by Lilli Feisty
Her mouth opened wide as she sucked in air. “What? Are you even more of an imbecile than I originally thought?” She barked a loud laugh. “That’s just ridiculous. Wait. You’re right. It’s me!”
“You?” He was looking at her as if he were observing a patient from an insane asylum.
“No.” Blowing a curl away from her face, she started pacing back and forth. “You are right. I did let myself become helpless to your…” Charm seemed like the right word, but it really wasn’t. She glanced at him. “Helpless to your whisk.” More pacing. “But that’s because of me, not you, you ass.”
“You?”
“Of course. I’ve always tried to curb my draw to dangerous things.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes! And don’t give me that condescending tone either.”
“I’ll try not to, love.”
“And don’t call me love.”
“Um, okay. Phoebe.”
“Don’t call me that either.” She hated it when he said her name; it did funny things to her insides. “Obviously, I was weak today, after…” She threw a wave of her hand in his general direction. “After the other night. And it…it…has clouded my judgment. Ha, ha! Because there is no way I would ever, ever let you do…do those things you did to me if I was in my right mind.”
He seemed confused. “So, is this my fault…or yours? You’ve utterly lost me, sweetheart.”
“It’s my fault.” Was he stupid? “Because I, for some reason, behave totally irrationally when I’m around you!”
“Is that so?” He lifted his ass and pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket. “Interesting.” He extracted a cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth. Then he flipped open a silver lighter.
She gasped in exasperation. “What are you doing?”
He ignited the lighter and put a flame to the nicotine stick perched on the right side of his lips. “What does it look like, love? Surely out here in hippie central you’ve seen someone light up.”
She stalked over and smacked the lighter out of his hand. “You can’t smoke in here!”
“But you just keep talking. It’s tiresome. I need a little pick-me-up.”
She yanked the cigarette from his lips and threw it over his shoulder. “It’s illegal! If the health inspector came in and saw you, we could get written up!”
He just looked at her. “That’s easily taken care of, babe.”
“Oh yeah? Do share your ultimate wisdom with this inexperienced minion.”
“You give him a hundred bucks.”
“What? No! We’ve proudly been scored 99 since the day this establishment opened. Fair and square.”
He quirked an annoying dark brow. “What was the one percent you missed?”
She sniffed and looked down at him. “A patron snuck a dog into the restaurant inside her purse.”
He laughed. Loudly. “You’re kidding.”
“Of course not. Why?”
Retrieving his lighter off the floor, he said, “That’s just so…L.A. of you all.”
“It was a special-needs dog.”
“Is that so?” He stuck another cigarette in his mouth.
“Yes! It is. Was.”
“So why’d you get written up? If it was, indeed, a special-needs dog?”
She smoothed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “The patron didn’t have the appropriate papers.”
“And this special-needs dog was what? A golden retriever? A Labrador?” Once again, he flicked his lighter open.
Phoebe ignored it when he put the flame to the Marlboro stuck in his mouth. Trying to disregard the smell of burning nicotine that immediately swirled into the storage room, she said, “It was a hairless dog.”
He coughed on some smoke. “A what?”
“A hairless dog. You know, it didn’t have any hair. What harm could there possibly have been?”
“You mean like that cat from Austin Powers? Was the dog shagadelic?” He smirked at his own joke.
“Shut up.” Stomping over, she plucked the cigarette out of his mouth. She then proceeded to put it to her own mouth and take a deep drag.
He was looking at her as if she’d just grown snakes out of her head. Well, if she looked in the mirror, she might think he was right. Surely, her hair looked a fright.
Closing her eyes, she let the smoke fill her lungs.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked incredulously.
Her eyes popped open, and she slowly exhaled, making sure to blow the smoke directly toward his face. “What?” she said, taking another drag.
He looked appalled. “You’re smoking!”
“So?”
“You don’t smoke!”
“How do you know?” No one knew she kept a pack of Camels hidden in her underwear drawer.
“Because you said it was disgusting!”
“Well…” She took a drag. “Well, it is.”
“Then why are you doing it? I thought you were Miss Innocent Healthy Woman.”
“I am!”
“Then?” He held out his hand as if expecting some sort of answer.
“You don’t know everything.”
“I know what you said.”
“Phooey.” Seriously? Did she really just say that?
“Did you really just say that?”
“Maybe!” she exclaimed. “Maybe it’s time for you to get rid of all those ideas and concepts and ideas and stereotypes you have about everyone who lives here.”
“Hey, love. I’m just stating the facts.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t smoke.”
“Why?” she said, inhaling another drag that made her want to vomit. It was all too much. Now she was just proving a point. A point that might make her sick.
Nick looked alarmed. He went to swipe the cigarette out of her hand, and she jumped back.
“You think you know me?” she asked.
He stood, obviously thinking of making another attempt to get the Marlboro out of her fingers. She could do this. She was tough.
“Back off, Mr. Avalon.” Resting her elbow in her hand, she took another drag. “You think you have it all figured out. You think you have us all pegged. A bunch of boring tree huggers living in the backwoods of nowhere.”
He glanced around the stockroom for a second. “Well, yeah. Kinda.”
“Ha!” She pointed the cigarette at him. “Ha, ha, ha!”
Looking genuinely concerned—or was it scared?—he said, “Phoebe, are you okay?”
“Don’t say my name!”
“Okay. Love, are you okay?”
Was she okay? She had no idea. Her hands were shaking, and she felt shivers start to rack her body.
Nick took a step toward her. Slowly, as if approaching a wild, wounded animal, and he reached out his hand. “Babe. Come here.”
“N-no.” But her voice was shaky, and she didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her. She tried to inhale more from the cigarette, but it just made her cough. She felt as if she were crashing off some high. All the things she’d been feeling throughout the day came at her in a rush, overwhelming her until her eyes began to fill. Anger, hurt, trust, exhilaration, lust, defense…It was too much. And it was all aimed at this one man. And even as she hated him, she wanted nothing more than for him to hold her and comfort her.
“Damn it!” she said, swiping at a tear.
When he took the cigarette from her, she couldn’t—didn’t—want to stop him. Her fingers were trembling too violently to hold it, and her throat was clenching. She saw him throw the cigarette on the floor and stomp on it with his expensive trainers. He took her in his arms.
“You’ll have to clean that up,” she said into his chest. And then she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of him, and it was more calming and fulfilling than any cigarette could ever be.
Why was he doing that? Why was he holding her so tightly she felt like she could live here—right here? Why was he stroking the b
ack of her head so soothingly she thought she could trust him? Why, why, why…
“Shhh,” he whispered.
Oh, how she’d loved that earlier. Loved the sound of his voice in her ear. It had made her want to shush, made her want to give herself up, just for a minute. Because it was dangerous to do so. And he’d made her think that was okay. That it was perfectly safe to take that leap.
She pushed away so fast that he stumbled backward.
Nick Avalon was a mystery. The only details he shared about his personal life were shallow, usually having to do with parties or women. He never mentioned his family, or a history not related to cooking.
He was unpredictable, which was dangerous. And that was the very last thing she’d ever needed in her life.
“Leave me alone,” she said, backing toward the door.
He looked genuinely confused. If she wasn’t brainless, she’d think he even looked hurt.
And oh, how he could pull it off; as if he actually cared what she thought of him. But he was trying. His eyes appeared downright baffled. Sad even, when he said, “Phoebe, love. Fuck, what’s wrong?”
“You. You’re wrong. Stop doing this to me. I’m going to stop letting you do this to me.” She yanked open the storage room door. “Don’t look at me. Don’t touch me. Don’t…whisk me!”
“But—”
“No!” She put out her hand. “Shut up. You work for me. You’re my”—she poked herself in the chest—“my employee. Now get out to the kitchen and start prepping. We have an early crowd here. We’re old and boring, remember?”
He was just staring at her. It was an act. He’d been a playboy since the second he’d gotten here, and she’d let him get to her. Why? Because he had Danger practically tattooed all over his arrogant face. She thought she’d tamped down that desire of hers long ago.
Now she wasn’t sure. Not one bit.
Obviously, she’d been wrong. She should just jump out of an airplane and get it over with. Because free-falling ten thousand feet through the sky was certainly safer than letting Nick Avalon anywhere near her.
She glared at him. “Get to work.” Turning, she spun on her heel and stalked away. It was then she realized she’d had her sandals on the entire time. He hadn’t even bothered to take off her shoes.
Chapter Ten
Here you go, Dad.” Jesse placed her father’s order on the table. “Butternut squash ravioli. Nick made it. It’s delicious. I tried some earlier.”
Her dad looked up and smiled. It made Jesse’s heart hurt. Every Saturday night, he came to the bistro at 6:00 on the dot. He always sat alone, at the table he’d so often shared with her mother when she was alive.
“Bon appétit.” Jesse pasted on a reflection of his fake smile, turned, and went back to the kitchen.
“How is he?” Phoebe stuck two order tickets on the wheel hanging from the ceiling and spun it.
Jesse looked back at her dad, who was cutting a single ravioli with a knife and a fork. “The same.” She faced Phoebe. “Do you think he’ll ever meet someone?”
Her aunt’s eyes went soft as she touched Jesse’s shoulder gently. “When he’s ready.”
“What if he never is?”
“Oh, honey. Then that’ll be his decision.”
Jesse sighed. “I guess you’re right.” Anyway, she really wasn’t sure how she’d feel if her father did, indeed, meet another woman. She wanted her dad to be happy, but no one could ever replace her mother.
With a sigh, Jesse glanced around the restaurant. The three other servers were busy, and Nick was sweating away at the big stove. The place was busier than it normally was on a Saturday night. But it was still unchanged. Same patrons, same decor, same…everything.
Jesse wanted out. She envied Nick and his background, and his stories about living in Los Angeles. And his awesome knowledge about food. She imagined his life in L.A. She pictured his chic apartment on the beach, the exciting parties, and the endless choices of things to do. It all sounded so cool.
It all sounded so unlike what she was used to. Redbolt wasn’t exactly swimming with culture. She was sick of the same coffeehouse, the same grocery store, the same routine. The same people.
More than anything, Jesse craved more. That’s all she knew. She wanted more.
“Jesse!”
Spinning, she saw Nick glaring at her beneath the warming lights. Yeah, he could be cool, but it was easy to see that he was a shark in the kitchen. She really didn’t want to piss him off.
She plucked two plates off the hot counter. “Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, sorry won’t get this food to the tables, poppet.”
Nodding, she headed toward the table and put the plates down. “Here you go, Rachel. And there you are, Rick.”
The thirty-something couple smiled at her. Their San Francisco–based Internet start-up company had gone public a few years back, and they’d settled on a ranch about fifteen miles out of town. Jesse knew they were gazillionaires, but you’d never know it from their laid-back manner and casual dress. And every Saturday night, they came in for their standing 7:00 p.m. reservation.
“This looks delicious,” Rick said, gazing at his vegan shepherd’s pie.
Rachel picked up a fork and looked at her rosemary crepes. “What makes it all the more amazing is that our own Phoebe grew most of this right here on her local farm.”
“Yup,” Jesse said. “Phoebe is pretty amazing.”
“That she is.”
Jesse glanced over to the object of their praise, who was currently talking with the chef. Phoebe and Nick were head-to-head, trying to look casual but obviously fighting about something.
Well, that wasn’t unusual. They were always fighting over something.
“Enjoy,” Jesse said before heading back to the kitchen. She went straight over to Nick and Phoebe.
Nick had his hands on his hips and was leaning down to get right in Phoebe’s face. “Who the fuck books ten reservations in the span of twenty minutes?”
Phoebe didn’t back down. “What do you care? We have the space!”
“Yeah, but we don’t have the fucking backup, boss. There’s only one chef in this back room. Me!”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass who the chef is. There’s only one boss in this place, and that is me!”
“The manager should know how to space reservations.”
“Hey, buster!” She poked him in the chest. “For some reason, we’re getting a lot more patrons since you’ve been here. I’m just trying to accommodate the demand.”
Jesse couldn’t help but be entertained by their disputes. She’d never seen her parents fight, not once. But watching Nick and Phoebe go back and forth like this, it was fascinating. Like watching professionals play tennis. Every night was Wimbledon.
Eventually, Phoebe tugged Nick into a corner where they continued their bickering, only now in furious whispers.
Why was she comparing Nick and Phoebe to her parents? That was strange. They were nothing like Jesse’s parents, and they certainly weren’t “together.”
Nick had leaned right into Phoebe’s face. Jesse could still hear them.
“Well,” he said, “learn how to space out reservations before you piss off all your new money. Can’t you see your waiters are getting buried, and the kitchen’s in the weeds?”
Jesse bit her lip. All that was true. She and the three other servers had been rushing around all night trying to keep up. She’d personally handed Nick more tickets in an hour than she usually did all night.
But she’d never say anything to Phoebe.
Nick, obviously, had no qualms about standing up to the manager. He waved Phoebe away.
“Now, leave the kitchen to me and go help out your waitstaff.”
Jesse sucked in an astonished breath. In all the time she’d known her aunt, she’d never seen anyone, not once, give Phoebe a command.
And Phoebe looked like she was going to explode. Her cheeks were red, and her deep-brown hair seeme
d to be unraveling from her braid in angry spirals. Her green eyes looked ready to throw sparks at Nick.
“Um, Nick?”
They turned their glares to Ethan, a shy seventeen-year-old with bright red hair.
“What?” Nick barked.
“A-a customer was wondering if he could get the butternut squash without the caramel almonds.” Ethan’s blue eyes were wide, and he looked scared.
“Hell, no!” Nick said. “The almonds are perfection. They make the dish.” And then he turned his back on all of them and went back to the stove.
Phoebe was staring at him. After a minute, she turned to Jesse. “He likes the almonds?”
Jesse shrugged. “Um, I guess so.”
“That’s strange.”
“Why?”
Phoebe shook her head. “Earlier he said he only liked walnuts.” She shook her head. “Obviously, he was just trying to mess with me.” And then she grabbed a plate and headed into the front room.
Astonished, Jesse gazed after her. Phoebe had done it. She’d taken an order from Nick Avalon.
“Excuse us. Mr. Avalon?”
Wiping his brow, Nick looked up as he set two plates under the lights. A man and a woman stood on the other side of the counter. Both looked to be in their mid-thirties, and both were beaming at him.
“Yes?” he said.
The man said, “We just wanted to compliment you on our outstanding dinner.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I’m Rachel, and this is Rick. We’ve lived here about five years now.”
“Pleasure,” Nick said.
Rick leaned a bit closer. “I can’t tell you how happy we are to have a chef such as yourself move to Redbolt.”
“Yes.” Rachel’s smile got bigger, and it seemed genuine. “While we absolutely love living here, we have to admit the one thing we miss about living in Silicon Valley is the food.”
“Right,” Rick said. “And your shepherd’s pie is absolutely the most delicious thing I’ve had in ages.”
Rachel actually clapped her hands. “And my crepes. It was better than sex.”
“Hey.” Rick gave her a friendly nudge. “I take offense to that.”
Rachel grinned at her husband. “Well, I suppose you can try to make sex better than those crepes. Maybe I’ll let you attempt it later tonight.”