Joshua

by Beatrice Sand

  It shocks the hell out of her, and her eyes well up with tears. Shit.

  “I’m sorry, Josh. It’s just– You kissed me like that a few months ago.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yeah.” She moves her hands awkwardly. “The way you held her face, it reminded me of our kiss. You and her, are you serious?”

  I look up at the ceiling, not sure how to handle this, but I’ll be damned if I let her walk all over me. “Listen, Donna, I’m not discussing my private life with you. I own this restaurant, and if I kiss someone, I don’t like to be called upon. Understood? What I do or don’t do is no one’s concern, whether you like it or not. Yes, you and I shared a kiss. I don’t regret it, and neither did you, but we both decided to keep things professional.”

  “I wanted more. Things just got crazy when you received that second star. I didn’t want to rush you, but I expected that we eventually would pick up where we left off. And now… now I saw you kissing her. I just wondered where that left me. I’m sorry I brought up that time when you had too much to drink.”

  I inhale a sharp breath through my nose, staring down at Donna, who looks miserable enough. She takes off her cap and rakes a trembling hand through her hair. I never knew she wanted more. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I don’t have ‘more’ to give. Not to any woman.

  “I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression, but I really thought we talked things through at the time. I’m not into relationships, Donna. Don’t take it personal. I just want to be the best cook I can be, that’s all. You’re one hell of a sous, and I can see you running your own place someday. I’d hate to see you go when that day arrives, but only because I’m losing a great employee, not for anything else. I respect you, but there’ll never be more between us. I’m sorry.”

  Sighing, she gets up. “Okay, Josh. I understand. I need to get back.” She puts her cap back on.

  “We’re good?”

  She nods, giving me a small smile. “Yeah.”

  “I promise I won’t get distracted anymore once I step inside the kitchen, okay? That you can call me on.”

  “Okay.”

  I push my hands through my hair as soon as she’s gone, and exhale a harsh breath. Phew... crisis averted. Now I just need to get my act together and deal with my personal emotions getting in the way of my job. I need to stop thinking about Teresa, my mother’s suicide note, and anything else that can cause serious injuries.

  I walk around my desk, open the bottom drawer, and pull out a half-full bottle of scotch. I raise it to my lips and swig three healthy gulps to tackle the rest of the night.

  I step back into the kitchen and check the tickets on the rail, then take over from the caller at the pass as I begin shouting my commands. “Three quail, two scallops, and one wagyu! How long?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  joshua

  I feel like a dick, a dick for going out of my way to avoid Teresa.

  A few days ago we shared an all-consuming kiss, and now I’m trying to get her out of my system, even it’s against my will. I hate to admit it, but Donna was partly right. I’m too preoccupied. Kitchen safety first, and with everything going on with the extortion letter, meeting my mother’s friend, and thinking of raunchy sex with a hot woman, it’s pretty hard to keep my mind on cooking and running the kitchen. I need to deal with that criminal first before I’ll be able to relax my mind. I can’t afford to be absentminded, and that’s exactly what Teresa is doing to me.

  The damn thing is, no matter how much time passes, I just can’t stop thinking about her crazy delicious body.

  I slurp my espresso and glance at Donna, who’s sitting across from me at the table in the back of the restaurant. “I’m taking a day off this Saturday, so I need you to run the kitchen.”

  “Okay. What are you going to do?” she asks as she stacks up her papers. “Or isn’t that any of my business either?”

  I place my cup back on the saucer and shut off my tablet. “Nothing special. Just boring family business,” I say neutrally. “Do you have plans for Christmas?”

  Intrigued, she studies my face. “Not yet, why?”

  “I was thinking of spending Christmas at Stockbridge with my family this year, but only if you don’t mind working.”

  “Can you handle that?”

  “Handle what?”

  “Holidays with your family. You always avoid them.”

  “I know. I just wanted to try something different this year. But hey, if you don’t–”

  She places her hand on my arm. “I don’t mind, Josh. Spend some time with them. I’ll take your shift.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, really. You’ll get next year.”

  “Super-duper. Was there anything else?”

  I shake my head. “We covered everything. I’ll be in my office working out the menu. Thanks for the suggestions.”

  “Oh, did you see the newspaper this morning?” she asks, suddenly perking up.

  “No, why?”

  “Camila’s Kitchen got reviewed.”

  I push out of my chair. “No shit! And?”

  “Let me put it this way, I’d be surprised if she could pay the rent next month.”

  “That bad?”

  “Uh-uh. I think we can rule out Miss Sainz as our competition.”

  “Where’s that paper?” I ask, ignoring her not very sportsmanlike comment.

  “In the canteen.”

  I stride into the empty canteen and spot the newspaper on the table, opened to the page that reads, “Refined decor, unrefined desserts.”

  “Shit,” I mumble as I pick the paper up and take it into my office. I ease my hip onto the corner of the desk and start reading. The critic describes the stylish interior, the clean restroom, and the incompetence of a friendly smiling waitress, who didn’t have the foggiest idea which dessert was the specialty of the house, but recommended the tiramisu, since that was one of her own favorites.

  “It was served in a cute glass preserving-jar, but nothing unique or spectacular since it’s done in numerous restaurants before. The tiramisu itself was a soggy mess, and turned out to be fairly ordinarily as it had no texture and lacked taste. Clearly not done by an Italian. I don’t know what could have saved this one-note tiramisu from becoming too mushy, but it definitely wasn’t the oversoaked homemade ladyfingers resembling wet breadsticks, nor the shot of cheap liquor.”

  I skip the greater part of the no-holds-barred review as I can guess what’s coming next, and go straight to the bottom of the page.

  “Unfortunately, I wasn’t wowed the way I hoped I would be, and I say this in the nicest way possible: it’s edible, but definitely not worth the trip when you need to get your sweet fix. The adorable spot, a craving for something sweet, and reasonable prices may pull you in, but the mediocre desserts, despite its generous sizes, will let you leave quite unsatisfied. Mind me, I don’t need my food to look like a work of art, but a little more creativity and a few unique desserts from the chef wouldn’t hurt either. Camila’s Kitchen clearly missed the mark.”

  “Christ!” I toss away the paper and gaze at my watch. When I see it’s after five, I grab my jacket from the peg on my way to the door and shrug into the leather, then run across the street and push against the door of Camila’s Kitchen.

  I stalk toward the counter where a woman is preparing a pot of tea with fresh leaves. She’s tall with dark tresses of hair piled on top of her head, and I vaguely remember her from the disastrous party. I wonder if she’s the one who recommended the restaurant critic her poor choice of tiramisu.

  “Good afternoon, welcome to Camila’s Kitchen. How can I help you?” she asks in a friendly and welcoming manner.

  “Hi there, I’m Josh, from the restaurant across the street.”

  “Ah, right,” she says, suddenly less friendly, but that could very well be my perception. She dries her hands on her apron and extends her arm. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before. I’m Emma.”

&nbs
p; I take her hand and shake it briefly. “Hi, Emma. Nice to meet you.”

  “What do you want, Josh? Certainly not the menu, I suppose,” she adds sarcastically.

  I nod, smiling at the sardonic joke. “Is Teresa here?”

  “Teresa is having a bit of a rough morning.”

  I cock my head. “Meaning what? I can’t see her?”

  She places a serving tray on the counter and loads it with cups and the pot of tea. “Listen, no disrespect, you’re a two-star chef, but I won’t treat you like a rock star, and I’m not star struck.”

  This conversation is getting quite confusing. “I never claimed I was a rock star or people being star struck. Never heard of it before.”

  “Well, I can’t get Tess to shut up about your food, and since you’re not returning her the favor, I’m not giving you a free pass to see her and upset her more. I think you’ve caused enough damage. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got customers who actually like her food.”

  I gaze over my shoulder and notice only two tables are occupied. Four pathetic customers. It’s a damn shame. I turn back to Emma. There’s a time for friendliness, and there’s a time for getting to the point without wasting more time. “So, how can I get in touch with Tess? Either you tell me, or I’ll find out myself. Either way, I won’t leave without talking to her.”

  “What do you want from her, Josh?”

  Mostly her body, I think. “I’d like to tell her myself if you don’t mind.”

  She narrows her eyes as she picks up the tray and holds it with both hands. I almost roll my eyes as I watch her poor serving skills. Where did Teresa dig up this waitress slash bouncer?

  “Are you here to help her?” she asks.

  “Let’s just say I’m not here to upset her, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?” She gestures with her head. “She’s in the back.”

  I nod, and as I’m about to walk away, she says, “Oh, and Josh? You may be familiar with all these fancy cooking techniques, but I swear if you break her heart, I’ll thread your balls onto a bamboo skewer before deep-frying them in medium-hot oil. Capiche?”

  I cock a brow, taken by surprise Teresa apparently told her waitress about our intimate rendezvous in the stockroom, but even more surprised why this woman is meddling in her boss’s private affairs. “Who are you again?”

  “Emma, the best friend who’s looking out for her.”

  “Ah.” I guess that clears up the whole situation. “You may want to consider soaking your skewers first.”

  “Good to know,” she says, then smiles. “Make her smile. I didn’t succeed.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” I reply as I give her a wink, then push through the swinging doors.

  With rolled up sleeves, deeply focused, and a frown creasing her forehead, Teresa is kneading dough on a flour-dusted marble board.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  Her head comes up, clearly baffled to find me standing in her kitchen. “Josh…”

  I smile when I spot a bit of flour on her cheek. “How are you?”

  “Apart from the fact I have zero talent, lack creativity, and just put all of my savings in opening a restaurant? Fan-fucking-tastic, can’t you tell?”

  “We both know you’re talented, no matter what that knucklehead said about you. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  She stops kneading and wipes her forehead with her arm, smearing more flour over her face. “So you’re here because you read the article about Camila’s Kitchen?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, although it implies I’m not here to see her, which is correct.

  “Are you here to tell me I told you so?”

  That almost pisses me off, but I stay calm, because I understand how she must feel after the scathing review. “Is that what you think?” I ask calmly as I sit down on a nearby chair, gazing up at her.

  “I don’t know what to think of you, Josh.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “First you trash my menu, then you apologize. Then you want me, and then you keep your distance. What’s next? An apology for kissing me?”

  I run my fingers through my hair as I keep my eyes on her, not sure how to answer. “I kept my distance because I have things on my mind, and right now I can’t afford to be distracted, and thinking of you does that. That said, you were there with me. We both know how it felt, and you didn’t exactly come knocking on my door either.”

  She picks up the box of flour and dusts the board again, even though there’s enough lying on top of the board to roll out a crust or three. A rookie mistake.

  “That’s enough. It will only make your dough tough,” I point out.

  She slams the box on the worktop, mumbling something in a language I don’t understand. “Is that true, Mr. I’m-A-Genius-Behind-The-Stove? I bet you get a hard-on every time you correct someone, knowing you’re better than all those untalented cooks out there trying to make an honest living in the restaurant-business,” she bites back, her gaze darkened.

  I answer with a smile, thinking it’s much safer to keep my big mouth shut before she does it for me with a cast-iron skillet.

  “Anyway,” she continues, a little milder now, “you’re not top priority on my endless to-do list either. I guess that kiss wasn’t that big of a deal after all.”

  I nod slowly, not entirely sure why her remark stings. “Now we have that out of the way, I have a proposal for you.”

  Her brow goes up, slightly scornful. “I hope it’s more decent than the last one.”

  “Yeah, and you can take it or leave it. It’s a one-time offer, so think carefully.”

  She stops kneading and gazes at me with a defiant look on her face. “Well, let’s hear it, Josh.”

  “I want you to take three desserts off your menu and come up with three new ones. Three dishes that do justice to the name on the façade outside. We’re going to cook them to perfection, and then pick one as your signature dish.”

  Her eyes flutter. “We are?”

  “Yes. Your friend, Emma, is she the one mentioned in the review?”

  “That wasn’t a review, that was a horror story.”

  “You’ll grow thicker skin. Take it from someone who’s been there.”

  She sighs deeply. “Yes, it was Emma, but the fault lies entirely with me. She’s here only to help me out, and she’s doing a damn fine job for someone who’s never waitressed.”

  I rub my chin as I think about it. “I’ll lend you my restaurant manager for a few hours. Ed can teach your friend and other staff the basics on serving.”

  “I don’t have staff. I have only Emma.”

  “You want it or not?”

  “I want it.”

  I push to my feet as my eyes run over her petite frame. Biker boots, skinny black pants, white plain t-shirt with a dark bra underneath that fits her generous boobs perfectly, white apron, and the added attraction of flour on her face. She’s a treat for sore eyes. I wanted to manhandle her in that red dress and high heels, now I just want to pull her up against my chest and keep her safe in my arms, tell her everything will be all right. And then claim those pouting lips.

  “Good. How about this Sunday.”

  “Your kitchen or mine?”

  “Mine,” I say, smiling.

  “Why are you helping me?” she asks hoarsely.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I might start regretting it when you steal away my patronage,” I say as I cross the floor and stand before her. Her gaze trails up, finding my eyes again as my fingertips stroke her floured cheek, just for the thrill of it. “Flour looks hot on you.” My pulse accelerates upon touching her soft, damp skin. “Why are you kneading dough with your hands anyway? We use mixers now.”

  That prompts a smile from her, and for some reason, I feel as happy as a little kid with a new toy.

  “Mine broke down,” she croaks as my thumb caresses her bottom lip. It looks too good not to, and I’m here anyway, standing be
fore her, craving her touch as well.

  “Guess this isn’t one of your better days then,” I say matter-of-factly as I maneuver her between my body and the workbench. It-wasn’t-a-big-deal my ass. It’s a fucking huge deal. “Have you thought about me, Tess?” I whisper. “Because I sure as hell thought about you.”

  She places her dough-covered hands behind her on the stainless steel bench. “Well,” she says, softy blowing out her bated breath, “mostly about your food, but I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of you touching my private parts.”

  I’m only human, and there’s only so much a man can take. “Then screw your to-do list,” I grunt. Our mouths slam together, and we both groan as we tongue each other into a frenzy, bringing back those fluttering, blissful sensations in my lower abdomen.

  “I wanna touch you, Josh,” she murmurs against my mouth, “but I can’t. My hands…”

  “That sounds pretty erotic to me,” I say, smiling at the thought of her tied up and at my mercy. Then I steal her breath by plunging my tongue back in. We discover each other all over again in a rough and urgent way, but gradually fall into a steady, slower rhythm. My hands travel up and down her body, striking her breasts.

  “Oh God, Josh,” she says with a broken voice. “I want, no, I need to touch you.”

  “You will. Soon,” I promise, barely holding it together as I hear the neediness in her raspy voice. I slowly move down toward the spot between her collarbone at the base of her neck. “What does a man need to do to become a priority on your endless to-do list?” I mumble against her damp flesh, then kiss the warm, smooth hollow notch that smells of expensive soap.

  On a deep low moan, she arches her back. “He, uh, it wouldn’t hurt if he uses his tongue like you do.”

  Smiling, I kiss and lick my way back up to her mouth. “Sunday we’re going to cook, and then I’m going to take you upstairs to my apartment and fuck us both senseless,” I say as I try to temper my passion.

  “Sounds like a clear-cut plan to me,” she answers as she tries to catch her breath.

  “I want your hands on me too, sweetheart. Everywhere.”