Pony Up

by Colleen Charles

  Dante’s been stomping around all night. I’m not really sure what his deal is, but he and Nixon are always at odds. I know it’s probably just businessman to businessman stuff, but in Vegas, the air always feels a little too dry for the kind of tension between the two of them.

  While Basil gets to work on my signature appetizer – a tower of Ahi tuna shaped to look like a bucking bronco – I wash my hands and start prepping the balls of salmon tartare. By the time I’m finished, the kitchen of Sakana is filled with delicious-smelling fresh fish.

  I just hope tonight is a success so Dante will get off my ass.

  When it’s time for the banquet, I put Basil in charge of making sure everything goes out. Then I rush into the bathroom and change from my black jacket into a cocktail dress. It feels weird to be getting gussied up this early in the day – I can’t remember the last time I wore makeup during dining hours.

  Walking into the restaurant, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s crowded, but not jam-packed, and everyone talks quietly and laughs. More importantly, they’re all eating my food.

  And they all look satisfied.

  “Hey!”

  Turning around, I see Nixon standing there with another man. I’ve never seen him before, but my heart skips a beat in my chest when I see his bright blue eyes. His sandy brown hair is just a little on the long side, and he’s pushed it away from his forehead in a glossy swirl that reminds me of Robert Pattinson, only older and a little more rugged.

  “Hi.” Walking toward them, I feel the flush break out across my cheeks, and for once, I’m glad I’ve got on lipstick and mascara. “How are you?”

  “Great,” Nixon says, looking around and whistling. “This looks amazing.”

  I survey the restaurant and nod. “It does. I’m glad everything turned out so well.”

  Just then, a pretty woman rushes up to Nixon and grabs his arm. “Nix, they’re ready for your speech now,” she says. “Come on.”

  Before I can say anything else, she drags him away, leaving me with Mr. Gorgeous but arrogant as hell.

  “Hi,” the man says with a devil-may-care smirk and a charming dimple in his cheek. “And just who are you?”

  I blink because he’s struck me mute. This is my restaurant. “You must be new here.”

  “Not exactly,” he says, pursing his lips into a superior expression that I’d love to slap off him. “I think you must be new here.”

  I gnaw on my lower lip, choosing my next words carefully. On one hand, I don’t want to piss off Nixon Caldwell, one of the most powerful men in Vegas. On the other, I don’t quite understand why he’s hanging out with a douche. “Actually, yeah,” I say, looking around. It’s true that I haven’t been in Vegas for all that long. If this man is some crony of Nixon’s, he’s probably a local.

  “And I bet you don’t get out much,” the man says, leaning in closer. He’s just entered my personal space. My heart gallops as it reacts to the sexy danger radiating off him in waves. This is the kind of man who can break a woman’s heart without looking back even once to survey the damage.

  “What makes you say that?” I croak out.

  The man smirks and points to the front of my dress. I glance down, and when I realize that I’ve put it on inside out, I gasp in abject mortification.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not that noticeable. Besides, I don’t know who’d be looking at your seams with a view like that.”

  When I realize he’s staring at my breasts, I hiss in a breath. Dammit, he’s really yanking my chain. “Hey, this is for charity.”

  The man throws his head back and laughs. He has a nice, deep laugh – my stomach welcomes a flock of twirling butterflies.

  “So, Miss Charity,” the man says. “Are you the one handing over those cardboard checks?”

  I shake my head, thinking that it’s nice not to be myself for a few stolen moments. What’s a little make believe with the hot guy going to hurt? “No,” I say, glancing over my shoulder and looking at the tables of food. Thankfully, they’re still full. “I…I decided to give myself a little time off.” Hmm. Maybe he’s from out of town…I can’t believe he doesn’t know that this is my restaurant.

  The lights dim and the crowd quiets down as Nixon steps on stage and takes his place behind the podium.

  “Well, then,” the man says, offering me his elbow. “We should probably take a seat, mystery lady.”

  My bare arm bumps against his hand, bringing the heat with it, and I’m grateful for the dim light. But instead of leading me to a seat, the man takes me into a dark alcove. In the dark light of the room, I can barely see where I’m walking – and besides, I’m not used to traipsing about Sakana in heels. Before I can stop myself, I trip and stumble. The man grabs me by both arms and holds me upright.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  He’s still holding me, and we’re closer than ever. His face hovers mere inches away from mine, and before I can think about what I’m doing, I close my eyes and press my lips to his.

  It feels like kissing warm honey. The man wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close, rubbing his chin against mine. He tastes deep and smoky and masculine, as if he breathes spicy cologne. When his tongue slips into my mouth, I melt into his arms and moan, letting the gush of desire overtake every sense. The man nibbles on my lower lip, and I feel a surge of excitement rush through my lower belly.

  Alarm bells begin to ring in my head, and I pull away, staring up at the stranger in amazement.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks in a husky voice. “Should we take this somewhere private?”

  “No,” I say, stepping back and rubbing my arms. Without the warm touch of the strange, sexy man’s hands on my body, I feel somehow incomplete. Like he’s stolen something I never even knew I had. “No, I should go; I should really go.”

  The man frowns, and his cloak of arrogance falls away to be replaced by…sadness. “Hey, did I do something wrong?” He narrows his eyes, and I almost succumb to those piercing blue orbs and the well of emotion I find there. “You don’t have to go. You just got here.”

  “I can’t,” I say, shaking my head and backing away. Then I turn on my heel and run out of the dining room, escape the only thing on my mind.

  When I push into the kitchen, Basil stands alone at the prep station. When he sees me, he frowns.

  “Girlfriend, your dress is inside out,” he says in a sing-song voice. “Lucky it’s dark, or you’d be lookin’ like a fool with your seams showing.”

  “You could’ve told me that before I went out there,” I hiss. “I just made a huge jackass out of myself!”

  “Pep, I highly doubt anyone cares about your dress,” he says, softening his tone. “I’m sure they’re all too busy sucking down oyster shooters and writing big fat checks. You know how it is with these rich bastards. Whenever there’s an open bar, it’s three sheets to the wind and blinded vision.”

  “No, not the dress,” I say through clenched teeth. “The guy.”

  “Woohoo,” Basil says. “Girlfriend met a man. Spill it.”

  I glare at him because I don’t have time for it right now. The interlude with the hot stranger lingers, still fresh in my mind. His kiss tingles on my lips. Talking about it seems like it would be like crapping all over a highlight of my life. “Really? Really, Basil?”

  “Sorry.” But he doesn’t look sorry. Anything but. “I mean, I’m not sorry at all. Gush! Your lipstick is smeared,” he says, tossing me a saucy wink. “Does that mean you had a little steamy makeout sesh with a random stranger? Why, that’s so…so…so unpeppery and so basily. Like Italian!”

  “I don’t know what came over me,” I say, moaning and burying my face in my hands. Why try to deny it when the man’s better than my mom at wheedling the truth out of me. “It was like something out of a movie. Here was this gorgeous stranger, talking to Nixon Caldwell, and I...swooned.”

  “Probably one of his rich-man friends or something,�
�� Basil says. “Did you get his number?”

  I draw in a fortifying breath. Here goes nothing. “No, I didn’t even get his name.”

  Basil gasps and throws a hand over his mouth in mock horror. “Girlfriend, you didn’t. You kissed a nameless stranger!”

  “Don’t start.” I hold up a hand in the air, and he can fucking talk to it. With as hard as I work, I’m allowed a kiss or two without censure. Even more, if that’s what I want. “Basil, you know me. I don’t have time to date. And I don’t even want to date.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true,” I say, shrugging. Just because it’s slightly less true now doesn’t make it a lie. There’s no way I’d tell Basil what was going on in my brain while Mystery Man and I were kissing. I’ve never felt that way before…not about anyone, much less a perfect stranger. What I wanted to do is drop my panties and stick his hand between my legs.

  “Just because you can’t date doesn’t mean you can’t have fun,” Basil purrs. “Come on, look at me.”

  “I do look at you.” I press my fingers to my temples. “Every day, usually for hours. And you’re always heartbroken or pining, or bored. That doesn’t sound fun to me. If that’s the main course in a relationship, I’d rather just have appetizers.”

  “Well, you’re missing out,” Basil says smugly. “It’s the most fun a girl can have. Because a one-nighter, well, that’s like having dessert before dinner.”

  I roll my eyes at his comparison. “To me, the most fun a girl can have is winning three Michelin stars.”

  “Boring,” Basil says, waving his hand through the air. “You know, Pepper, you really need to relax. Let your hair down, have fun! Go a little further than kissing. You’re an adult. There’s no need to be missish.”

  Missish? God, that reminds me of my mom. At the thought of her knowing about this, a wave of regret hits me. In spite of my Vegas address, I’ve still held on to my Midwestern values. This is very out of character for me.

  Just as I’m about to reply, one of my servers runs into the kitchen.

  “Pepper,” she calls. “We need more tuna!”

  “On it,” I say, reaching for my black coat and pulling it over my dress.

  “Pepper?” Basil looks at me. “You’re going to just let him go? What if you never see him again?”

  I sigh in exasperation as I reach into the fridge and pull out three large tuna fillets.

  “Then I’ll have my restaurant,” I say as I begin to slice. “And that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  Basil looks at me and shakes his head. “Girlfriend, your priorities are in serious need of an overhaul,” he says, rolling his eyes as he walks away. I hear him muttering underneath his breath about my lack of courage. “A cold restaurant can’t keep a vital woman warm at night.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, more to the fish I’m slicing than Basil…or myself. “I’ve got Sakana, I’ve got my dream. Who cares about hot guys when there are James Beard Awards to be won and television shows to star in?”

  Chapter Six

  Carter

  “This place sucks,” I say, glancing around, looking for a dirty blonde-haired woman. I see the back of one, but she’s carrying a plate of fish shit, so it can’t be her. “Place smells like fish guts.”

  “Well, it’s no Armónico,” Reagan says. “But you’d think Dante could’ve come up with a better name than the Mona Lisa.”

  I snicker into my drink. If Dante had the balls to come over to this table, I’d spit in his greasy face. “The only good thing about this place was that girl,” I say, frowning. “She was hot as hell. You think she was some kind of booth babe looking for free grub?”

  Reagan snickers and holds up his hand, palm out. “No clue. Why didn’t you get her name, dipshit?”

  “She literally ran away from me.” I shake my head. I’ve always had a way with the ladies. This is the first time since grade school a woman has fled the scene of the crime, leaving me in her dust.

  Reagan’s snickers turn to full out laughter. At my expense. “You have such a way with women. It’s like they can tell you spend all of your time being a knife-wielding hermit in your kitchen.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say, puffing out my chest. “There’s a reason why Steakhouse just got two Michelin stars.”

  “Stop bragging,” Reagan snaps. “Look, I’m going to see if Taryn needs anything.”

  “I need something,” I grumble. Like some real food. “I’m fucking starving to death.”

  “Your gut says differently. Besides dude, there’s food everywhere,” Reagan says. “Some of it’s pretty good too.”

  I roll my eyes and give a long-suffering sigh because none of this shit constitutes food in my book. “Fish is not food,” I argue, shaking my head. “I could sure sink my teeth into a rare rack of lamb right now. That’s food.”

  Reagan snorts. “You’re hopeless.”

  I shrug off his insults, thankful they’re not coming with more of his off-color one-liners attached to them. “I’m a red-blooded American male. And men like me need sustenance. When it comes to pussy…when it comes to entrees.”

  Reagan doesn’t have a response, he simply shakes his head and laughs as he walks away, looking for his gorgeous wife. When I’m left alone, I glance around the restaurant. Aside from the sexy little blonde, there aren’t too many fuckables here. Most of these ladies are so made over with bad plastic surgery they don’t even resemble human beings. I can’t stop thinking about the way mystery girl felt in my arms, swooning against me like she wanted me. For me. Even the freckles on her nose and her grey eyes set my blood surging through my veins.

  I breathe out some regret over opportunity lost, glancing at the screen of my phone for what feels like the hundredth time since I got to Sakana. More like Fucking-fish-o-rama, I think, rolling my eyes as another tray of slimy, unappetizing tuna glides by. Can’t Pepper St. Claire prepare anything but ahi? She’s got a hard-on for the stuff. I imagine her with bulging eyes and scaly skin, chuckling at the gross image I’ve created at her expense.

  “Sir? Would you like to try an appetizer?” The server stops in front of me and smiles sweetly. “This is our chef’s specialty. We were recently given a three-star Michelin rating. We’re so proud here at Sakana.”

  “It looks like dog food,” I say, turning up my nose in disgust.

  Three fucking stars for this shit?

  The server frowns, probably sad her little spiel didn’t get the appropriate and expected reaction. “She’s very proud of this dish, sir. It’s an award winner.”

  Is it wrong that I delight in making her squirm like a worm on Pepper St. Claire’s sharp hook? “I don’t think anyone from Kansas should have the right to serve fish,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “It’s a land-locked state.”

  The server glares daggers at me as if she’s a card-carrying member of the Pepper fan club. “Fine,” she snaps. “I’m sure there are many other guests who will want to sample it.” She whirls around and carries the cancerous-looking tuna off in a hissy fit.

  “No fish for you, buddy?”

  I look up and see a brawny blond man with tanned skin wearing a Western shirt and worn jeans.

  “No,” I say. “Red meat, only.”

  The man chuckles, his bright eyes twinkling. “Me, too,” he says in a pronounced drawl. “Shit, I could go for a steak right now. Medium rare.”

  “You’re telling me.” My stomach growls. “If you’re not going to eat steak medium rare, have the chicken. Carter Caldwell.” I stick out my hand, and the blond man grips it in a firm, masculine handshake.

  I like him already.

  “Cody Higginbottom.” Cody throws me a lazy grin.

  “Holy shit.” I feel my eyes bulge. “Not the Cody Higginbottom? Man, I saw you ride Chuckin’ Charlie last year. That ride was epic!”

  Cody throws his head back and brays with laughter. “Hell yeah, it was,” he says, shaking his head. “Damn, it feels good bein’ famous! I’m
back in town for the NFR.”

  “Man, that’s awesome. I used to work over at Mandalay Bay. The NFR was one of my favorite events in Vegas. I haven’t missed a year since I graduated high school. I guess every guy born in a desert secretly longs to be a cowboy.”

  “Alrighty, then,” he says, smiling that lopsided grin of his that sends all of the cowgirls into a frenzy of denim skirts. “I was startin’ to think I wouldn’t make any friends in town, but here I am. And I don’t give a good god damn about all this fish shit! You know anywhere a man can get a real piece of meat around here? Prime, Grade A cow’s ass?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “My restaurant, Steakhouse.”

  “Shit, man!” Cody says with a low whistle. “You own a restaurant?”

  “I’m the head chef,” I explain. “And there’s no fish on the menu. Unless you count lobster, but I had to give in since my high rollers always want it. Anything for my customers.”

  Cody smirks and rubs his belly. “Good news, my man. I could sure use somethin’ bloody right in front of men to ease this infernal ache in my belly.”

  The idea hits me like a ton of bricks. Staring at Cody – his folksy charm, his rugged looks that women fall all over themselves for, his love for meat – I know what the next big thing in the culinary world could be.

  “Hey…” No risk; no reward. “This sounds crazy, I know, but how would you feel about discussing a little business opportunity?”

  “Man, I ain’t no chef,” he says, rearing back in surprise. “About all I can do is ride bulls. Well, and knock back some whiskey.” He smirks. “And don’t even get me started on how I can make a pussy purr.”

  “I believe it. You’re the top bull rider in the country. Don’t you think your name and face could sell things? Michael Jordan didn’t make most of his money from basketball. He made it from endorsement deals. Same with Tiger Woods. Hell, with your good looks and charm, we could sell milk to vegans if we wanted to.”