by Amanda Usen
Max leaned over his shoulder, dropping crumbs. “I saved you a hundred bucks on that order this morning. Plus, I never gain weight. I work it off the same way you do.” He held his fist out for a bump.
Roman ignored it. “I’m not working anything off right now.”
Max burst out laughing, showering Roman with wet crumbs. When Max could talk he said, “Good one. You don’t actually expect me to believe that, do you? Give me a break. I haven’t seen you on the beach or in the clubs. You’re banging her.”
Roman kept his voice casual as he brushed crumbs off his jacket, even though he wanted to snarl. “Nope. Not banging her. She’s…um…I don’t know. Shit. She’s different.” The fact that he couldn’t explain this to Max, the closest thing he had to a partner in crime, was worrisome. “She had a crush on me when she was a kid. I was stalling because I thought she might change her mind. Jesus, I can’t just bang her, as you so elegantly put it. I want to stay friends when it’s over.”
Max frowned. “What do you mean when it’s over? Already planning the breakup? I thought you guys were dating, like, for real.”
Roman shook his head. “You heard her, she’s leaving after Vegas. And getting involved isn’t my style, you know that.”
“All the more reason to bang her while you can. She’s dying for it.”
Roman glared at him. “I’m trying to be the good guy for once, is that so hard to understand?”
Max dropped the cookie he was munching onto the desk and stared at Roman as if he were the stupidest man on the planet. “Are you nuts? You just said she has a crush on you. If you give her the hearts-and-flowers routine, she’s going to fall in love with you.” He shook his head in disgust. “Nail her to the wall. Shag her rotten. But don’t you dare make that nice girl fall in love with you then send her home to Mommy and Daddy with her heart broken into a million pieces.”
Roman stared at him, appalled. “Oh fuck.”
“Yeah, duh. It’s a dick move, man. Now I’m sorry I encouraged her.”
“Why do you care so much?” he shot back. “She’s nothing to you.”
Anger distorted his usually easygoing friend’s features, and for a split second Roman braced for impact. Then Max shook his head and sighed. “Because she’s gorgeous, talented, sexy, smart…should I go on?”
Roman shook his head. Jenna was all of those things, but hearing it from Max was disturbing. “You don’t…you aren’t attracted to her, are you?”
Max gave him a look. “Hell no. You kidding me? She’s fucking hot, but she deserves better than either of us. You’re screwing with her head by pretending to be something you’re not. You and Prince Charming apparently ride on opposite ends of the kingdom, so don’t encourage her fantasies of white horses and happily ever after if you don’t intend to follow through.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do now? I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Max picked up his cookie and shot him another impatient look. “Just be yourself, I guess. Take her to bed and kick her out in the morning. No harm, no foul, no false expectations. Keep it simple. But someday I hope you realize the universe put a perfect plate in front of you, and you sent it back to the goddamn kitchen.” There was pity in his gaze, and it stung. “The line is all set for the night. I’m out of here.”
Max shut the door behind him, leaving Roman in a cold sweat. His stomach twisted, and the sinking feeling he’d had on the way home last night returned. Was he leading Jenna on? There hadn’t been any other way to play it. Jumping into bed with her had felt wrong, but what if she fell in love with him?
Short-term only…quick and dirty. Her words rushed back to him, and he felt foolish. She had clearly defined their relationship, casting him in the role of playmate. Just because he’d dragged it out didn’t mean she wanted anything more from him. She was going back to Lambertville soon. And that was a good thing, right? Exactly what he wanted.
Max was wrong. He didn’t have anything to worry about except the beach party this weekend, Vegas, and convincing his mother to retire.
He glanced at the clock and stood. Jenna would arrive soon, and he wanted to be waiting for her. His cell phone rang as he walked out the front door. The new menu had gone live on the website this morning, and his mom had texted immediately. Burgers and beer? That’s what you call an improvement? He had ignored her texts and calls for the rest of the day, but sooner or later, he was going to have to hear her out. It might as well be now. “Hey, Ma.”
“About time. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You’re just going to have to trust me.” There was every possibility he would fail, but he was committed.
“How can I trust you? Every time I turn around you’re doing something crazy.” Her voice was incredulous.
“Have I ever let you down before?” He kept his tone even. The answer was no, and they both knew it. “A dozen restaurants in half that many years. I know what I’m doing. It’s not a fine dining crowd, Mom. Chill out. I’ve got it under control.”
“Chill out? Did you just tell me to chill out?” Her voice rose. “I’ve got a multimillion dollar deal on the table, and our latest project is a beach-side burger joint. I look like an idiot.”
He couldn’t imagine his smart-as-hell mother ever looking like an idiot. A bitch, maybe, but not an idiot. Probably shouldn’t tell her that, though. He counted to ten until the urge to end the call dissipated. “We’d look dumber if we continued to push fine-dining in a flip-flops location. How did it go at dinner the other night? Did he try to put the moves on you?” Shame burned in his gut. It was his fault she’d been put in that position.
She sighed. “No, not at all. He was lovely. We didn’t talk business, though. I can’t figure out how to get him on board.”
The uncertainty in her voice surprised him. The formidable Stella Gallagher always had a plan. “We’ll get him in Vegas.”
“Speaking of Vegas, what’s for dessert?”
A taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant and Jenna got out. “Individual croquembouches,” he said firmly. “And I have to go. It’s time to start baking.”
“Croquembouches? Are you kidding me? Wait—you’re baking? I assumed you’d get help.” She sounded shocked and more than a little doubtful. He couldn’t blame her.
“I did, and like I said, it’s all under control. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
He hung up as Jenna stopped in front of him.
“You didn’t have to wait out front for me,” she said, instead of hello.
“It’s late, and you’re a girl.” His teasing didn’t even garner a smile.
“Sexist.”
“Yup.”
She shrugged. “Thanks, I guess.”
He followed her into the restaurant, hating the distance that had grown between them since his stupidity this afternoon. When they reached the line, she pulled a sheaf of papers out of her purse. “These are the recipes for the Beach House desserts. I’m running out of time to train whomever you hire, and I wanted you to have hard copies, just in case.”
“I thought you were going home to nap.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Her gaze was shuttered, with none of the warmth he had come to expect from her.
The words broke free with a sigh. “Sometimes I’m an asshole.”
He took the papers out of her hand, noticing they even had the Beach House logo printed on them. Yup, he was an asshole. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I used to date Alex, and I didn’t mean to imply your dessert wouldn’t be good. It isn’t about you. It’s about me…and the fact nothing I do is right these days. I just got off the phone, and my mother’s pissed about the changes I made to the menu. I can’t win with her. I’m not sure why I keep trying, but I can’t stop now. Eventually, she has to retire, right?”
She stood, staring at him, head cocked to the side. “The woman is starting another business. It doesn’t sound like she’s planning to retire to me.”
“She swears
it’s her last project.”
“I don’t care what she says. Actions speak louder than words. People who want to retire finish projects, they don’t start them.”
Insistent throbbing erupted between his eyes. He’d never be able to stop working so hard, never please his mother enough so she turned over the reins to him. He rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Could we focus on making a kick-ass Vegas dessert, so I can get her off my back?”
“It’s so weird to discover you’re a momma’s boy. Big, bad, Roman Gallagher, playboy of the West Coast is a momma’s boy.” She shook her head. “Weird.”
His mouth fell open, and his teeth knocked together when he shut it. “Shut up. That’s not cool.”
“Just calling it like I see it. She should be proud of you. This place is going to take off, Ro. I know it. You are going to be up to your ears in happy customers before you know it.”
Her faith humbled him again. He’d acted like an ass, and she was still cheering him on. Not only that, she’d spent her afternoon and evening working on recipes for the Beach House, another gesture of goodwill—and a reminder that they had limited time to spend together.
He tucked the recipes into a safe spot on the shelf and resolved to return the favor as soon as possible. He would write down every step he had taken this week, catalog every change he had made to the Beach House menu, dining room, and exterior, and why he had made it. He had enough experience flipping restaurants to write a damn manual. After everything she was doing for him, she should have more than some hastily scrawled notes when she went back to New Jersey.
“Have you figured out your niche yet?” he asked, feeling guilty when she shook her head. She’d probably been too busy working for him to think about Cooper’s.
She frowned. “It’s harder when you’re close to the project. It was easy to walk in the Beach House and see the flaws, but I grew up at Cooper’s. It’s like home to me. As much as I want to keep it going, I don’t want to change a thing.”
He put his arm around her. “You’ll figure it out. I believe in you.”
“Do you?” She lifted an eyebrow. “It didn’t feel that way this afternoon.”
His heart squeezed. “That’s because I’m a selfish jerk. Can we start over? Please? I am fully on board with the croquembouche plan, and I’ll do anything I can to help, even learn how to bake.”
Slowly she nodded. A smile tilted the corners of her mouth, and relief swept through him. He held out his arms. “Friends?”
As she stepped into his embrace, his body’s response was immediate and predictable.
She met his heated gaze, and the wicked gleam in her eyes dared him to do something about it. He couldn’t resist. He bent his head and fell into her comforting heat. The distance between them was gone, and he found himself right back on the edge again, as wild for her now as he had been last night. He guessed from the way she was riding his thigh she felt the same way.
“Fuck,” he breathed into her mouth. “This is nuts.” His conscience was barely protesting, and after what had happened in the hot tub last night, he knew she wasn’t going to change her mind. That was fine with him. He wanted to taste her, to dip his tongue into the hollow of her throat then work his way down, savoring every inch of her body, the pink tips of her breasts, the valley between them, the swell of her belly, and the folds of her sex.
He wanted to put her on the counter and devour her…but he’d never be able to look a health inspector in the eye again. Dining room? Ditto. It would have to be the office. Max was absolutely right. It was time to finish this. He grabbed her hand and tugged, only to find she wouldn’t budge.
“Work before play.” Her smile was innocent as she echoed his words from last night. She handed him a list. “One thousand perfect cream puffs aren’t going to make themselves.”
Chapter Eight
By Saturday, Jenna was losing her ever-lovin’ mind. Roman met her in the kitchen every night after service, and they baked until morning. Being near him was agony—and ecstasy. Every time she caught a whiff of heat rising from his skin, she wanted to tackle him to the kitchen floor, but she refused to give him any reason to think they couldn’t pull this off when he already had so many doubts. There was too much at stake, and they had too much work to do. So much work she’d made a list and broken it down into days just to have a prayer of getting it all done. When the cream puffs hit the plates in Vegas, it was go time. Until then, Roman was right. They needed to haul ass in the kitchen and keep their minds on the job.
She pored over her lists, ignoring the scent of sugar on his skin, the most potent aphrodisiac she had ever encountered. She made more lists, making sure they had every ingredient they would need to create the desserts, coolers and icepacks to transport them, and tools to serve them. She’d gotten over her jealousy of Alex, but she’d be damned if she’d ask the other woman for equipment or ingredients.
Each time she crossed an item off that night’s list, her anticipation grew, knowing Roman would drive her home and kiss her on the front porch: deep, soft kisses that began slow, blasted her to the stars, then brought her back down to earth in time to stagger into the house before Barb and Devon got up.
It was her favorite part of each day.
Neither one of them tried to take it any further. An accord had grown between them. They were working toward the same goals—great food at the Beach House, a seamless dessert for Vegas, and an ending to their standoff. But she was still going bonkers.
As she sat on the bus on the way to the Beach House, she relived how his hands had felt in her hair last night, the way he had cupped her cheek, caressed her lip with his thumb, and then followed the motion with his tongue. A warm wave of desire weakened her muscles, and she sagged in her seat, staring out the window at familiar scenery. Shit. She jumped to her feet and careened down the aisle, barely making it off the bus before the doors closed. Her body throbbed with every step, a constant pulse of arousal at the thought of seeing him again.
She went in the side door.
Roman had hired two lunch cooks. Max and T-Bird had worked doubles to train them, and all hands were on deck for the beach party tonight. The four of them worked side by side on the line, and it took her a second to figure out what was wrong with the scene. Everyone was silent.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Max looked up. “Have you seen the paper?”
“I haven’t done anything but crawl out of bed and shower today. Haven’t even had any coffee.”
“You’re going to want some before you read this.” He handed her a folded newspaper. “We got reviewed. Roman is ballistic. You may want to disappear until he cools down.”
“Oh shit. What does it say?” She opened the paper, searching for the food section. How bad could it be? The food was awesome, not fancy but perfect in its own way. She’d stand behind her desserts, and Roman’s menu was inspired—comfort food with California flair.
Playboy Restaurateur and Pastry Chef Make Love on the Beach.
The headline was bad, but the pictures were worse. How on earth had someone snapped a shot of their beach picnic? And a picture of her getting into his car? And holding hands as they entered the Beach House at night? Roman must be furious. The pictures of the food couldn’t compete with the beach make-out shot. If the LA Times was running this, she could only imagine what was on the Internet. No doubt someone would connect the dots and figure out it was her in the other picture, mostly naked in Roman’s arms that first night on the beach.
She read the article, hoping to find something to quell her horror.
Drinks as refreshing as the beach breeze…soul-satisfying burgers…homey sweets that hit the spot. She took her first full breath since opening the newspaper. She combed the words for criticism but found none. Was it possible this was a good thing? The timing was perfect. With the beach party tonight, a great review might bring people in droves.
“And here I thought you two had been baking all night.” M
ax smirked as he took the paper out of her hand. “I should have known better.”
“We’ve been baking our asses off. Check the freezer,” she shot back. “We’re in great shape for Vegas.”
Max chuckled. “I know, kiddo. Seriously, don’t worry about it. Roman’s pissed, but he’ll get over it. He likes anything that increases the bottom line, and he’s dying to get out of Venice Beach and back to Hollywood. Just ignore it. No one is going to believe he’s a one-man woman anyway.” He smiled when he spoke, but his eyes were dark and watchful.
She bristled at the subtle warning. Did he think she didn’t know the score? “Work hard, play harder, right?”
Max nodded slowly.
Roman’s voice echoed down the hall. Then a door slammed. His voice continued, softer now, but still irate. She assumed he was talking to his mother, who was no doubt furious, too.
“Let me know when I can get some oven space,” she said, heading for the office.
Before she reached the hall, her phone rang, and she dug it out of the deep pocket of her chef pants. She blanched when she saw Cole’s name on the display, tempted to let it go to voice mail, but he never called unless it was important. She veered out the side door and headed for the beach. “Hey, Cole.”
“What the fuck are you doing making out on the beach with Roman Gallagher?”
Oh shit. “Fine, thanks, how are you?” She pumped sarcasm into her tone. “Everything okay with Angela and the baby? Mom and Dad okay? Have you talked to them lately?”
“You bet I have. They got an offer for Cooper’s, and they are planning to sell. Please tell me you didn’t know the family business was about to go belly up when you took off for California to screw my best friend.”
“Cole, it isn’t like that. I have a plan.”
“Of course, you always do.” His voice was cold and frightening. When Cole got mad, he yelled. His calm fury terrified her. “You better start talking, sis.”
“I came out here to pick Roman’s brain—”
“Using your tongue?”
She ignored the gibe. “I wanted to learn how he turns failing restaurants into overnight successes, so I could do it with Cooper’s.”