Poker Face: A Small Town Romance (The Beaufort Poker Club Book 1)

by Maggie Gates

  “Vanilla sponge, a champagne reduction, and some macerated strawberries I get from a local grower. It’s one of our more popular flavors for weddings, and it’s what we keep on hand for when guests have birthdays here. You know—the free little cake we do.”

  Luca set the tub of buttercream on my table. He reached into the bin where we kept the extra tasting spoons and took a small bite. “Italian buttercream?”

  “Yep.”

  “I like it.”

  I swatted his hand away before he double dipped. “So do our guests, so leave some for them, will ya?”

  Luca chuckled and tossed the plastic spoon in the trash. For the next two hours, he took direction remarkably well. He got whatever I needed out of the walk-ins, damming and filling cake layers, even crumb coating a few cakes. “What else, boss?” He asked when I rolled the five-tiered giant into the walk-in refrigerator on a cart.

  I followed him out of the fridge, wiping my hands on my apron before handing him a rag and a spray bottle of sanitizer. “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,” I quipped as I grabbed my clipboard off my work station. “I’m just gonna double-check my production list for tomorrow and then I’ll be outta here.”

  His chest pressed against my back as he pinned me between his body and the table. His voice dropped to a husky whisper that had flashes of lightning zipping down my spine. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” He murmured in a tone that was filled with gravel and sex. “Being in control?”

  My lips parted, and I let out a little sigh as I felt his twelve-hour beard scrape against the nape of my neck. “Something like that.”

  Luca leaned down and let his lips graze against the soft skin behind my ear. “Don’t get used to it,” he warned.

  I closed my eyes as a shiver worked its way down into my toes. “What do you mean,” I whispered.

  His hands grabbed the edge of the table, his arms closing in around me, caging me in. “This is your turf and I respect that. But when you’re on my turf, I’m in charge.”

  My grip on the clipboard that carried my to-do list neared deadly. “Where’s your turf?”

  I couldn’t see it, but I knew he was smiling when he said, “My bed.”

  ✽✽✽

  Luca disappeared up the stairs while I did my walkthrough of the pastry kitchen, making sure that everything was in its place for my morning bakers, who would show up in just a couple of hours. Finally, I trudged up the stairs, my knees throbbing in protest, back aching, and my hands sore after the long day. I kicked off my clogs and shoved them in my locker outside the main kitchen, trading them for my sandals. I hung up my chef’s coat, slammed the locker shut, and grabbed my bag.

  I had just put my hand on the doorknob when I heard, “Hold up.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Luca with his suit jacket slung over his arm, locking up his office. “Something else you need, Chef DeRossi?”

  He chuckled, “Nah, I just didn’t want you walking out to your car by yourself.”

  “That’s… Oddly nice,” I admitted. “Thank you.”

  “Come on,” he urged. We walked out into the warm night—morning—air, and I waited under the dim exterior light for him to lock the door. Luca put his hand on my back and walked me to my Jeep.

  I tossed my things in and lingered before getting in. “Thanks for giving me a hand.”

  “Anytime. It’s what I’m here for.”

  I cocked my head. “The owner doesn’t usually double as my gopher when my sous chef calls out. Especially when that owner is also the head of our new umbrella hospitality group and a hotshot celebrity chef.”

  Luca chuckled and shifted between his feet. “I should’ve said that I did it because I’m here for you.”

  A faint blush crept up my cheeks and I chewed on my lip, fighting off a smile. “I still don’t like you.”

  His smirk curved up into a half-baked grin. “I know.”

  I slid into the driver’s seat and cranked up my Jeep. Luca shut the door behind me and I rolled down the window. “Goodnight, Luca DeRossi.”

  He rested his muscled, tattooed forearms on the lowered window and leaned in. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Goodnight, Madeline Dorsey.”

  14

  ———

  LUCA

  “I have you scheduled for a club opening next Friday in Vegas. You’ll be staying in a suite at the Venetian that night, with a flight to New York the next morning. A few A-listers that have reservations at your restaurants over the weekend. It would be good P.R. for you to be there—schmooze them during their meals—you know, the works.” Astrid rattled off the schedule she had created for me. She kept going but her words blurred together as I stared blankly at the itinerary in front of me.

  I don’t want to do any of that.

  The club opening was a quid pro quo thing, so that I’d have a favor to cash in for the future if I needed to. As for New York, I really hated kissing ass when famous guests dined at my restaurants, but it was always something Astrid insisted on. It worked well for the last ten years, so I had never argued before.

  “You know, I, uh, I think I’m just gonna hang out here,” I said as I tapped my pen against the itinerary page and slid it back across the desk to her. “Make sure things are good.”

  Astrid huffed and snapped the paper off the desk, giving it a harsh glare. “You need to hire a G.M. so you can leave this Podunk town and go back to making money. Your investors—”

  “My investors are happy that I bought Revanche, because unlike most restaurants, this place isn’t running on razor-thin margins and paying the employees shit. Everyone here makes a living wage. I just wanna make sure things don’t get fucked up with the transition. Besides, the way things are looking, Scott and Maddie could get nominated for a James Beard Award this year, which would go a long way with making this place more of a destination than it already is.”

  “The draw is you, Luca,” Astrid advised. “You need to keep being you in order to maintain interest in your restaurants.” She handed me another sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “A list of vetted candidates.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to go on dates with.”

  I laughed in disbelief. “What are you? Match.com? I told you—I’m not going on random ass dates anymore, Astrid. If I want to go out with a girl, I’m perfectly capable of finding someone willing.” I said as I tossed the paper in the trash.

  Her red lips turned into a thin line. She produced a file folder and handed it over. “I’m well aware.”

  I took the file from her and opened it up. Out spilled photos of my date with Maddie in Los Angeles. I probably should have been more pissed than I was, but then I saw a photo of her and me dancing under the string lights. Maddie’s eyes were light, and her smile was wide. Her head was thrown back as she laughed while I dipped her backward. I steeled my expression, turning into the asshole judge I was well-versed in playing. “You had me followed?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I paid off the tabloids that were going to run the photos on the front page of every grocery store magazine in the country.” Her pen stabbed the photo with a harsh snap. “This is t-r-o-u-b-l-e, Luca. Do not get involved with this girl.”

  “Why is it trouble?” I asked. “Maddie’s a talented chef.”

  “She’s your employee.”

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “Who I date or do not date is not your concern.” It may have been a little taboo, but I was confident that we could keep things professional.

  “It is my concern when it impacts your public image, and thus, your bottom line.”

  “I’m the one who signs your checks, and I just told you it’s not your concern,” I said, sliding the folder of photos into my desk drawer. “End of discussion.”

  Astrid raised her chin and squared her shoulders. “How’s the rental property working out?”

&nbs
p; “Just fine. How long do I have in it?”

  She huffed impatiently like she had better things to be doing. She didn’t. “Another week. I expected you to turn this place over to management much faster than seems to be the case.” Her tone told me she wasn’t happy with that decision either.

  I thought about the Taylor Creek Inn next door to the restaurant. The oceanfront house on Atlantic Beach that Astrid booked for me wasn’t far, but the thought of being closer to Revanche and Maddie was appealing. “See if you can extend the rental. If not, I’ll make my own accommodations.”

  Her bright red nails clicked against her phone as she made a note about the house. For a split second, her pointed fingernails looked like the talons of a vulture. Fitting. Astrid looked back up, but before she could get the words out, Maddie stormed in.

  “Are you a dumbass?” She shouted as she dropped an open container of what looked like buttercream on my desk. Bits of frosting flew out of the bucket and splattered all over my computer screen and Astrid’s phone. Astrid was horrified.

  “Mad—”

  She plucked a tasting spoon out of the pocket of her chef whites and threw it at me. “Eat it,” she demanded.

  I shrugged and obliged her insanity, dipping the spoon into the smooth icing and sticking it into my mouth. Good texture—light and silky, sweet with notes of champagne and—oh, God. I yanked the small trash can out from under the desk and spat into it before I dry heaved. I ripped open the door to the mini fridge that Rob Mullon had put in the office and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the top off and guzzling half of it down. “The fuck was that?!” I gasped, thankful that the putrid taste was finally out of my mouth.

  Maddie spun the bucket so that the label on the front that clearly read PICKLED JALAPENOS ONLY faced me. “Can you read, DeRossi?” She yelled. “You fucked up a whole fucking batch of very expensive champagne buttercream because you didn’t read the fucking label on the bucket before you put the fucking buttercream in it last night!”

  Oh shit. It was my fault. If a bin was used to store something aromatic like peppers, onions, and garlic, it always had a label so that nothing other that thing went in the bucket because anything else would pick up the flavor. Something like a very delicate champagne buttercream. Maddie was still ripping into me, calling me every name in the book for making such an amateur mistake, but it was all in one ear and out the other. I looked over at Astrid, who sat pencil-straight in the chair across from me. She had her jet black hair cut in a severe bob that made her face sharp and pointed. Her thin frame was the ideal image that most women thought they had to be.

  Then there was Maddie. She was insane.

  Her mile-long pearl blonde hair piled on top of her head in a wild bun. Where Astrid was flat as a surfboard, Maddie had curves and long legs, muscles mixed with soft edges. Astrid was cold and calculated. Maddie was sunshine. She was warm and life-giving, but would burn you in a heartbeat if the opportunity arose. And right now, she was roasting me with a fiery vengeance.

  “Maddie, I’m sorry.” That response shocked both Astrid and Maddie equally. My public image was that of the unapologetic hardass who had a bone to pick with everyone. “I should’ve checked the bin before I pulled it off the rack.” That shut her up and for once, I felt good. I enjoyed being the nice guy. Outside of the bedroom, at least. I stood up from my desk chair and rolled up my sleeves, revealing my tattoos. “If you’ll pull out the recipe, I’ll go down and make another batch.” I cracked a smile and relished her dumbfounded stare. It shocked Maddie that I could show remorse. Whatever it was I could do to get in her good graces, I was game. Hell, I’d eat the whole damn bucket of that nasty ass icing. “It’s been a while since I’ve made Italian buttercream, but I have made it before.”

  “Um… Javier’s already working on a new batch,” she stuttered.

  “Well then,” I said as I rounded the desk, picking up the bin of horrifying pickled jalapeno buttercream off my desk. “I’ll go apologize to Javier for making his day harder.” I gave Astrid a passing glance as I put my hand on the small of Maddie’s back and led her out of the office. “Astrid, pleasure as always. Let me know about the house.”

  Maddie caught my arm and pulled me into the storeroom. Ducking behind a shelf of dry goods, she hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Going to apologize like I said,” I whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

  “No, I meant why are you putting your hands on me in the middle of a fucking workday with everybody around?”

  “I’m sor—”

  “Don’t fucking apologize like you’re gonna use it to get in my pants.”

  “That wasn’t why I was apologizing, but I like that that’s where you thought this was going.”

  “Not happening, Luca.”

  I may not have been the asshole she thought I was, but I sure as hell wasn’t a doormat. “Chef DeRossi,” I countered. “Because if we’re gonna do the professional boundaries thing, it goes both ways, Chef Dorsey.”

  I could see the conflict written across her face like a neon billboard. She wanted to hate me, but she didn’t. She wanted to have professional boundaries, but she liked it when I flirted with her. The way her lips were just an inch away from mine and her breath was coming in quick beats told me she had just as good of a poker face as I did, but she was tired of wearing it. My eyelids lowered to half-mast, and I stared at her pretty pink lips, preparing for the kiss. “So, what’s it gonna be?” I asked quietly, sending tendrils of breath dancing across her cheek. “Luca or Chef DeRossi?”

  Her tongue darted across her lower lip, making it shimmer. I could feel the electricity prickling at the back of my neck like the kind of buzz you feel when you step outside during a summer thunderstorm. I wanted to push her up against the industrial shelf, between the bins of dry goods and spices, and kiss her until her lips were swollen. But I waited. She was going to have to pick what she wanted. As much as I wanted to push my luck, I couldn’t decide for her.

  “Mad? You in here?” Scott’s voice echoed through the storeroom and I silently cursed my luck. “Maddie, you alright?”

  My grip on the bucket of frosting tightened, but I didn’t move away from her. If Scott wanted to walk in on this, let him.

  But the spell was already broken. Maddie grabbed the bucket out of my hand and pushed passed me. “I’m good, I just had to have a few words with—” I waited to hear what she would refer to me as, but to my dismay, her pause ended with her clarifying, “I just had to talk to the boss about something.”

  15

  ———

  MADELINE

  “How’s she doing today?” I asked Linda as I signed in on the clipboard perched on the ledge of the reception desk.

  Linda beamed behind her cat-eye glasses. Her beehive hairdo that had seen better days bobbled back and forth as she reached forward to take the clipboard from me. “She’s in good spirits today. Might be a positive visit for you this time.”

  That’d be a one-eighty from the last time I visited my mother. I’d stopped by when I got back from California to tell her I won Pastry Throwdown, but she didn’t even know who I was. It didn’t matter. Mondays were the only day I regularly took off work, and regardless of good days or bad, I came to Harlowe Bay Assisted Living for a visit. I pulled out the little paper bag from Queen’s Coffee and handed it to Linda. “That’s for you,” I smiled.

  Linda peeked inside and then looked around to make sure no one else saw. “Madeline Dorsey, you keep bringing me these little bags of sin and I’ll have to get one of those standin’ desks.” She eyed the chocolate croissant again and pulled off a little bite, popping it in her mouth. “Mmm—heaven in a pastry. You sure outdo yourself with these. When are you gonna open your own shop, hm?”

  “Maybe someday,” I smiled and gave Linda a little wave as I headed down the hall. People always asked me that. Truth be told, I had no interest in owning a business. All the stress of payroll and taxes and marketing? Nope. I
just wanted to do what I loved and not worry about the overhead. And maybe I didn’t actually hate being around Luca every day.

  I had avoided him like the plague the rest of the weekend. Whenever he imposed his presence in my kitchen, I called him hey, you. When I confronted him in the storeroom, I hadn’t expected him to turn the tables on me. I’d wanted to kiss him so badly—to press my body against his and moan his name as he erased every reason I had to hate him. Luca.

  I pushed those thoughts aside and walked into my mom’s room. “Maddie Lee!” She smiled as she looked up from her knitting. Her memory had faded to nearly nothing over the last year, but she still remembered how to knit. Scarves, hats, blankets—You name it. On her good days, she would tell me she was sorry she didn’t remember me the last time, and that she still made me something because eventually she’d remember me again and wanted to be ready. Those times were getting fewer and farther between as the ugliness of dementia took her away from me piece by piece.

  “Hi, Momma,” I said as I sat down beside her recliner and leaned over, giving her a tight hug.

  “Sweet girl,” she beamed through her frailty. “Come, sit a spell.”

  I pulled out another little takeout box and handed it over, “Brought you something.”

  With shaking hands, she took the box and opened it up. “You remembered.”

  “Of course—I’d never forget your favorite cookies.” It was one of the first things I’d learned to bake in pastry school—almond tuiles. I’d brought a box of them home during my first Christmas break and mom had declared them to be her favorite cookies ever. She loved the thin, crisp crunch and the mellow flavor of the toasted nuts. I didn’t make them often enough, but I whipped up a batch late Sunday night instead of sitting down for the family meal with the rest of the staff. And maybe I had managed to avoid Luca in the process.

  Mom crunched on a cookie before closing the top and setting it on the little table where her basket of yarn was perched. “Tell me, Maddie Lee—have you gone to California yet?”