by Marina Adair
“Traditional. Of course.” Lexi reached out, intending to pick up the menu, which ChiChi seemed so insistent that she hold, but only managed to trace a shaky finger across its bottom edge, fearful that if she actually grasped the book it would go off like a live grenade, demolishing all creativity and culinary ability in a seven-mile radius—and all of the progress she’d made last night.
She looked at her beautiful dish, with its bright-orange drizzles and brilliant-green mousse, and straightened her shoulders. Abby was right. It was her life. Her cooking. Her clean slate.
“I was actually going to play with the menu a little. Update it. Take the traditional and make it retro.”
“Retro?” ChiChi said, her face going white.
“Yes, a remodeled menu for a remodeled venue.” And a remodeled me.
“Remodel this—”
“Why, Lexi—” her grandmother intercepted Lucinda, who was moving toward Lexi at an alarming pace. “A little updating would be nice.” Pricilla shot a reprimanding glance at her two cohorts before giving Lexi a placating smile. It was the same smile Lexi had received when she was nine and told Pricilla she wanted to add mango to her summer tarts. “What a great idea. Perhaps salmon instead of the cod.”
Lucinda nodded.
ChiChi forced out, “Salmon sounds lovely.”
Lexi snorted. It did not sound lovely. It sounded safe, boring, the kind of thing one would expect at a catered event. And salmon was even worse than cod for a large group. It was a fish that needed to be cooked to order, freshly prepared and immediately served. Not poached in mass quantity only to sit in a lukewarm bath of milk sauce.
“But I wouldn’t go too far,” Lucinda warned. “The other girls received their menus last week. And I know that they are thrilled by the opportunity to pay tribute to the history behind these dishes.”
“Other girls?” Lexi gasped. “Abby made it sound like the job was mine if I wanted it.”
“She is just confident in your ability. We all are,” ChiChi soothed, patting her hand. But the gesture wasn’t soothing. Nor was the presence of all three grannies smiling serenely at her over oval-rimmed glasses.
Lexi knew that getting the Daughters of the Prohibition to agree on a different menu, one that used the traditional ingredients with a fresh spin, would be a challenge. But she had no idea that she’d have to audition for the job against other caterers who were content to ruin a delicate fish by boiling it in milk.
“Don’t worry,” Pricilla said. “None of these girls have your training or palate. The tasting is merely a formality.”
“Formality my butt,” Lexi mumbled after the grannies left. Who needed training or a palate when the recipe was so explicitly detailed, complete with a diagram showing how the fish should be placed atop a bed of five balanced asparagus spears and at a forty-five-degree angle to the half cup of whipped mash?
Bo Brock’s hotel reservation had been canceled. Marc hoped to hell it was some kind of glitch and not his celebrity judge pulling out. But the fact that he wasn’t returning any of Marc’s calls felt like a rock in his gut.
Marc pulled up a fresh e-mail and began typing, outlining the exact terms of their agreed-upon contract, when a light flicked on across the alley. He turned in his chair just as a figure walked across the room toward the stove, drawing him in. A figure with really great boobs, wavy blonde hair, and an ass that had kept him awake all week.
Gone were the pajama bottoms and stained tank from earlier. In their place she wore a slinky red top that dipped way down in the front, and he wasn’t sure if she was wearing slacks or jeans, didn’t care. They looked damn sexy on her. They also covered her bare feet, which she was currently slipping into a pair of red strappy heels, helpfully bending over to give him a great view of her lacy bra that made looking away damn difficult.
She fastened the shoes around her slim ankles and picked up a bottle of—well, shit, that girl had guts—Pricilla’s homebrew. She hopped up on the counter, then poured a cup, a full cup, and went to take a sip, then stopped. She glanced out the window and, before he could turn back to his computer, looked right at him. Then she did the damndest thing—she lifted her glass in salute, offered up a sad smile, and drained the entire thing before refilling it.
Wingman whined.
Marc leaned down and patted his head. “I know, boy. I want to go over there too. But keeping an eye on her and keeping my distance are two separate things.”
Both were equally stupid.
“How about a man night? You and me and a couple bloody steaks. I’ll even let you have some of my beer.”
Wingman didn’t answer, just stared across the alley.
Finishing her second drink, Lexi slid off the counter, set the cup in the sink, and wiped her hands across her mouth. Then she smiled over at Marc and gave him a little wave. He waved back. And his smile came out stupid and big.
“Too bad man night excludes the girl next door,” Marc mumbled, right as his phone rang. He looked at the screen, saw Trey’s number, and hung up.
He didn’t have time to listen to his kid brother lay into him over something he had or hadn’t done. He was too busy trying to figure out where Lexi, who had grabbed a small handbag off the table and sashayed her ass out of sight, had disappeared to. And why she wasn’t returning his calls.
Marc walked to the corner of his office and peered out into the parking lot at the back of the bakery. He didn’t see Lexi, but he did see a tool in slacks and a polo strangling a bouquet of roses on her back stoop.
“Dumb-ass,” Marc muttered. Lexi hated roses. Thought they were cliché.
His phone chimed that he had a voice mail. He dialed and listened.
“Answer your phone, will you? I need to get a hold of your buddy.” Marc could tell by the way Trey said your buddy that what little love there had been between the two was long gone. Not good. “I know he’s away on his honeymoon, but he still owes me some financials. Monte is on my case about it. So if you hear from him, tell me what he says.”
The message ended. Marc hung up. He could tell Trey exactly what his buddy had said.
I know this is a lot to ask, but you guys used to be friends.
Marc and Lexi had never stopped being friends. In fact, Marc, abiding by man law, had vowed to keep his distance from her, and over the years he’d done his sex proud. But when Lexi stepped out on her porch, too-big grin in place, tottered a bit on those heels, and then stumbled right into Mr. Friday Night’s arms, friend was the last person Marc was capable of being. Especially when Dumb-Ass pulled her closer, resting his hand pretty damn low for a first date, and tugged her toward his shiny sports car.
Wingman growled, baring his teeth and his obvious dislike for Lexi’s date.
“Me too,” Marc said.
The silver-streaked hair, corporate-branded shirt, and overcompensation with a spoiler told Marc that this was Vince Jones, a local dot-comer who specialized in social media and younger women. He was twenty years too old and Lexi was already three shots too far gone for this to be a good idea.
Wingman jumped at the window, barking up a storm and practically foaming at the mouth to rip the guy apart.
“Give me the first shot at him.” Marc grabbed Wingman’s leash and was already reaching for his keys when he added, “If he’s too stupid to listen, I’ll give you ten minutes in a dark room with the guy.”
Which was how Wingman ended up eating kibble for dinner and Marc found himself at the Spigot, wedged between an irrigation specialist and an investment banker, nursing a warm beer and watching Lexi wobble around on those ridiculous heels while Vince supplied her with enough tequila to get an entire crew of vineyard workers hammered.
Lexi licked the tip of a dart, took aim, and leaned over a bar stool for balance, causing the denim to stretch even more tightly across her incredible backside. Marc zeroed in and choked on his beer when she threw the dart and gave an excited little wiggle. He couldn’t see what she was aiming at, but it must have
been a bull’s-eye because she started bouncing up and down on her toes—and then all thinking became impossible.
God, the woman had an incredible body.
A low, appreciative whistle sounded from his right, and Marc realized that the irrigation specialist—and half the freaking bar—was just as interested in the sight of Lexi jumping up and down while holding a weapon. But when Dumb-Ass leaned in, getting all up behind her to help line up her next throw, it took everything Marc had not to do some lining up of his own.
“I’m her Friday after next,” the investment banker bragged, swirling his glass of cabernet. “Got tickets to see Phantom of the Opera in the city. Also booked a room at the Fairmont. Just in case it gets late.”
“I hope they’re refundable,” Marc muttered, dropping a ten on the table for his drink and a text to ChiChi about inviting Pricilla and her granddaughter to their family dinner that Friday.
Lexi, out of darts, said something to her date and then disappeared down the hall in the direction of the ladies’ room. Vince flagged down the waitress to place another order, his grin a little too confident for Marc’s liking.
Marc made his way through the bar, saying “hey” more times than he wished since everyone knew everyone here, and glanced out the window. He took one look at Vince’s car and smiled. Not only did it serve as a public service announcement to women everywhere that the man needed help in the form of a little blue pill, it also sagged drastically to the right.
“Hey, Vince, hate to interrupt,” Marc lied, taking him by the shoulder and pointing toward the front window. “But I think some idiots were out there messing with your car.”
Actually, it was only one idiot. And he was digging himself in deeper when it came to Lexi, because no matter how many times Marc told himself to keep a safe distance, there he was, repeating history and inserting himself between Lexi and another man. Only this time he wasn’t sure that he would be satisfied staying stuck in the friendly middle.
“What the—” Vince didn’t even wait for Lexi to return before going off to check on his car. He exited the bar, letting loose a whole lot of questionable language when he saw exactly how flat his right-side tires were. Even flatter than Marc had intended.
Marc followed him outside. “You got a jack?” He knew damn well that a Mercedes SLR wasn’t the kind of car you just up and change the tire for. Not to mention Vince wasn’t the kind of guy to even know where the jack was, should he have one. “Otherwise it might start to bend the rims.”
“Shit.” Vince was on it, frantically reaching for his phone while trying to use the weight of his body to push against the car and lift it a little—his drunk and sexy date no longer even registering on his list of things to think about.
Marc crossed his arms and leaned back against the right side of the car next to Vince, going for casual and pretending to do his part to help. The Benz groaned under the pressure. So did Vince when the shop said it would take fifteen minutes to get there.
“How about you stay here and wait for the guy while I go fetch your date for you?” When Vince looked up confused, Marc jutted his chin toward the window. Inside, Lexi had returned. So had the waitress. Lexi tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder and the shot of tequila down her throat.
“She must be a handful. I’ve never seen her drink like this.” Marc patted Vince on the back before heading toward the door. He reached for the handle and paused. “You know, if you want, I can take her home. It’d be no problem to drop her off on my way to the hotel.”
Vince hesitated, watching Lexi bend over and line up her next shot. Her silky number rode up her back, and the dart flew right past the board, taking out a beer mug on a nearby table.
“You know what, never mind. I wouldn’t want to ruin your fun. So I’ll go keep her company while you wait for your guy. I’ll even make sure the bartender gives her a plastic bag—just in case.”
Marc stepped inside, smiling when Vince called after him, “No. You’re right. She’s having fun, and I have to get this taken care of.” He nodded to his car. “Tell her I’m sorry and I’ll make it up to her.”
“You got it,” Marc said over his shoulder, and then lower, “and good luck with that.”
The guy was a bigger dumb-ass that Marc originally thought if he assumed he’d get a second chance like the one he’d just blown. No, Lexi wasn’t one to get drunk—often—and Vince wouldn’t get another date with her. Marc would make sure of that.
Determined to keep it light and easy, Marc made his way across the bar, slid onto the stool next to Lexi’s empty glass, and watched patiently as, dart after dart, she carefully aimed, drew back, threw—and hit the wall, a chair, the floor. By the time she had cleaned out her ammo, she’d also cleaned out the entire section of customers.
She slowly backed away from the dartboard, stopping abruptly when she turned and found Marc waiting for her, glass of water in hand. She still held a single dart, which she pointed in his direction.
“You.” It came out part greeting, part accusation, and completely slurred.
“Me.” He flashed his best bad-boy grin. The one that showed all his teeth and made his normally hidden dimple stand out. The same one he’d learned early on that no woman could resist.
“God, it’s like I stepped in a big hunk of…of you and everywhere I go it stinks up the room.”
No woman except Lexi.
“And that”—she motioned to his face with the dart and continued—“is insulting. I’m not one of your women, so the charming little smile and flash of dimple won’t make me forget that you’re trying to screw with me.”
Marc didn’t know what had happened to make that sweet Lexi from three hours ago, who had waved and smiled to him through the window, vanish completely. In her place was a woman with a dart aimed to lodge in some poor guy’s jugular.
“And you chased my date away!”
“I did.” No point in lying. Sure, she was mad, but not about Vince’s departure. Just in case, Marc covered his neck when he said, “Cream puff, if I’m screwing, there won’t be any trying about it. And trust me, you won’t forget.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re in my seat.”
“So I am.”
“Move.”
“As you wish.” He scooted back—an inch—braced his feet on either side of the stool, and patted the now vacant part of the seat. “We can share.”
To his surprise she didn’t toss the dart to maim, nor did she shove him off the chair. Instead she walked forward, wobbling a little, to right between his legs, nudging them farther apart with her hips and stepping so close he could smell her perfume. It was light and floral and it took everything he had not to lean in for a better whiff. He worked hard to ignore just how far the vee of her top dipped into her glorious cleavage.
But when she looked up at him, her eyes full of hurt, all he could feel was the way his chest clenched up on him and his heart kicked into a painful overtime.
“So what? So you can share with Jeffery exactly where I am and how he can serve me?” Her eyes never left Marc’s as she drew her hand back and, steady and sure, chucked the dart. Marc leaped off the bar stool, narrowly dodging the pointy tip, which wasn’t aimed at his jugular but at somewhere much more tender. “Or wait, he already did that. Maybe this time you just want to laugh with him about how easy it was to chase off my date so I’d sit here looking like a fool in front of everyone, waiting for him to come back.”
And with that she stormed out of the bar, leaving Marc checking for puncture wounds. His goods were still intact, but he wasn’t so sure about the rest of him.
Dropping enough money on the bar to cover her drinks, he followed her out the door—because when it came to this woman that’s what he did: followed and watched. He’d spent the past fifteen years watching her from a distance without getting caught, and he was tired of it. She was upset and probably embarrassed about being stood up, but he’d be damned if he would let her walk out of there thinking he’d set o
ut to purposefully hurt her.
It didn’t take him long to catch up; her legs were short, the drinks were straight up, and those heels were slowing her down. She was just rounding the corner of the bar when Marc reached her.
“Look, I might act like an ass sometimes.” He took her hand to slow her down.
“Sometimes?” She tried to break free, but he held firm, trapping her hand against his chest and bringing their bodies flush.
One hell of a zing shot through him, and he had a hard time remembering how to breathe. When he saw Lexi’s chest doing a dance of its own, he knew this crazy attraction had sucked her in too. And that scared the crap out of him, because whatever had passed between them in the cab of his truck felt like high-school hormones compared to the insane heat arching between them now.
“I will admit that, although a rarity, it does happen more than frequently around you.” He relaxed his grip and cleared his throat. “But I would never, never laugh about anything that makes you sad. Understand?”
At his words, her hand flattened against his chest. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t move except to sag closer into him. “Then why are you here?”
Because even though I can’t have you, I can’t stay away.
“Because I wanted to make sure you were all right.” His eyes ran over her top, which showed more skin that it covered. Even drunk she still managed to look sassy and sexy and hot as hell. But sexy as she was, this wasn’t the Lexi he knew. “And you should be thanking me. I chased off a guy who was willing to front the bill to get in your very drunk pants.”
“I’m not drunk.” She plucked at her top and took an unsteady step backward, whether to gain distance or because she was swaying on her feet, Marc didn’t know. Either way, she was about to tumble right out of those strappy heels and onto her sexy ass. “Fine. Maybe I’m a little tipsy.”
“A little?” He mimicked her tone as he dropped his free hand to her hip, pulling her closer and holding steady a good portion of her weight. “Cream puff, I haven’t seen you mainline tequila since prom, and that didn’t turn out so well for me or the interior of my car.” That got a little smile out of her.