could eat anything I goddamn wanted to.

  “Pasta making is very, very simple,” Chef Jim said as we all returned to our stations.

  Ingredients were sitting out, waiting for us, and I was surprised by how little was required to make pasta. Just flour—the right kind of flour, Chef Jim kept reiterating over and over again—eggs, and salt.

  “Make a well with your flour and salt,” Chef Jim told us.

  I stared at the table in front of me. A well? How was I supposed to make a well out of flour?

  “May I?” Liam asked, gently nudging me over.

  “Be my guest,” I gestured grandly, annoyed that he wasn’t as lost as me.

  Because he wasn’t lost at all. In fact, Liam seemed completely comfortable with the ingredients and the steps.

  “You’ve done this before,” I accused as he cracked an egg one-handed into a little divot in the flour. “Why are you even here?”

  Liam paused, egg white dripping off his fingers.

  “I thought you invited me,” he commented before tossing the egg shells away. “Didn’t you?”

  Did I? I tried to remember exactly what I had said that morning, but I couldn’t recall the exact words.

  “You didn’t seem interested,” I countered when I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He nodded. “I didn’t think I was,” he said. “I changed my mind.”

  “Do you do that a lot?” I wanted to know, still trying to figure him out.

  “No,” he responded, with an unreadable smile. “Never.”

  The meaning he infused into those two words made me feel like we were having two totally different conversations about two totally different things.

  “Here.” Liam finished mixing the eggs, salt, and flour together, stepping aside so I could stand where he had been standing.

  “What?” I didn’t know what he wanted.

  “Thought you’d like to knead the dough,” he suggested.

  Rolling the dough into a ball, I began to knead it, letting all my aggression out on a harmless ball of flour and eggs. But in the end, I felt better, and had a nice, smooth dome of dough, ready to be rolled out and shaped.

  “So, you’ve obviously taken cooking classes before,” I commented as I covered our dough.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t believe you,” I told him.

  “Believe it.” He took a sip of wine. “I’m entirely self-taught.”

  “What’s your specialty?” I wanted to know, still doubting him.

  “I make a mean roast chicken,” he responded. “With roasted potatoes and lemon.”

  Just thinking about it made my mouth water. Or maybe it was the thought of a gorgeous man like Liam making the chicken. He looked good in the apron we were both wearing—I could only imagine how good he’d look wearing . . . nothing else.

  Now my mouth was definitely watering.

  “I bet that’s a hit with the ladies,” I joked, trying to diffuse the sexual tension radiating through my body.

  “I’ve never gotten any complaints,” Liam responded, a slight twinkle in his eye.

  “How many chickens is that a week?” I teased, unable to help myself. Making fun of him was safe. At least, it felt safe.

  “A gentleman never tells,” Liam demurred with a grin, both to my relief and my annoyance.

  I really didn’t want to know how many of these “perfect” women he dated on a regular basis, but I was curious anyways.

  “I’m guessing Alex, Kelsey, and Hayley have been talking to you.” He wiped his hands on his apron.

  “Just Alex and Kelsey,” I commented. “But thanks for letting me know that Hayley’s got the good gossip on you as well.”

  Liam shook his head, looking amused. “Or you could just ask me whatever you want to know.”

  I had a feeling I could. That he’d tell me if I asked.

  But I also didn’t think I wanted to know the answer. I didn’t want to hear him say that I wasn’t the girl for him. Because even though I wasn’t considering it—wasn’t considering him—I still didn’t want to be rejected.

  Especially because despite everything, I still found him ridiculously attractive.

  I could tell that I wasn’t the only one. Even though almost everyone else in our class was part of a couple, most of the women couldn’t help turning around at their station to stare at Liam. Especially when he showed that he knew his way around the kitchen. Pretty much all of the other men seemed to be pretty inept at most of the tasks Chef Jim assigned them. There had already been three cut fingers and one burnt sleeve by the time we sat down to eat the dinner we had prepared for ourselves.

  Liam had done most of the work for our table, though he had made sure to show me exactly what he was doing with each step. Despite that, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to replicate the result at home, even if I tried. Not that I couldn’t—it seemed possible to make pasta without a pasta roller or a rack to dry the noodles—but I was pretty sure a beginner like me really needed those things in order to make a half-decent pasta.

  It became clear from the first bite, though, that Liam was a damn good cook in his own right.

  “Oh my God,” I exclaimed after taking the first bite of the linguine we had made. “This is incredible.” I closed my eyes, savoring the taste of it.

  Anyone who had ever said that homemade pasta was better than store-bought was a hundred percent correct. Especially if that homemade pasta was made by an infuriatingly attractive man.

  I opened my eyes to glare at him, expecting him to be standing there wearing the smug smile I had grown accustomed to seeing on his face. But that wasn’t the expression he was wearing at all. Instead, the look he was giving me was hot and intense. Kind of like the way he had looked at me before I lost all sense of decorum that night in the alley and kissed him.

  I wanted to kiss him again. And from the way his eyes dropped down to my lips, I could sense that he wanted to do the same thing. His hand reached out, his t
humb dragging slowly across my lower lip.

  “You had a little sauce,” he murmured huskily before sucking it off his finger.

  My knees almost buckled beneath me. Holy. Shit. Who knew that cooking class could be such an erotic experience?

  Except it wasn’t that way for all the members of our class. While Liam and I were making eyes at each other, a fight had erupted at one of the tables.

  “I knew it!” the girl was screaming at her boyfriend. “I knew you were still seeing her.”

  There was a clang as she threw a pot at the guy, who looked like a casting agent’s idea of what someone in the Mafia looked like. He had a shirt unbuttoned to his navel, with several gold chains nestled in his thick chest hair. He was holding up his hands as his girlfriend—who was dressed equally flamboyantly in a skintight leopard-print dress—started throwing spoons at him.

  I was damn glad that someone’d had the good foresight to remove the knives from that table and the ones surrounding it.

  “I love you both,” the guy was saying, but the girlfriend wasn’t having it.

  “You said you’d leave her!” she screamed.

  “She lets me stay there rent free,” was the response. “I can’t just leave. She’s my mom.”

  I was curious to hear the rest, but Liam grabbed my arm and pulled me out of there just as the girlfriend picked up their plate of food—Chef Jim hurrying towards her to stop her from throwing that too.

  “Wow,” I breathed as we left the building. “They should advertise that as dinner and a show,” I joked.

  Liam slid me a sideways look but couldn’t completely hide his smile.

  “Well, I guess that moment has pasta by,” I deadpanned.

  “That’s terrible,” Liam snorted.

  “I have a penne-chant for puns,” I continued.

  He laughed. “Where do you live?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “Let me get you a cab.”