by Kane, Jessa
A Serving of Forever
Jessa Kane
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Also available from Jessa Kane…
A Dash of Spice (Book #2)
Let’s Keep in Touch!
1
Desmond
My sisters have finally gotten their revenge.
After years of me bullying their lame-ass boyfriends and leaving fake spiders on the dashboards of their cars, the two of them have banded together for the ultimate payback—and I have to say I’m impressed. I never thought of nominating them for a reality show against their will. They did think of it, though, so here I am.
On a reality baking for horrible bakers called You’ve Been Ambushed.
Someone in a headset instructs me to don my apron and I do so while chuckling. The damn thing is an extra large, but it’s still tight as a second layer of skin. As soon as I’ve got it tied in the back, I turn to face my sisters in the audience for the first time, glaring at them while they cackle like two hyenas.
“I’ll get you for this, girls,” I call, shaking my fist at them. “Sleep with one eye open.”
Around them, the audience laughs and I take a moment to enjoy seeing my sisters so happy. I’m not an asshole to their boyfriends without good reason. They’ve got terrible taste in men and both of them are in the midst of an especially terrible streak of bad luck lately. There has been a lot of crying and ice cream eating in my living room for the last month. My sisters don’t live with me, but they might as well have packed their suitcases and moved right into my house. I lost count of how many times I came home after a twenty-four-hour shift at the firehouse and found them snoring on my couch while the credits rolled on The Notebook.
If watching me make a fool of myself on national television makes them feel better, I can suck it up for a good cause. But I’m definitely leaving much bigger spiders in their cars next time. I might even work a fake rat into my routine.
I cross my arms and watch the host brief the home audience on the rules of the competition. Next, he stops to my left and interviews a redhead named Lola from Las Vegas. She seems pretty confident and I’ve already got her pegged as my biggest competition, but I don’t have much time to strategize because the host is in front of my work station now.
“Ladies and gents, I’d like to introduce, Desmond Conlon! According to his sisters, this brave FDNY firefighter has been banned from going within ten feet of the stove in his Queens firehouse. Desmond, can you confirm or deny?”
My laugh is still ricocheting off the walls when he extends his skinny microphone in my direction. “You set a couple of apple crisps on fire and everyone loses faith,” I say, shrugging. “I’m looking forward to redeeming myself today.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” calls my youngest sister, Melissa, setting the audience off.
I smile and shake my head. Honestly, this is what I get for being overprotective to a fault. They’ve ganged up on me now. I’m actually surprised it took them so long.
While the host moves on and interviews the girl on my other side, I try to make sense of the directions laminated to the table in front of me. We’re making a three-tiered red velvet cake and my only experience with this particular dessert is eating it. Since I’m as big as a motherfucker, I eat a lot, but actually making edible food has never been in my wheelhouse. It’s why I have a drawer full of takeout menus in my kitchen and a mother who always sets aside leftovers for me.
The host draws my attention when he croons, “Don’t you want to meet our celebrity judges?” And the audience loses their minds.
I’ll only be excited if one of them turns out to be Yankee.
Leaning forward on my elbows, I watch with vague interest as the panel is introduced. The first is a British guy I’ve seen baking on television before. Sebastian Cove. He seems fascinated by the female contestant to my right—doesn’t even the spare the rest of us a glance. So I guess I can safely assume I won’t be receiving his vote.
Laughing under my breath at the Brit’s obvious interest in the girl, I almost miss the name of the next judge, but when the curtain parts and she walks out, my mind plays back the host’s words.
Next we have renowned restaurant critic, Quinn Beverley.
Something turns upside down in my abdomen.
She’s nervous as she scurries to her place and sits down, hiding behind a fall of chocolate brown hair. But not before her big, hazel eyes land on me and widen.
Whoa. She is beautiful.
What is up with my stomach?
I’ve seen good-looking women before, right? Why is this one packing such a punch?
She’s so petite, her glasses look like they’re wearing her. In a sensible black dress and flat, pointed shoes, she calls to mind art galleries and Ivy League campuses. Not that I know what either of those places look like, but they’re all I can come up with. She’s a classy girl. That much is obvious.
In other words, the opposite of me.
That doesn’t seem to matter to my dick, though. Clearing my throat hard, I step closer to my work table, so my erection won’t be visible on camera. I should probably stop staring at her so I don’t tent my jeans on television, but I can’t. I’m mesmerized by her slender fingers playing with a little gold locket around her neck. I’m fascinated by her plump, pink upper lip and the way her skin turns peachy under the television lights. Or maybe my interest is doing that.
If I got under that dress, I bet she’d have on no frills, white panties.
Bet she’ll blush when I tug them off.
Virgin.
Yeah, you’re a little virgin, aren’t you, sweetheart?
A buzzer goes off loudly overhead and I lurch for my firefighting gear, before I remember I’m not at the firehouse, I’m on a reality baking show. Christ.
Plowing my fingers through my beard, I get down to business, combining the ingredients inside the standing mixer and flipping it on. I have no idea if I’ll manage to put a decent cake together, but one thing is for certain. I can’t wait to feed her something I made.
The intensity of that need catches me off-guard.
I’ve never wanted to feed, care for and please a woman like this. We haven’t even traded words yet and yet…I ache to be responsible for her.
I don’t like her sitting between the two male judges. If they didn’t seem wrapped up in the female contestants, I think I might have already kidnapped her out the back door. I’m actually resentful over the task at hand, because it’s keeping me from asking her out.
And I will be asking her out.
Will she say yes? Even though I’m a loud-ass firefighter from Queens and she looks like she belongs on yacht sipping champagne?
I glance up and find her rubbing the gold locket on her mouth, her hazel eyes zeroed in on my biceps—and I throw back my head and laugh.
Oh yeah, she’s going to say yes.
Pretty sure that makes me the luckiest son of a bitch alive.
2
Quinn
I can hear my mother’s voice now.
Quinn, this is not how a lady behaves.
The locket is hot between my fingers and vaguely, I wonder if my excessive body heat is going to melt the piece of jewelry. Wouldn’t that make for great television?
As subtly as possible, I shift in my seat, but the discomfort doesn’t go away. There is a flickering little pulse at the apex of my thighs and the firefighter is responsible. I’m not sure how he is compelling me into feeling like a sex-starved creature, but there’s no d
oubt in my mind it’s his doing. If I had the option of cooling down now, however, I don’t think I would take it.
I’m always in control. Everything in its place. Everything neat and orderly.
It’s kind of nice to have my libido running the show for a little while, as opposed to my brain. Oh, I can’t make a habit out of it or anything. Nor can I possibly act on the impulses making my face…and nether regions…flame, but it’s lovely to fantasize.
I shake myself when I realize I’m picturing my panties dangling from the fireman’s teeth.
Good Lord, Quinn. Get a hold of yourself.
That big, booming laugh.
Yes, I think it’s the laugh that’s drawing me to him so deeply.
I’ve never just let a sound fly out of my mouth like that. My laughter must be ladylike, even-tempered. Don’t be shrill, dear. That’s another thing my mother used to say to me while growing up.
I’ve lived in this comfort zone of proper behavior for twenty-four years, but lately I’ve been dying to break out of the mold. These days, when I place a bite of perfectly cooked langoustine into my mouth, I have the most inappropriate urge to throw my arms up in a touchdown pose. Last night, I was at Le Bernadin, sampling their menu for my critique, and I was treated to a decadent Mont Blanc with a rum, caramel mousse—and I wanted to pull up my skirt and dance on the table. Right there in front of the nervous chef.
I didn’t, of course.
But I bet a hundred dollars that Desmond the firefighter wouldn’t even hesitate to throw up his arms or laugh or have whatever reaction he desired.
There’s something so appealing about that confidence.
If only I could go to a restaurant and order some for myself.
Are there classes for learning how to be oneself?
Maybe a crash course on confidence?
If there was, Desmond would be a fantastic teacher.
And now I’m back to thinking of my panties hanging from his teeth.
Sitting up straighter in my chair, I try to observe all three contestants fairly, but my gaze continually strays back to Desmond. At six foot four (at least), he fairly demands attention. Throw in the beard, the twinkling humor in his eyes and the tattooed biceps—and he is the furthest thing from my type imaginable.
You don’t have a type, you lima bean.
That’s right. I’ve been pushed into conversations with men—by my mother, of course—at gala openings, but made excuses to walk away before any dates could be made. Much to my mother’s disgust. Those men were suited, pedigreed and…boring.
Exactly like me.
I should really let one of them take me out, get married in a tasteful ceremony this spring, post our announcement in the Times and promptly have two children. That’s what I should do. That is what’s expected of me.
What would it be like to find myself in the strong arms of Desmond instead?
“Miss Quinn Beverley!” The host’s grating voice catches me off-guard and I almost fall out of my chair. Then my knees start to knock. I was warned that there would be a speaking component to being on this show, but I forgot as soon as I walked through the curtain and saw Desmond towering over his work station. “It’s such an honor to have you among our esteemed panel of judges this evening. At only twenty-four you have become a highly respected restaurant critic here in New York City. What made you decide to put yourself through this torture today?”
There are a million casual answers I could give. I’ve even got a joke knocking around in my noggin somewhere. But with Desmond’s eyes burning a hole in me, I accidentally blurt the truth instead. “I wanted to be unexpected.” Fire ants crawl over my cheeks and I can actually hear my knees striking one another now. “I hide at home…usually…in between appointments. I thought, maybe, this would make me uncomfortable and…”
Oh God, everyone is staring at me and I’m not making any sense.
Can they edit this part out? Will this go viral?
“It’s good to make yourself uncomfortable sometimes, right?” I finish, fidgeting furiously with my locket. “Not that I’d know. This is my first time doing it.”
The host is staring at me half perplexed, half thrilled that I’ve just word vomited and overshared while the cameras rolled. “Why yes,” he says, drawing the words out. “Great answer.”
I’m pretty sure when the host turns away, he rolls his eyes at the audience because laughter fills the studio. In an effort to ground myself, I return my attention to Desmond and find his death glare locked on the host, his jaw grinding ominously. His expression softens when he looks back at me, though and a tribe of butterflies whip around in my throat.
After that, time seems to move at an odd pace. My heart beats in time with the countdown clock while watching Desmond work. Occasionally, his sisters shout something insulting at him from the audience and he calls back without missing a beat. But he’s never mean, never biting. He’s been ambushed on a reality show and he’s simply amused. Taking it all in stride. I would be crying in a fetal position, if it were me.
The buzzer peels and I jump a foot in the air.
“All right, judges! Join me down in the kitchen, if you please. It’s time to test some cakes—and I use that term loosely!” The host waves us forward and I travel around the judges table on unsteady legs. Every step takes me closer to Desmond, making my palms dampen, my tongue feel knotted. Thank God all I have to do is put cake in my mouth—at that I am an expert.
When I reach the host’s side at center stage, Desmond is only a few yards away and he gives me a slow smile, crossing those beefy arms across his chest.
Can I have a bite of him instead?
“Ms. Beverley,” prompts the host. “It’s your turn.”
“Right.” Pasting on my unreadable critic’s expression, I take the offered fork and test all three cakes. The first wasn’t in the oven long enough and fairly leaks out onto the plate. Oh my. I give the blonde contestant a comforting smile. Next up is Desmond and a thrill races up my back. I’m eating something he prepared. With those huge, working man’s hands.
I fork a bite into my mouth and try not to be obvious about rolling it around on my tongue, but Desmond knows. He knows this is the closest I’ve ever come to sex and his smile disappears, replaced by something I don’t recognize. His features are tight, his tongue roving along his bottom lip.
“And the final cake?” The host gives me a playful elbow in the side and Desmond bares his teeth at the man. Hoping to keep the peace, I sample the final cake and set my fork down. “Now it’s time to vote! Sebastian Cove, would you like to cast yours first?”
The expert baker turned judge nods briskly at the blonde girl’s cake. “This one.”
“Erm—really?” The host chokes. “But it’s—”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sebastian snaps back.
“Right.” The host scurries in the opposite direction, stopping in front of Aiden Tulane, the hockey player famous for fighting on the ice, and the third judge. “Mr. Tulane? Do you have a verdict?”
He smiles and a gold tooth winks from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. The beautiful redhead. Who else?”
Said redheaded contestant seems determined to appear nonchalant, but her fingers are trembling slightly.
“So far we have a two-way tie,” the host says, sidling up next to me and putting the microphone under my nose. “Ms. Beverley…would you care to break it for us?”
“I, um…” My pulse tickles the inside so of my veins and I shift side to side under the power of Desmond’s stare. His cake was the best one—hands down—so I’m not lying when I say, “Desmond gets my vote.”
With a victory yell, the fireman throws his chef’s hat up in the air and catches it. Behind him in the audience, his sister’s jeer at his back, but he only chuckles in response.
When my cheeks start to protest, I realize I’m smiling like a dodo bird.
Meanwhile the host is visibly panicked. “Uh…well, this is unprecedented.”
He laughs nervously. “I mean, of course it is. This is the first episode…” He clears his throat. “Might be the last, too, since we were clearly unprepared for his outcome! I hereby declare a three-way tie!”
The audience delivers the slowest clap in history and as soon as the cameras go dark, I’m being ushered backstage by two girls in headsets. They’re rushing through an explanation of the forms I need to sign and a post-filming interview I need to conduct. But I’m more interested in the firefighter whose gaze I can feel drilling into my back. I look back over my shoulder and find Desmond staring after me. He takes a step in my direction, as if he’s going to chase me down, but before he can advance, his sisters step into his path and block him.
Disappointment makes my shoulders slump.
I guess that’s that. I’ll never see him again.
Little do I know how wrong that assumption is…
3
Desmond
She’s not getting away from me that easily.
My sisters must have sensed my interest in Quinn because they thwarted my mission to get the restaurant critic’s phone number. And if I’m being completely honest, getting her number seems pretty damn mild compared to what I really want from this woman. I’ve had a boulder in my stomach since seeing her up close and personal during the judging round. She’s done something to me. I can’t blink without seeing her face.
I walk through the backstage area, stepping over wires and winding around equipment. One of the producers told me I’d find her in the green room, but when I opened that door, I found the redhead contestant making out with the hockey player. My classy girl was nowhere to be seen and I’m starting to panic.
Come on, Quinn. Where are you?