by Layla Nash
"I said I did not envision 'brothers' when your secretary said I would cook for your family."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Her face flushed, from the heat of the oven or something else he couldn't tell. "Yes. With a house this big, I figured there would be a dozen kids running around."
"Mm." He didn't say anything else, frowning down at his wine. He'd expected to have a dozen kids running around, as well. Sometimes fate did not lead down the roads expected.
The silence stretched and she concentrated on the risotto, stirring and stirring and stirring as she ladled broth into the pan, absently rubbing her shoulder though the spoon never paused. Logan wanted to squeeze her shoulders and draw her back against his chest. Smell her hair and skin. Lick the sweat from her cheek as steam rose from the cooking pasta. Press her up against the cabinets until her legs wrapped around his waist.
Natalia didn't look up from the stove, her words almost lost in the steam and bubbles. "Why are you staring at me?"
"Why do you think I'm staring at you?"
She sighed and tapped the enormous aluminum stockpot on the rear burner. "Shiny metal surface acts as a mirror, genius."
"You shouldn't talk to your boss like that."
"A boss shouldn't stare at my ass like that, either, so I guess we're both in the wrong."
He snorted, ducking his head. Drummed his fingers on the island as he debated how much to say without spooking her. Finally, he settled for something close to the truth. "No one has ever yelled at me like you did. Ever. It... surprised me. You surprised me. I wanted to learn more about you, and I wanted to finally eat a damn steak."
Natalia made a thoughtful noise, her shoulders tense as she moved the heavy pan off the heat and reached for a pile of freshly grated cheese. "Is that why you bought the restaurant?"
"Not entirely." But mostly.
She checked the steaks, still warm and raw on the cutting board, and his mouth watered. The beef smelled amazing — fresh and fatty and tender, minimally processed without antibiotics or hormones or any of the shit that most meat seemed to be steeped in. His lion wanted to eat it raw, tear into it with teeth and hands until the blood coated his tongue with iron. After a very long pause, Natalia glanced at him from under her gorgeous, dark eyelashes, her expression unfathomable. "You should talk to Joey. The manager."
Logan leaned forward. "Why is that?"
"I'm just the chef," she said. She checked the heat in a fresh skillet, frowning at the burner and adjusting the flame before re-checking. Natalia picked up the steaks and settled them in the pan. "I don't know what goes on in the back office. But he does a lot of business that has nothing to do with food, it seems."
He looked at his phone, sent a quick message to the accountants: Look at the manager. Then he returned his attention to his chef and the delicious handfuls of her ass that begged to be squeezed. "I'll look into it. Thank you. And, out of curiosity — what happened to the accent?"
"I'm only French when I'm angry," she said, a hint of smile creating a dimple in her cheek. "Bad habit from school — the boys couldn't understand if I cursed at them in an American accent, so I started faking a French accent so they could understand."
"It's very ... intriguing." Logan smiled to himself as she flushed and turned back to the stove, and inhaled the scent of her.
"Against my better judgment," she said suddenly, waving tongs over her shoulder at him. "I will give you a steak I would never serve to a real customer. But I assume your brothers have more discerning palates?"
"Not very discerning." He glanced over his shoulder at where the four lions waited in the dining room. Hopefully on their best behavior. "Prepare their steaks however you like."
She muttered under her breath in what he thought was French. Logan went to the intercom and called the front office, "Send Karen up to serve dinner, will you? Thanks." He refilled both of their wine glasses. He watched her finish the steaks and plate them, deliberate in her preparation of six meals. Asparagus and sautéed kale completed the dinner. "We have a young lady who will serve the meal. I am sure my brothers would like to meet you."
Natalia flushed, still fussing with one of the plates. "It's fine, I'll just —"
"Come on," he said, carrying her wine. She followed reluctantly, and he held the door to the dining room open. "Gentlemen, I believe you remember Ms. Natalia Spencer?"
A chorus of raucous cheering nearly knocked her back a step, and the chef blinked. Logan shook his head, pulling out a chair for her to the left of his seat at the head of the table. She cleared her throat, a little wide-eyed. "Uh, hi."
Edgar nodded, "Ms. Spencer, welcome. Please, have a seat."
She blinked, looking around. "No, thank you. I couldn't possibly. I have to prepare the soufflé —"
"Eat with us," Benedict said, winking roguishly, and she blushed. The middle son was not as burly or intimidating as the others, and certainly only half the size of youngest brother Atticus. But he'd had enough success with women that Logan made a note to talk to him about flirting with Natalia. There would be none of that. "Please."
It took her a moment to fully grasp the set-up, counting the people and the place settings before saying, "There are only five of you."
"Yes," Logan said.
"You told me to prepare six steaks."
"Yes."
She frowned at him. "And the sixth is for ...?"
"You." He pulled her chair out a little farther, nodding at it. "Since it would not be right to have you do all the work and not enjoy the outcome."
She didn't look convinced. "Do you always ask the help to eat with you?"
For a moment he didn't know what to say. They never asked anyone to join family dinner, even their business partners. Family dinner was only for family, no one else. She would never know the honor shown her that night, and part of him mourned that he might never be able to fully explain. Unless she understood the lion and shifter parts of their lives, she wouldn't understand the role of food and meals and bonding. Logan managed a smile. "You're not 'the help,' Natalia, but no, we don't ask many people to eat dinner with us."
"Just special people," Carter said under his breath, a little shy.
Her attention snapped to him, and Logan's hackles rose protectively for his younger brother. Carter had a good heart but wasn't expert at reading social situations. He often misspoke and had been teased relentlessly at school for being a little different, a little out-there. He had an artist's heart, their mother used to say. A dreamer's soul.
Logan held his breath, wondering if the chef would react as sharply to the younger man as she would have to him, but instead, Natalia's expression softened. She attempted a smile, if a wobbly, uneasy one, and patted Carter's shoulder. "Thank you. I'll sit for a moment, but then I have to prepare dessert."
He knew at that moment that she was right for their family. She was perfect. She read Carter, understood his dreamer's soul, and didn't chastise him. Didn't expect him to be something he wasn't, and didn't make the boy feel bad about it, either. Logan's chest tightened, and his lion started to rumble. The lion wanted to mark her immediately so none of the other shifters in the city would dare look at her sideways. He forced himself to calm as he eased her chair into the table, then took his own just to her right. As soon as the others followed suit, Karen and another butler swept into the dining room with the first round of plates.
Logan added a touch more wine to her glass, sitting back as his brothers steamrolled into both the meal and the chef. Benedict, the lawyer, started asking detailed questions about the restaurant's debts and relationship to a soup kitchen a few blocks away, an odd note that had been highlighted in the contract and transfer of ownership.
She flushed, looking away before answering. "That was my — condition. For working at the restaurant. They had to run or at least support a soup kitchen. Bob and his wife couldn't afford to run their own, but we found the soup kitchen close by, so that was good enough."
; Edgar, already halfway through his steak and making indecent noises as he chewed, paused to breathe. "Why a soup kitchen?"
Again, her gaze slid away. One shoulder shrugged and she concentrated on her plate. "I know what it's like to be hungry."
When Edgar opened his mouth to ask a follow-up, Logan shook his head. Off-limits. So his second-in-command changed topics, poking at the asparagus. "Are there cameras outside the restaurant? The loading dock area? It's a dark alley, with a blind spot, and the doors aren't very secure. I'm surprised they haven't been robbed."
"They were." She leaned back in her chair, holding the wine glass as if it were an extension of her arm. "Three months ago. Someone ripped off most of our appliances, cookware, a couple of computers. All the good stuff was gone, so we're making do with thrift store replacements."
Logan raised his eyebrows and looked at Benedict, who shook his head.
Natalia pinched the bridge of her nose. "They didn't report it, did they?"
"No." Logan took a deep breath, putting that headache off until he could get into the office the next morning and call those owners, his realtor, and his accountants. Someone would explain what the hell was going on with this restaurant. And that manager as well. He wanted to enjoy his first meal with Natalia, watch her eat knowing he provided food for her and she was safe, warm, protected by his family. "But that can wait. Does the soup kitchen know it is named as part of this contract?"
"I doubt it." She picked at the risotto and steak, only partially through the meal despite that his brothers had already licked their plates clean. "They just know I show up on Wednesdays and Saturdays with produce and bread and soup and sometimes other things."
"And you feed the homeless that gather in the alley behind the restaurant as well," Edgar added.
Natalia looked up sharply. "How did you —"
He smiled down at his plate, waving a hand. "Not important. But I will keep it in mind when we increase the security."
Logan relaxed as the conversation veered into something less interesting, less focused on Natalia, and his brothers argued over some football game. His hand rested on the table near hers, close enough to touch but not quite there. She smiled a few times at the ridiculousness of his brothers, but there was kindness in her when she looked at Carter. When she slid her chair back from the table, they all rose as well, and she froze, still bent over. Logan folded his napkin and helped with her chair. "The ladies' room is —"
"No," she said, a hint of a flush pinking her cheeks. "I need to finish the soufflé. For dessert."
Logan nodded, then glanced at his brothers. "Perhaps Carter can help you?"
His brother jumped at the chance, talking a mile a minute as he walked Natalia back to the kitchen. Logan waited until the servers removed their plates before addressing the other three men. "Something's going on at the restaurant, something to do with the manager. I don't want any of it blowing back on her. Understood?"
Edgar leaned back in his chair, frowning up at the ceiling and overly-elaborate chandelier. "I'll look into it tomorrow. If we need to send a message, Atticus can deliver it." He eyed their youngest but scariest brother.
Atticus grunted as he tore into his fourth or fifth dinner roll. "Just let me know whose legs need breaking."
"Good." Logan stared unseeing at the chair she'd vacated, right next to him. Missing her already.
"So she's it, huh?"
He frowned up at Benedict. "What?"
"She's who you've been searching for." Benedict was, for once, entirely serious. "You know?"
"She doesn't know anything about us." Logan sighed, wiped his mouth and fiddled with his dessert fork. "I can't expect her to reciprocate when she doesn't — she doesn't feel as deeply as we do, as quickly. She might be interested in being a girlfriend, but I doubt she's ready to be a mate. It will take time."
Edgar looked thoughtful more than anything. "Maybe not as long as you think, Logan. She likes you. Just be honest."
He glanced at his phone as the accountant called, and got up from the table. "I'll be back. If you touch my soufflé, I'll rip out your fucking throats."
His thoughts remained on Natalia as he spoke to the accountant about the cooked books at the restaurant, and part of his heart warmed as Edgar's words settled close. She liked him.
Four
The soufflé was a big hit. It disappeared almost as quickly as the steaks had — I blinked, and there were only traces of chocolate in the ramekins, on their faces, on the spoons they licked clean. I managed to hide a smile but just barely; cooking for hungry men was usually rewarding work. And every part of me felt electrified from where Logan touched my hand when he pulled out my chair for the second time. Heat surged to my cheeks every time he moved and his clothes rustled, or his chair squeaked, or he sipped wine like he could taste me. My heart jumped to my throat and I tried to remember my professionalism. I was an employee, regardless of how hard he stared at my ass when I walked back to the kitchen. Just an employee. It became a mantra as I scrubbed the pans and my knives, not looking at him though I knew he followed me out of the dining room and took up his stance leaning against the island.
"I'll give you free rein with the restaurant," he said abruptly, and I dropped the risotto pan into a sink full of water.
I faced him, soaked. "What?"
Half his mouth curled in a smile as he handed me a dry towel. "You set the menu, the prices, hire and fire the staff, whatever. On one condition."
Hope rose in my heart as I patted my face dry. I could run the restaurant, nip all that corrupt shit in the bud and finally serve what I wanted to serve. No more catering to uninformed dilettantes. We could streamline donations, maybe set up a mobile food truck to go around to the homeless shelters. "What's the — what condition?"
He shrugged, brown eyes sparking with amusement and something else I couldn't quite identify. "Every now and then, you cook for us. For me. If I call, you come here."
My hands dropped to my sides and I deflated. The dream wisped away. Running at his beck and call was off-putting enough, but the thought of constantly being around him, those damn sexy eyes and the enormous hands that gripped the counter as if he could break off a chunk of quartz with only a little effort... My self-control wasn't strong enough to protect me from him, even that husky rumbly voice he had. Especially from that husky rumbly voice, so damn close to a purr I wanted to let him wrap himself around my legs. I shook myself out of it. "I appreciate the offer, but I can't. I'll stick around until you can find —"
"Wait." He straightened, took a stalking step towards me, and I jumped back out of instinct, jamming my back into the edge of the counter. He stopped short, expression unreadable. I flushed. At length, Logan went on, voice quiet and controlled. "You'd give up full creative and management control of the restaurant just so you won't have to cook for me? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Luckily, the damp towel and my still-dripping coat gave me a reason to look away from him, to convince myself what I said was true, and it was about the food rather than him. And his jeans. And maybe the t-shirt that stretched across the chest of a Greek god. "I don't like preparing bad food. And you — your taste is terrible. That's the worst steak I've ever served and it is a — professional embarrassment that I put it in front of you."
At least partially true, though the 'yummy' noises he made were gratifying enough. Even if they made me wonder if those were his sex noises, too. My cheeks caught fire and his head tilted as he studied me, as if he couldn't figure out why I blushed.
I bit my lip and turned away, shedding the chef's coat to toss over one of the stools to dry. At least the thin sweater I wore remained dry, though it clung more than I remembered. A strangled noise had me look back, and I froze; Logan looked as though he wanted to kiss me. His gaze lingered on my waist and breasts, more defined in the much smaller sweater, and after a long time, he looked at my lips. I held my breath.
"How about —" He cut off, cleared his throat. "When I wan
t you to cook for me, you will choose the menu, and I will eat what you prepare. I may suggest a cuisine or general region — Italian or French, maybe. Will that suffice?"
It felt like a trap. Like too much remained unsaid. There had to be some other motivation.
I concentrated on drying my knives and putting them away. When nothing remained to distract me from him, I put my hands on my hips. "Why did you buy the restaurant?"
"Because I felt like it."
When I looked at him in silence, refusing to accept such a blithe answer, he laughed. Logan raised his hands in surrender. "I swear. You made me so mad I called my realtor and told him to make an offer on the restaurant. By the time I calmed down — well, by the time Edgar talked sense into me, we'd already made the offer and I didn't want to back out."
"You can't be serious." I rolled up my knives and shoved them into my shoulder bag. "No one spends that much money just because they're mad."
He shrugged. "I have a lot of money."
I shook my head and continued packing my things. It felt like lies, though I couldn't pinpoint exactly what made me uneasy. By the looks of his house, he could buy whatever he wanted, including my restaurant. But he didn't look like the kind of man who made rash judgments, and I doubted very much he accumulated that much money by making stupid investment decisions. I massaged my temples as I faced him, trying to read the truth in his eyes without letting the defined muscles in his forearms distract me. "Restaurants are notorious money pits. Most fail in the first year. We're barely six months old. Why take the risk?"
His fingers drummed an even tattoo on the counter. He finally pointed at one of the stools at the island. "Sit, please." He waited until I perched on the stool before going on. "First, the real estate itself is valuable. You're on a trendy street, and if I wanted to get rid of the restaurant and put in a coffee shop or hip clothing store, I could and I would be able to recoup any losses. So that's a sound investment. Second, it took me two weeks to get a reservation. It doesn't take me more than two hours to get a reservation anywhere in this city."