by Kim Karr
Created with Vellum
Sexy Jerk
“What makes you different, makes you beautiful.” ~Unknown
Book Credits:
Cover designer: Michele Catalano-Creative
Interior design and formatting: Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Cover model: Andrew Biernat
Photographer: Wander Aguiar Photography
Editing: Insight Editing Services
About The Book:
My best friend is married.
Everyone I know is married. It doesn’t bother me. I like my life the way it is.
Since I’m single though, when my best friend and her husband decide to finally go on their dream honeymoon, she asks me to watch their three-year-old son.
Of course I say yes.
What my best friend neglects to tell me is that I won’t be babysitting alone.
Feeling Max might be too much for me to handle, her husband asks his only single friend to help.
Nick Carrington and I have met a couple of dozen times. I’ve never really given him a second thought—other than to say he’s kind of a jerk. Out loud. So he can hear. Sure, he’s tall, dark, and handsome. And yes, he has the best ass I’ve ever seen, and I mean ever seen quite literally. You see he mooned me at last year’s Fourth of July barbecue because, like I said, he’s a jerk.
He always has to be the life of the party.
He’s also arrogant.
Imposing.
Rich.
And a playboy.
I’d even go as far as to say he’s a manwhore.
Yet somehow before I know it, this manwhore and I are co-parenting. Living under the same roof. Eating meals together and yes, talking.
Don’t look at me like that—it’s not like I had a choice. Even though I knew every minute would be hell, I had to say yes.
But after two weeks what I didn’t expect is that I’d been wrong about him.
That under his smartass exterior, he’s actually quite charming.
That his arrogance is actually confidence.
And that the sight of his naked body would do really bad things to me.
So yes, I’ve misjudged him. And yes, I like him. Really like him. Although there are times I still think he’s a jerk…I now think he’s a sexy jerk.
And I want more of him.
The question is—does he want more of me?
1
Tess Winters
From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. The sign is a bit tarnished. The brick façade is slightly crumbling. And the large picture window is coated in soot.
Still, I am sure beauty is hiding beneath all the dirt and dust.
Opening the old heavy door, I step inside and try to ignore the musty smell. As I glance around, I begin to imagine the possibilities.
Each click of my high heels echoes as I walk. Slowly, I move through the large, open space examining every square inch.
Pristine white walls.
Nice touch.
Old dark wooden floors.
Charming.
Looking up, I flinch at the chaos of the recessed lighting and black painted ceiling. Tapping my chin, I consider my options. Perhaps I will hang a crystal chandelier from one of those wooden beams some day soon, but if I do, it will only be because I want it.
However, there absolutely will never be Chateaubriand or Cognac served here. There will be no JACKETS REQUIRED sign posted on the front door, either. And there absolutely will not be a star chef, whose name appears on the awning, cooking in a gourmet-style kitchen, barking orders and demanding attention.
Even though I’m more than uncertain this is the right place, I know it has to be. It is the one that can work. No, it is the one I have to make work. Truth be told, it is the only one left on the market in this area I can afford.
Armed with this potent knowledge, I glance around once again. This time as my eyes access the imperfect condition of the property with displeasure, I know I have to clear the current state from my mind.
So there are a few cracks in the walls. Uneven floors. And water spots on the ceiling.
Those can all be fixed.
With a little of my own persuasion, I reassure myself it doesn’t matter that this isn’t a posh landmark Park Avenue building in New York City. It doesn’t matter that there will not be valet parking. Or a wait staff. Or reservations. All that matters is that this old accounting office on West Kinzie Street in Chicago will be mine.
And mine alone.
The space isn’t big enough for a state-of-the-art kitchen. However, there is plenty of room for the finest of espresso machines, a stove, an oven, and a glistening pastry case. The case can display chocolate croissants, muffins, miniature pastel meringues, and maybe even madeleines—that is if I can find a baker who knows how to make them.
The café can also serve savory offerings like roasted butternut squash soup and a pork club sandwich with pickled eggs, tomatoes, and spicy mayo on sourdough. Hopefully this will encourage the morning crowd to come back for lunch.
There will be no liquor license granted, that I already know because of the location. Although, the realtor tells me I might be able to swing a wine and beer permit. Selling organic wines and craft beers with large molasses cookies in the evening could be fun.
There will be no fine linens or candlelit dinners, but that doesn’t mean the place isn’t going to be romantic in its own way.
Still, it will never be restaurant royalty.
It will never earn a Michelin star.
It will never be Gaspard—the restaurant I had helped build from the ground up.
And Ansel Gaspard will not be a part of it, nor will he be a part of my life any longer.
And I am okay with that.
One hundred and one days after it all came crashing down, I am finally okay with that.
More than okay with that.
This will be mine.
All mine.
Who knows, maybe someday I’ll even offer live music in the evenings. Kind of a Central Perk-like place from the television show Friends.
The figure moving behind me jolts me out of my daze. My realtor has walked over to where I had stopped to look out the window. “Do you have any questions, Miss Winters?” he asks.
I glance over my shoulder at him and slide my cold hands into my coat pockets. “It’s Tess,” I say with a smile as I turn. “And I have just one.”
Derrick Williams, the realtor, who is a friend of a friend of a friend, beams at me. “What is it?”
“How soon can you write up the paperwork?”
His brows lift in surprise. “Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that. When can I take occupancy?”
Derrick rushes to pull his iPhone from his breast pocket. “Give me just a minute.”
I nod.
After tapping a few buttons, he looks up. “My client can meet you here the day after tomorrow with the lease. I just need to gather some information, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Great,” he says and then exchanges his iPhone for a small notebook. “Will you be using this location as office space or for retail?”
“Neither. I am going to open a gourmet café.”
Derrick puckers his lips as if uncertain of my answer. “When you asked about the wine and beer, I just assumed you were looking to open some sort of food store.”
“Is a café a problem?” I ask.
“No, no, it shouldn’t be.”
I furrow my brows. “Shouldn’t be?”
“I mean no, not that I am aware of,” he responds.
“Okay,” I answer skeptically.
He asks me a few more questions, and then finally puts his notebook away. “I just need your driver’s license number for the background check.”
“Not a problem, but it’s from New York.”
“That’s fine, and if you can provide the first and last months rent at the time of the lease
signing, you can take occupancy as soon as March first,” he adds.
March first?
March first!
That is so much sooner than I had expected.
That is less than three days from now, not the more than three weeks or three months I had anticipated. I have so much to do. Planning. Permits. Equipment. Fixtures. Contractors. Furniture. Suppliers. Vendors. Décor. Staff. Menus. My mind feels like it’s flying.
“Miss Winters? Is everything okay?” Derrick asks.
Taking my hands from my pockets to fish my wallet from my purse, I put a giant smile on my face. “Everything is perfect.”
More than perfect.
2
Tess
As twilight hovers over the Chicago skyline, the color of the sky reminds me of his eyes—stormy gray. My small car can’t accelerate fast enough for me to erase the image from my mind. I concentrate on moving through the traffic on Clark Street, changing lanes when I can, in an effort to think of anything else because he will not capture anymore of my attention.
After all, I have spent the last six years of my life with him, and thought it would be forever. Boy, was I wrong.
As crazy as it sounds, when Ansel Gaspard and I met, I just knew we were going to hit it off.
That day is a day I’ll never forget.
It was my first day at the Culinary Institute in New York City. I had recently transferred from the University of Chicago to complete my final year of studying restaurant management at the elite establishment. It was also Ansel’s first day. He had moved from France to finish his advanced culinary arts training in the city where he had decided he wanted to live.
He was late for class, and the only seat open was the one next to mine. I looked up. He looked down. When our eyes met, we both knew we had to have each other. I always said he charmed me from his very first ‘bonjour’. Not only was he hot, but his French accent left me breathless.
We quickly became an item, and before I even blinked, the year was over. That was when we became business partners. You see, after graduating, Ansel convinced me to stay in the city, and then he convinced me we should open Gaspard together. “With mind and talent, we can’t go wrong,” he’d said.
Unlike most businesses, startup expenses weren’t an obstacle for us because Ansel came from money. Gaining attention, notoriety, establishing ourselves, now those were obstacles. The first two years of Gaspard being in business were tough, both physically and emotionally. Ansel and I worked seven days a week, usually different shifts to keep management coverage. I opened at two and usually left by ten. He came in at four and stayed until closing. Our relationship had always been easy and I didn’t think the lack of quality time we spent together mattered. The fact was, I was independent, and I never relied on anyone.
So, I did my thing. He did his. I thought it worked.
Things started looking up for the restaurant after Ansel earned his Michelin star. So much so that two years later, four years after we opened the doors, we were considered one of the best French restaurants in the city, and we had done it together.
Together.
We were a team. At least I thought we were.
Bastard.
My phone rings and the sound jars me from my hostile thoughts. Reaching across the passenger seat, I slip my hand into the front pouch of my purse. When I check the display, I can’t help but smile. It is my best friend, Fiona Miller.
She’s the girl who moved next door to me in the Chicago suburb of Elmhurst when we were both five. Ever since then we have been stuck together like glue. We’ve seen each other through so much, and I can honestly say I love her like no one else in my life, except maybe for Max, her son.
“Hi, Fiona,” I answer.
“Tessseee,” she greets. “You’re never going to guess what I’m doing right now.”
I glance at the clock on the dash of my new car. Well, new to me. It is only six in the evening. Is she drunk this early? That’s not like her at all. “Making dinner?” I guess to appease her. And drinking too much wine, I want to add but don’t. Not yet anyway. I need to feel the situation out. See what’s up.
“Beeeeeppppp…no. The baby already ate, and there will be no further food preparations in this household for anyone by me tonight. Try again.”
Okay, I think, something happened, and hence the wine. Just then I hear a noise in the background that sounds like splashing. “Giving Max a bath?” I guess again.
She laughs, but it doesn’t sound sincere. “Well, yes, but no. Hell, forget the guessing game, I’ll just tell you. I’m walking around the bathroom in my brand new bikini with a giant glass of wine in my hand trying to keep it together. I’d lock myself in here for the next two weeks if the doorknob wasn’t broken.”
“Fiona, what happened? What’s going on?” I ask with concern.
With a sigh, she whisper yells, “Ethan wants to postpone the trip.”
I stop at a light. “Oh, no, Fi, why? Did he chicken out about spending the money?”
She gives me a slight laugh. “Believe it or not, no.”
“Did something come up at work?”
Ethan has recently become junior partner at his firm and seems to work all the time. “No, believe it or not, it isn’t work either,” she replies with a sniffle this time.
She’s been crying.
“Then why?” I ask. “You’ve been planning this trip to Fiji for months. It’s your dream honeymoon, and Ethan knows it.”
Fiona and Ethan are both attorneys. They met while working on a case, on opposite sides. It was not love at first sight. More like hate at first sight. Fiona was an associate at one law firm and Ethan was an associate at another. They spent a lot of time together over a thirty-day period, and somehow ended up between the sheets. Just once, she insisted. Still that was enough for her to accidently get pregnant. Shortly after the discovery, they married, she took a leave of absence from her job, and now almost four years later, they are finally going on their honeymoon. Fiona has been looking forward to this trip for a quite a while.
“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.” Max is on repeat again and I have to suppress my chuckle. This is a new phase and Fiona goes mad when he does that.
“Max, what does Mommy say about repeating the same word over and over?” Fiona asks him softly.
“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.”
She sighs. “Sorry, Tess. Are you still there?”
The light turns green and I hit the accelerator. “Yes. Now tell me what happened? Why does Ethan want to put the trip off?”
“I don’t think I should tell you,” she hiccups.
“Fi, tell me,” I demand.
Her voice grows low. “Don’t be mad.”
“Okay, I won’t be mad, I promise. Now tell me.”
“He’s worried Max will be too much for you to handle in your state.”
I frown. “In my state?” I say in question.
“You know what I mean.”
“In my state!” I repeat loudly.
“Max has been a lot to handle lately, and Ethan’s not sure you’re up to taking care of Max after everything that happened with Ansel.”
“I was going through a break up, Fi, not a break down.”
Yes, for a small period of time I might have felt like my world ended. And at the time I thought it had. My life was Gaspard—the restaurant—and it was taken from me. Sure, I had suddenly moved back to Chicago three weeks ago and cried on Fiona’s couch for seven days straight. I felt lost. Who wouldn’t? I’d spent years giving everything I had to my job. And yes, I might have even refused to go out of the house. And perhaps I had eaten nothing but ice cream for three of those seven days. But that was weeks ago.
Slowly, I’d slipped out of the haze and realized I could do it again. The restaurant that is, not Ansel. This time it would be my way. Simple. Easy. No show. No glitz. No glam.
And I got my shit together.
I moved into my own place, a very affordable studio just west of
the South Side. I haven’t unpacked, or bought furniture, but those are minor details. I’ve been busy getting started on my new quest.
Fiona thinks I’m crazy to attempt this alone. She says she knows a guy who would be perfect for me. “Why not settle down and buy a house with a white picket fence?” she has said over and over. I put an end to that crazy idea before she could even blurt the guy’s name out.
I’m not cut out for relationships.
I can never be what men want me to be.
I’ve proven that over and over.
Managing the restaurant made me feel like I mattered. Like I was in control. It made me feel like maybe that is who I am.
So, my answer is to be me. Or a version of me that seems closest to who I am, anyway.
That doesn’t make me crazy or unfit.
It just makes me closer to the me I think I could be. It seems I’ve moved away from that person over the years.
Besides, putting all of my woes aside, I had planned to watch Max for the two weeks Fiona and Ethan would be gone way before Ansel and I broke up and I moved back to Chicago. I was flying here to stay at her house. If I could handle it then, I could handle it now.
“His words, not mine,” Fiona states. “And you said you wouldn’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad, Fi, but you don’t think it’s a little late to start second guessing the person you both entrusted to take care of your son in the event of your death? His Godmother. His guardian,” I remind her.
“That’s what I told him,” she whisper yells.
“And?”
“He said he’s having cold feet.”
I slam the steering wheel. “That’s bullshit. He’s going on a vacation, not getting married again. He’s just using me as an excuse to get out of it for his own reasons, and that is completely unacceptable. Now how about you get Max out of the tub, dry that hot little bikini of yours, and get packed. You are going on your honeymoon tomorrow as planned.”