by Hayes, Lane
“They weren’t designed for comfort.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Fashion. I call them luxe leisurewear. They’re pretty and I like them. Even though they hurt,” I admitted.
“Hmm. What would you call mine?” he asked, gesturing to the black-and-white checkered slip-on sneakers.
“Skater-boy chic.”
Levi snorted. “Sounds about right.”
“Why aren’t you giving me my shoe?”
Levi’s innocent expression was almost funny. Almost. “Relax. I’m just checking out your luxe leisurewear and yeah…I may be a little curious about your size-thirteen brag.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Are you flirting with me? You might want to hold up. I’m one of those clingy types. AKA, a straight, confused, or closeted bi man’s nightmare.”
He widened his eyes theatrically. “Why do I think you’re flirting with me now?”
“I’m not,” I deadpanned. “But since you seem so interested in how evenly the inches are distributed on my person, I assure you, I’m very well-proportioned.”
Levi scratched his stubbled chin and cracked a smile. It started out as a lopsided, lazy gesture but it quickly morphed into a full-fledged, roguish grin. And dammit, that dimple was sexy.
“I’m going to file all that information under ‘good to know.’ Here you go, Cinderfella,” he snarked, setting my shoe on the bench between us.
I felt his gaze like a physical thing as I crossed my leg over my knee and slipped my shoe on. I wanted to crack a joke about foot fetishes, but I wasn’t sure I could deliver the punch line without getting flustered. His nearness unnerved me. And I didn’t get it.
I cleared my throat and fussed with the cuffs of my black silk shirt before standing. “We should get to work.”
“Yep. Let’s get cookin’.” Levi clapped enthusiastically then jumped to his feet and moved ahead of me.
I chuckled at his burst of excitement as I followed him to the front door. I found myself fixating on the way his shirt hugged his broad shoulders and upper back before tapering to his slim waist. He wasn’t too thin, though. He had bulk to him. Maybe that was his baseball training. Snoozeville. Sports were the anti-conversation starter for me. That was Mike’s forte and—I stopped in my tracks and frowned before turning to glance behind me at the vacant bench.
“Wish me luck, Mikey,” I whispered.
Before my emotions had the chance to get the better of me, Levi called my name.
“Hey, what are you waiting for? Did you want a piggyback ride across the gravel?”
I huffed then swept ahead of him with my head held high and led the way through my friends’ spacious contemporary ranch-style home. French doors and wide windows looked out onto the vineyards. The setting was picturesque. Perhaps it was a whimsical sentiment, but a person could feel as though they were part of a landscape painting when gazing out at the vines in the distance.
The interior had been designed to accentuate the incredible panorama. Muted furnishings were offset by bright pillows and Persian rugs. A great deal of attention had gone into carrying the same modern-meets-old-world vibe throughout the winery. Stone, rough-hewn wood and traditional light fixtures juxtaposed with glass and steel. Wes and Nick’s home was worthy of an Architectural Digest spread, I mused as we moved through the formal living area and into the adjoining great room.
The first thing I noticed was the two battered cookbooks next to a few grocery bags on the enormous island in the otherwise pristine kitchen. As much as I loved to cook, I couldn’t help thinking this experiment suddenly had the earmark of being a troublesome waste of time on a busy day.
“What am I making?” I asked, heading to the sink to wash my hands.
“I’m not leaving you to do all this alone. I’m here to help,” he insisted. “We’re making Mexican-inspired stuffed peppers and mini-tacos.”
It was almost a shame that he’d never know how hard I worked to hold back my eye roll just then. Someone should have been there to give me a high five or at least a pat on the back. Anyone who uttered the phrase “Mexican-inspired” to a man from East LA had better come armed with something heavier than an old cookbook.
“Show me your recipe.” I dried my hands on a dishcloth then pulled two aprons from a drawer in the island and tossed one at Levi.
He caught it easily and narrowed his eyes. “Do I really need this?”
“If you’re cooking in my kitchen, you do. And don’t forget to wash your hands. Did you mark the page?”
“Your kitchen? I thought Wes and Nick lived here. Do you live with them?”
“No. It’s their house, but this is my kitchen,” I replied.
Levi set the apron on the quartz counter and moved to the sink. He turned on the faucet and gave me a sideways look I couldn’t quite read. “Where do you live?”
“I have a charming little cottage just down the hill. Close enough yet far enough away. Truthfully, I spend quite a bit of time here, though.”
“Why?”
“My kitchen is lovely, but this one is bigger. It’s easier to just cook for Wes and Nick here than cart meals around. And Lord knows, they wouldn’t bother with a decent meal if they were left to their own devices,” I said with a laugh.
“Do you cook for them often?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.
I shrugged. “A few days a week.”
“Why? I mean, are you guys…”
When he didn’t finish, I cocked my head curiously. “Are we what?”
He looked vaguely uncomfortable when he replied. “In a relationship?”
“Are you high?” I countered with a comical face that universally translated to “Yuck.”
“Hey, some people are into threesomes. I’m not judging.”
I stepped backward to give him room then handed over the dishcloth when he turned the water off. Then I gestured to the apron, but instead of telling him to speed things up a notch, I heard myself ask, “Are you?”
Levi’s slow-moving Cheshire cat grin could have meant absolutely anything. But when his eyes twinkled and his smile widened mischievously, I knew he was playing with me. He nodded profusely and then immediately shook his head.
“Hell, no. I can’t even handle one partner. Two at the same time would push me over the edge.” He chuckled as he tied the apron around his trim waist.
“Does that mean you’re single?”
I quickly turned to the cookbooks on the island and flipped open the first one, hoping my fluid motion and lack of eye contact lent a disinterested quality to my query. Why the fuck did I ask that? I didn’t care if he was married with ten kids. He wasn’t my business. I only cared about how well he knew how to stuff a chili—no! I didn’t mean that either.
“Yeah, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Single?”
“I guess I am. But don’t ask me out,” I quipped. “You’ll want to after I fix your canapé issue but please refrain. Now, which recipe is it?”
I thumbed through the cookbook and tried to get my erratic heartbeat under control. I was an expert flirt. My considerable skills had been honed over a few decades. Sex and age were nonfactors. I could find common ground with almost anyone for a short duration. And if I stroked an ego or two along the way, that wasn’t such a bad thing. Harmless repartee could be good for the soul. Unless your delivery fell short of the mark.
Levi set his hand on one of the pages I’d flipped open and slid the book away from me.
“Slow down. I’ll show you.” He closed the cookbook and examined the exterior before popping it open to a dog-eared page. “This one.”
“Fabulous. You can empty those grocery bags while I look this over.”
“You’re a little bossy, you know.”
“So they say,” I retorted, fishing my reading glasses from my shirt pocket and perching them on the end of my nose. “And in this case, I have every right to be.”
“Because it’s your kitchen. W
hich brings us back to where we started.” Levi set the contents of the first bag on the island: jalapeños, cheese, bacon.
“Threesomes?”
He burst into laughter and held his fist toward me. I stared at it for a moment over the rim of my glasses before cautiously laying my hand over his. Thankfully, there was no sizzle and crackle between us like there had been a few days ago at the winery. No doubt it had been static from that damn rug.
Levi flashed a winning smile that made his dimple stand out. “Try that again. I’m gonna have to take away your dude card if you don’t give me a real fist bump, Geordie,” he teased.
“I assure you, I have never had a dude card.” I swatted his hand and pointed at the jalapeños. “And those aren’t going to wash themselves.”
“True, but you can’t leave me hanging here. We’ve got to get our working mojo in sync first. Make a fist, touch mine, and pow…magic is gonna happen.”
“I told you I—”
“Have a thirteen-inch dick,” he supplied quickly. “I know. I heard you and yeah, I’m jealous. But this isn’t about what you’ve got between your legs—it’s a teamwork thing.”
I held his gaze for a long moment. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t do team sports of any kind and—”
“And you don’t have a thirteen-inch dick?” Levi intercepted.
His wrinkled brow and faux-confused expression cracked me up. I chuckled in spite of myself.
“I will neither confirm or deny. A girl needs to keep a few secrets, honey,” I said, shooing him away playfully.
“High five then.”
I rolled my eyes but held my hand up and carefully tapped it against his. “There. Are you ready to get to work now?”
“That was weak sauce, dude. What do you want me to do first?”
“Wash the vegetables…dude.”
Levi nodded then moved to the sink with the bag of peppers. I examined the ingredients he’d left on the island, noting the freshness and quality with approval. The appetizers he’d chosen were fairly simple. The “wow” factor would come from a unique blend of spices, artisanal cheeses and of course, bacon. Or maybe the bacon was too obvious. I headed to the fridge to investigate other options.
“Did I forget something?” Levi asked when he returned to the island with the rinsed peppers.
“No, but I was thinking we could do a little experiment,” I announced, holding a deli package like a newfound prize.
Levi frowned. “What is that?”
“Prosciutto. We can wrap a few peppers in—”
“Oh, no. No, we have to stick to the recipe,” he said firmly. “It’s very precise. I admit, I can’t read half of the cookbook, but I know the ingredients, and prosciutto isn’t one of them.”
“Why not try something new?”
Levi scowled. “Because…no! Hey, I’m usually the first to toss out a rule book, but you can’t do that when you’re cooking.”
“Says who?” I challenged.
“Cooking people.”
“Cooking people,” I repeated.
“You know what I mean. Chefs.” He furrowed his brow and looked away with a sigh. “I only knew one real chef, and he was adamant about rules.”
“I don’t like rules. Any rules.” I pulled off my bangles and set them by the sink then picked up a clean dishtowel. “And I strongly believe that all the rules can be broken in the kitchen, Mr. 501.”
“Mr. 501?”
“I’ll give you a minute to think about it,” I snarked before continuing. “Aren’t you the one seeking assistance? I’m the expert here, not you.”
“Not when it comes to this recipe,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
I turned around to blast him, but the ready humor in his gaze and the hint of a smile on his handsome face stopped me. I frowned and did my best to refocus, but it wasn’t easy. Levi had an imposing air underneath his easygoing façade. I might have been taller than him, but he was broader and more muscular. He squared his shoulders, furrowed his brows, and seemed to effortlessly take over the room, impeding my flow of oxygen. And when he stepped close enough that I could smell his aftershave, my thoughts ricocheted like crazy.
I wondered if he’d just taken shower and what kind of soap he used. He smelled amazing. Woodsy, fresh, and masculine. I could imagine him in the woods in a lumberjack fantasy wearing ripped jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt, exposing his washboard abs and hairy chest and—Oh boy.
“Are you okay? You’re looking at me funny.”
I shook my head and coughed to hide my embarrassment before turning back to study the open cookbook. What the hell were we talking about? Bacon. Right.
“Does this specify which type of—?” I adjusted my reading glasses then cast a suspicious sideways look at Levi before setting the knife on the cutting board. “This is written entirely in Spanish.”
“Yeah, I was telling you about this on the phone.” He grinned as he glanced down at the cookbook. “It’s my great-grandmother’s stuffed chili recipe. I can translate the notes in the corner but the rest…not so much. My Spanish sucks. I was hoping yours would be better.”
I folded my arms across my chest and cocked my head. “El mío es excelente. Spanish is my first language. But you knew that, didn’t you? Something tells me I’m here right now because you did your homework, Mr. Yeager.”
“Well, of course,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Of course?” I waved my finger in front of his face and then flung my arms wide and gestured wildly around the kitchen…at the cookbook, the ingredients, and finally at the knife on the cutting board. I picked up a jalapeño and pointed it at him like a weapon. “I want the whole story from the beginning.”
Levi held his hands up in surrender. “Put the jalapeño down and I’ll talk.”
I almost laughed. But I didn’t. Thank God. I paced to the far end of the island and chucked it at him instead. Levi widened his eyes then clutched his chest and let out a low, keening groan before falling to his knees.
I couldn’t help myself. I broke down and snickered appreciatively. I had a soft spot for all things silly. Especially slapstick humor. And there was something undeniably appealing about a hunky man who was willing to sacrifice a smidge of dignity for a laugh.
“You’re officially on my nerves,” I said in a haughty tone that didn’t mesh with my lopsided smile. “Proceed with caution. We have an hour and a half left to make this appetizer. I’ll chop the peppers. You finish up the onions and fill in the missing pieces while we work.”
“I might cry,” he deadpanned.
“It’s a chance you’ll have to take.” I handed him a knife and gestured for him to use the cutting board next to mine.
Levi sighed theatrically but immediately got to work. And he seemed to know what he was doing. He peeled, sliced, and diced with swift and deliberate strokes. I couldn’t help admiring his dexterity and his deft grip. If I knew him better, I’d make a joke about sexy men who knew how to use their hands. Vaguely inappropriate humor was a great icebreaker. But I refrained. It seemed like a bit much after our earlier foot-size banter. I didn’t want to give either of us the wrong idea.
And the fact that I had even a passing interest in my new neighbor’s dick size was…alarming. I hadn’t been this aware of another man in four years.
“Am I doing all right?” he asked with a side-eye smirk.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Very well. You’re shockingly talented with a knife.”
“I should be. Chopping veggies was my job at the restaurant when I was a kid, until baseball came along. Not my favorite thing but I was damn good at it, if I do say so myself.”
“So you have previous restaurant experience and baseball in your past.”
“I do. Sounds like you’ve been doing some research too,” he quipped.
“Wes told me you played ball, but I don’t know much else. Quit dropping hints and talk,” I demanded.
; Levi chuckled. “Fine, but there isn’t much to tell. The long story short is, I inherited a property that—”
“Inherited? I thought the diner was purchased out of probate.”
“Yeah, by me. After lawyer fees, taxes, licensing, and the considerable amount of money I’m pouring into that place to make it a viable venture, it’s beginning to feel like a mistake. It might not be one of my brighter decisions, but I figured I had to at least try.”
“Why? Other than mad slicing and dicing skills, I was under the impression you don’t know much about the restaurant business.”
Levi looked like he was going to argue, but he shrugged instead and picked up another onion. “True. But I’m a quick learner. I’ve got a business degree, some money in the bank, and nothing to lose.”
“You already lost a chef,” I commented sarcastically.
“I did,” he replied in a flat tone. “But I’ll find another one who hopefully can read these cookbooks.”
I set the pepper I was about to cut in half aside and thumbed through the pages of the first book. “What makes these books so special?”
“They’re part of my heritage. Some of these recipes date back a few generations, and these two cookbooks are just the tip of the iceberg. I have dozens of recipes, most of them handwritten and damn it…they’re un-fucking-believable. I’m sitting on a treasure chest of old-world cuisine.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. Wait until you taste this. You’ll see what I mean. Foodies go on and on about using cultural influences to create new dishes. It’s a great concept. But I’ll go one step further and say the best results come from authenticity. You can’t get more authentic than this.”
Levi thumped his fist on the cover for emphasis then picked up a jalapeño pepper and bit into it like an apple. I almost asked if he knew what he was doing, but the answer was painfully obvious. I bit back a smile when he made an immediate detour to the sink.
“Are you all right?”
“Fuck, those things are hot.” Levi cupped water into his hands and slurped it greedily before turning back to me with a dazed look. “We can’t serve those. The guests are going to have to chug their wine to cool down. Fuck. Let’s just do the mini-tacos instead and leave out the hot stuff.”