by Amanda Usen
In between orders, she whipped herself together a special sandwich. At least if she ran into Quin again, he wouldn’t dare get near her mouth. Nope, he’d take one whiff and put me on my knees instead. She stuffed her mouth with a too-large bite of po’boy, but it didn’t stop her from remembering what it had felt like to kneel in front of him in the shower. Her eyes slid shut, and she went liquid, mouth watering and core heating, feeling hot water cascade over her back and shoulders. She tasted salt, smelled soap, and heard Quin’s deep groan. Deny what you need and your subconscious will fuck you ten ways to Tuesday making it happen anyway.
“So how was your date?” Kate’s voice snapped her eyes open.
Betsy held up a finger and chewed slowly until her mind cleared. She swallowed. “It wasn’t a date.”
Her sister rolled her eyes, which always drove Betsy crazy even though she knew Kate had picked up the obnoxious gesture from her. “Oh, really? What time did you get home? I didn’t see any lights on in your place last night.”
“Were you stalking me? You could have just called my cell.” And not had her call answered, but at least Betsy could claim the volume had been off. Guilt heated her cheeks.
“That good, huh? He looks it.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. We had dinner.” Naked. While having sex. For hours. Her face got hotter, but thankfully, Kate’s attention had shifted to the sandwich.
“Can I have a bite?”
“Have the rest.” As long as you stop asking questions.
“So where’d you end up going for dinner?” Kate asked with her mouth full.
“The Keystone.”
Her sister grinned. “It isn’t open.”
“It was for us. Want me to recite the menu?”
“I sure do, especially if it’s six-foot-two, with dark brown hair, eyes like a tiger, and half a million dollars.”
Betsy crossed her arms, facing her sister squarely. “Oysters on the half-shell with mango-habanero aspic, carrot bisque laced with Armagnac, beef tenderloin with burgundy demi-glace and an herbed goat-cheese crust, really freaking adorable micro-greens with lemon vinaigrette and tiny grilled vegetables, and lemon tart with raspberry coulis, chantilly cream, and gooseberries.”
“Damn, really?”
Her sister looked both envious and chagrined. For a second Betsy wanted to tell her the rest, but she fought back the urge. Dishing the details would make it feel like something special.
Another flurry of orders came through, and Betsy washed her hands, replaced her gloves, and started cutting bread for more sandwiches.
Kate reached into the cooler and popped the top off a beer.
“Seriously? It’s the middle of the day.” Since when did her barely twenty-one year old sister drink beer with lunch?
“I don’t have to be up front for hours, and this sandwich could kill a vampire faster than a stake through the heart. A glass of water ain’t gonna cut it.” Kate took a long swig. “So…how about that half a million dollars?”
“We’re not selling. I told you that.”
“I thought Quinton James might talk some sense into you during dinner, but I guess I should have known better since you’re still in here making sandwiches.”
“That’s the plan. Sandwiches, soups, and salads. Then we’ll open for dinner and serve étouffée, jambalaya, blackened chicken, and…”
“And who cares what the rest of us want, right?” Kate cut her off.
Not this again. “I want what’s best for all of us—”
“You want what’s best for you. And it’s bullshit.” Her sister set her beer down hard on the counter, making foam overflow the bottle. “Selling the bar would give us enough money to do whatever we want. You want to make sandwiches? Make sandwiches. But don’t ruin the easy money for the rest of us.”
“Easy doesn’t last forever. How can you possibly think giving up our livelihood and cashing a check is our best option?”
“Your livelihood, not mine. I’m not going to work in a restaurant. If you close the bar and start serving dinner, I’ll quit.”
Kate would leave? Betsy felt a crack open up inside her, a deep crevasse filled with righteous fury and frustration. She’d been five when Kate was born, and as soon as Betsy was old enough, her mother had left them home alone while she tended the bar. Betsy had babysat constantly so Kate wouldn’t grow up at Last Call like she had. She’d been everything but a mother to Kate, shielding her from the drunks and the worst of their mother’s broken hearts, and making sure she never walked in on a scene like the one that had painfully etched itself on Betsy’s heart. She’d worked her whole life to keep Kate safe and happy. As soon as she’d graduated from high school, she’d taken a second job in a kitchen to make sure running a restaurant was actually doable. Then she’d worked her ass off at culinary school so she could come home and make it happen. How dare Kate threaten to quit?
The crack widened, heated, but she pulled herself away from the edge. Kate was the hot-head, not her. Her sister built up steam and blew it off. In ten minutes, she wouldn’t be mad, but Betsy would simmer for hours, days, maybe even weeks. In all likelihood, the things said today would stick with her for years. “You don’t get to quit. This is a family business, and we all agreed. Running a restaurant will make our lives better.”
“That was before I spent two years working in the bar while you were off at school. It’s wild at night. Dirty, crazy, and totally fun. I love it.”
“Working in a restaurant is fun, too.”
“Maybe for you, although I don’t see how. You haven’t done anything but cook and sleep since you got home. You hardly go out. You don’t spend any time with Mom and me. You didn’t used to be like that. You’ve changed, Betsy, and I don’t like it.”
She forced calm into her voice. “I haven’t changed, honey. I’m just trying to make things better.”
Kate drained what was left in her bottle and set it on the counter where spilled beer was soaking into the leftover sandwich. “Oh, yeah? Guess what? Things were better for me when you were gone.”
Betsy caught her arm as she moved toward the door. “Let me get this straight, you don’t want to close the bar anymore, even though Mom promised, and we all agreed.” She held up fingers and ticked them off. “I’m no fun, you don’t like me, and things were better when I was gone. Does that cover it?”
Her sister’s gaze wavered. Then she shook off Betsy’s hold, lifted her chin, and nodded.
Betsy felt dizzy, as if someone had given the floor under her feet a good spin and then ripped it out from under her. “I don’t even know what to say to that. We’re family. We work together.”
Kate crossed her arms. “Don’t start with that blood is thicker than water crap again. You left, Betsy. You were gone for two years, and then you came home and started changing everything. And give me a break—we don’t work together. We never see you. I’m a good bartender and a good manager, which you might notice if you ever spent any time with your family—but probably not. You’re too busy putting your goddamn one-year plan into action. Maybe the bar isn’t the problem, sis. Maybe you are. Did you ever think of that?”
The unfairness of the attack split her wide open, and she wanted to strike back. She knew her sister’s weak spots as well as Kate knew hers. But what good would that accomplish? It was going to be hard enough for them to move on from this fight. If Betsy joined in the mayhem instead of trying to repair the damage, they might never recover.
She tried to think past the hurt. What was really going on here? Was Kate testing her as she had when they were growing up, seeing how far she could push her? If so, Betsy wasn’t budging, not this time. “Mom gave me a year to get the café running smoothly, and it’s going to be great when we open for dinner. You’ll see—”
“Don’t take that tone with me, all calm and reasonable, like I’m the fuck-up and you’re the sensible one. I’m not a child anymore.” Kate put her hands on her hips and glared. “You think you’
re so smart, don’t you? Well, guess what? Mom gave you a year because she thought you would fail.”
Betsy turned to ice. “What?”
“Fail.” Kate enunciated the word clearly. “She doesn’t want to close the bar, either.”
Betsy didn’t stop her from walking out the door this time.
Her hand shook as she tucked the bottle into the recycling bin, swept the remains of the sandwich into the trash, and wiped up the beer. The bitterness in Kate’s voice echoed inside her, ugly and deep, as she cleaned up the mess. Was Kate telling the truth? Was her mother’s support a big lie? Had Betsy worked so hard for nothing? Her eyes began to sting. She bit her lip and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold it together.
The machine printed out another lunch ticket, so she reached for it. Then she dropped oysters in the fryer, sliced more French bread, and began to assemble sandwiches. The orders multiplied as she worked, making it seem like she’d never reach the end of them, and she fell farther and farther behind.
“Hey, what’s the hold-up?”
Quin’s voice made her flinch. “What are you doing back here?” she asked.
“I told you I was coming in for lunch, but I don’t have all day. Are you harvesting the oysters for my sandwich yourself?”
“Damn it.” She pulled the basket out of the fryer. The oysters had passed golden brown and were on their way to burned to a crisp. She shook the basket into the trash can, where the heat promptly melted the liner. “Fuck.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
He took the basket out of her hand and set it back in the fryer. “You’ve got tears pouring down your face, and your hands are shaking.”
“I’m in the weeds.”
He pulled her into his arms. Comfort enveloped her. He smelled like the two best nights of her life, and she couldn’t make herself push him away. She gritted her teeth and clenched every muscle in her body trying to hold back the sobs. He was the last person she should be crying on. She didn’t trust him not to see her tears as a sign of weakness.
He rubbed her back. “Let me help.”
“I think you’ve done enough.” If he hadn’t waltzed in with his offer to buy Last Call, things would have been fine. But even as she thought it, she didn’t believe it. This thing with Kate had been brewing for a while. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she had to knock out the lunch orders and get the hell out of here before her sister came back or her mother showed up. She didn’t want to see either of them until she’d turned the mess of her emotions into a plan of action.
He tilted her face up and brushed tears off her cheek. “I haven’t done half as much as I’d like to. You left early.”
His eyes gleamed, and even in her demoralized state, she responded. “Could you please have some respect for my meltdown? Sex is the last thing on my mind right now.”
“I can fix that.” He bent his head and brushed a soft kiss across her lips. It was sweet, the last thing she’d expected, and she clung to him.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered against his lips.
“Because I want you.”
At least somebody does. She slid her arms around his waist under his suit jacket and opened to him. His tongue tangled with hers in a lazy caress that quickly turned urgent, and she held him as tight as he held her, reveling in the fierce clasp of his hands in her hair, the evidence of his desire pressed into her belly, and the harsh demand of his mouth on hers. She couldn’t feel sad when he touched her. It was impossible to feel anything but him, hot, hard, and sure, taking her right back up to where he’d left her in the alley this morning, wet and aching.
Her legs began to shake, and he pulled her against him, effortlessly taking her weight. She felt herself moving backward, and then he pinned her against the counter, moving into her with growing hunger. She met him thrust for thrust. Denial is dangerous. State your terms. His words swirled through her mind.
Last night proved she’d find a way to have him even if he didn’t blackmail her or muscle his way into her kitchen. He’s leaving in two weeks. If they agreed on the terms, it could be as simple as that. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist, moaning when he lifted her higher, held her tighter, and rubbed his cock against her aching core. He was a distraction she couldn’t afford when things were so volatile with Kate and likely to explode with her mother. Just two weeks. He made her want impossible things, but she could have a taste, couldn’t she?
He buried his face against her neck. “Say yes. Just fucking say yes, and put us out of our misery. Don’t tell me you don’t want this. I’ll prove you wrong right here if I have to.”
“No need.” She gritted her teeth as he rocked into her and focused on the sharp edge of the counter digging into her back. Not here. Not yet. He had to agree to her terms. She wouldn’t become another notch on his belt, another woman pining for the unattainable. Hope was insidious, and she’d seen its devastating effects on her mother. “I’ll say yes on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“When you leave in two weeks, we’re done. Never contact me again.”
…
Quin froze, pierced by a hauntingly familiar emotion. Then his brain kicked back into gear. “You’ve got a deal.” Two weeks was ideal. Plenty of time to sate his desire for her while changing her mind about selling the bar. There was no reason for the cold sweat breaking out over his body. No cause for his cold fury. No explanation for why his usually excellent instincts were screaming in protest, making him feel like a guitar string about to snap. What was happening to him?
He stepped away from her and looked around the tiny kitchen, getting his bearings and locking down his emotions, including the lust that hijacked his brain every time he saw her. He’d come back here to keep the pressure on, but something had shifted inside him when he saw her crying, making him want to help instead. No matter what his intentions, whenever they touched, he forgot them.
He shrugged out of his suit coat, tossed it on the desk, and then rolled up his sleeves. “Got an apron for me?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to help you. I’m assuming ‘in the weeds’ has something to do with all those tickets up there. Tell me what to do.” Her gaze was suspicious, so he smirked. “Clearly, I’m not going to get my lunch until you’re caught up.”
“Or maybe never.”
He laughed at her menacing tone. “What’s so hard about making sandwiches?”
Her eyes narrowed. She reached under the counter and thrust an apron at him. “Wash your hands. Then lay out four plates. Put chips on them. And a pickle. Wear gloves, and don’t get in my way.”
She turned her back to him, washed her own hands, and dropped more oysters into the fryer. He did as she had ordered. The chips were Zapp’s Cajun Craw-taters, locally made, and delicious. The pickles looked homemade. His stomach rumbled. He watched her slice bread and fill sandwiches at lightning speed, wondering how she had ever fallen behind if she worked this fast. She called out commands as she worked, and he scrambled to figure out what she wanted and get it to her when she asked for it. They fell into a rhythm, and he began to anticipate the next thing she would need.
His shirt was pasted to the middle of his back by the time she said, “Stop.” They’d put at least three dozen sandwiches in the window. He’d watched her fry, heat, slather, slice, grill, and do things he couldn’t name. At the server’s request, she’d also baked a tray of the most sinful-looking cookies he’d ever seen. When he’d asked what they were, she’d said, “Lagniappe,” and kept moving.
Out of curiosity, he peeked into the dining room and saw the server putting the cookies on plates and delivering them to the tables. The dining room was full. Where was the rest of the staff? No wonder she’d been sobbing in the kitchen. He caught the server’s eye as she tucked warm cookies into wax paper sleeves and put them into the takeout
orders. “What does lagniappe mean?”
“A little something extra. This week it’s cookies.”
He went back into the kitchen where Betsy was wiping down the counter. “I didn’t get a cookie yesterday.”
“You didn’t deserve one.”
“Do I deserve one today?”
She thrust a bag into his hands. “I gave you two. Thanks for your help—now will you please get out of here?”
Quin bent to kiss her cheek, inhaling deeply. Her scent reached deep inside him, unlocking the peculiar emotions he’d felt earlier. Now that he’d seen her in action, his attraction to her had increased tenfold, and his craving for one of her special sandwiches was acute and painful. But his desire to close down her café? Barely a memory.
A new plan took shape in his mind, so clear he suspected it had been there for a while, waiting for him to pay attention. He dug in his heels as she pushed him toward the door. “Pick you up at seven?”
“Huh?”
He didn’t dare tell her what he was thinking, not when she was so damn determined to limit their association. He thought fast. “You claim there’s a lot to love about New Orleans. Show me.”
“What, you want a tour?”
“Anything, as long my night ends inside of you.” He felt heat flare through her, caught her rising scent in his lungs, and watched her throat as she swallowed hard. The printer churned out another ticket, and she turned away. He made fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Text me your address.” He tossed his business card onto the counter and forced himself to walk out of the kitchen and out of the café, nearly out of his head with hunger.
Chapter Six
The sandwich bag was a warm, heavy weight under his arm, but he needed to burn off some energy before he could eat. He checked his phone as he walked, skimming e-mails from his managers, contractor, architect, lawyer, human resources, and the fifty other people who’d had questions for him during the past hour. Nothing that couldn’t wait until he’d eaten lunch and calmed the tornado inside him.