All Hours

by ANDIE J. CHRISTOPHER

  Somehow, that comforted him. He felt more okay leaving the restaurant in Felix’s hands than he should. Nothing about the night made sense, but he knew that he would sleep better than he had in years.

  Chapter 4

  Felix had been stunned to realize that Joaquin was attracted to him—or, at least, that his body reacted to him. The fact put a spring in his step for days. And, in the moment, the way Joaquin had responded to him had made him less intimidating. By showing a little weakness—for him—Joaquin had grown Felix’s crush on him by at least three sizes.

  And it all made him doing a good job at keeping the restaurant afloat even more imperative. So he bit his thumbnail as the pastry chef showed him the new thing she was trying—something with edible glitter.

  In the eight days since he’d started at the restaurant, he’d encouraged the staff to have fun cooking. His encouragement had resulted in fewer mistakes, which surprised him. It was as though everyone had been so afraid that Joaquin would show up and start yelling that they’d kept fucking up. But now, they were getting compliments from guests, and everyone seemed to have lost about thirty pounds of weight from their shoulders—more accurately, about 225 pounds from not having Joaquin looking over them.

  And although he’d agreed that working at the restaurant was temporary, and he still planned to move to New York once Joaquin had returned to raining hell all over his kitchen—he was growing attached to the staff. He wanted to encourage their creativity, and he wanted to make the sexy executive chef see that he had more talent in his kitchen than he’d ever dreamed possible.

  One thing about him that had always been stubborn was his hope. That was why he’d stayed with Roman for so long when he should have seen that the relationship was going nowhere. That was why he’d hoped his dad would accept him for who he was, even until the last time they spoke. His hope was his fatal flaw, and after Roman, he believed that he’d never find love because he couldn’t help but place his hopes in the wrong person.

  Despite how attractive Joaquin was, he was definitely the wrong person. He actually reminded Felix of Roman in a lot of ways—neither man had ever been unsuccessful at anything. To both of them, appearances mattered more than what was on the inside. Neither was good at expressing emotions other than anger. The kind of want that pulled deep in Felix’s belly whenever either of them was near was something he’d only felt with them.

  And it was so sudden, as though as soon as they’d gone into that walk-in cooler that something inside Felix and Joaquin and their sexual chemistry had clicked into place. For the first time, Felix felt like the surly chef had noticed him. And it had a completely pornographic effect on the way Felix thought of the other man.

  But he couldn’t be thinking about that now. They weren’t lovers, and they never would be. All Felix could do about his attraction to Joaquin was do such a great job running his kitchen that he would maybe get a thank-you—or a farewell kiss—before he left Miami.

  He wouldn’t get either of those things if he agreed to put edible glitter on the menu. “Whose restaurant is this, Blanca?”

  He didn’t want the fragile woman to shut down, so he’d let her down gently. His mama used to ask questions when he was acting like an idiot. Instead of throwing a chancleta at him like some of the other mothers in the neighborhood would have, she’d merely led him along until he saw the error of his ways and adjusted accordingly.

  God, he missed her.

  “Joaquin Delgado’s kitchen?” Felix couldn’t help but shake his head at her response. As though anyone could work in this restaurant and not know exactly who this kitchen belonged to. Joaquin Delgado couldn’t be erased by his mere absence. Even though the atmosphere had lightened up considerably, this kitchen still bore his imprint.

  Felix needed to remember that, and this edible glitter thing needed to be the end of his hope. Perhaps he needed to start throwing shit and yelling so everything stayed as it was. At the sheen of tears glossing Blanca’s dark eyes, he realized that gentle was definitely still the way to go.

  “Yes, and do you think that Joaquin would put a custard with edible glitter on his menu?”

  “No?” Still with the question as an answer.

  “It’s not that edible glitter is bad.” Felix said this even though the reality of actually shitting glitter was slowly dawning on him. “It just doesn’t fit the personality of the restaurant. I might be whimsical, but Chef Delgado is not. And I’m just the restaurant’s temporary guardian.”

  Blanca nodded, clearly still upset. “Yes, Chef.”

  Felix really ought to examine how much he liked to be addressed that way. His catering company wasn’t nearly as formal. He did all the cooking himself—with an occasional assist from his sister—and the servers were mostly his friends and some of Roman’s employees looking for extra work. No one called him “Chef,” and clients were more than happy to make it clear to him that they were the ones writing the checks and therefore they were the ones in charge.

  Since coming here, he’d realized how much he missed working in a restaurant, and the desire to run his own kitchen reared its head. Maybe he’d always wanted it? When they’d first started dating, Roman had encouraged him to open a restaurant and even hinted that he would invest. But Felix hadn’t wanted to get into a close business relationship with his boyfriend.

  Which was another reason that he shouldn’t be hoping for anything with Joaquin Delgado.

  “What about an edible paper that tastes like cake?” Blanca’s gaze lit up with a new idea, a good one at that. One that wouldn’t make the vein in Joaquin’s temple pulse or his face turn red.

  “That’s perfect.”

  * * * *

  Joaquin was sick of television. He rarely watched when he was working, aside from late-night shows before drifting off to sleep. And, in the past ten days, he’d had more than enough of what he’d missed in the interim.

  And although he’d tried to avoid the siren call of cooking shows, he couldn’t help himself. But they stressed him out. He found himself yelling at Chopped contestants and throwing things at the screen when they fucked up a box ingredient. The fact that he could do a whole lot better if his body weren’t broken made their mistakes even more irksome.

  When his brother, Max, walked in with a bag of takeout, that’s how he found him—sitting in sweats that should have been washed a few days ago and his own filth.

  Max held his nose as he put the brown paper bag that smelled like his favorite pad Thai on the table. “When was the last time you showered, bro?”

  After his first physical therapy session, two days ago. The whole thing had been so painful and humiliating—clearly demonstrating how long his road to recovery was, that he hadn’t felt like doing anything in the days since—not even take care of himself. Instead of answering his brother truthfully, he shrugged. “How’s Letty doing?”

  Joaquin loved his brother’s girlfriend, Letty. She’d finally agreed to move in with him, and Max didn’t even bother to suppress the smile on his face at the mention of her name. Before his brother had hooked up with her, his smiles had been as rare as Joaquin’s. He’d been similarly driven by work, though not with the same level of international recognition—not until Lola had fixed him up with a personal assistant who jackhammered through his brother’s defenses with her joie de vivre and her steadfast belief in him. Since then, Max’s career had never been better.

  The fact that she was beyond lovely was just the icing on the cake. She took care of his brother, and that was enough to make her a goddess in Joaquin’s eyes. After the absence of their mother because of her drug habit and the abuse from their father, Max deserved a relationship that made him happy. Joaquin loved Letty because she’d gently showed Max that he was whole and deserving of love. She hadn’t taken his brother’s shit about why he could never be in a relationship, why he was too much like their father to ever make a family
with someone at all.

  “She’s been good.” Max looked down, telling Joaquin that he was thinking something filthy that Joaquin didn’t want to know anything about. “But that’s not why I’m here. Do you need help showering?”

  “No,” Joaquin snapped. He didn’t need help showering. It hurt, but everything hurt. And now that he couldn’t just charge forward and cook and collect accolades, his brain hurt. Too many thoughts crowded his head about how alone he was without cooking, thoughts he didn’t know what to do with.

  The loves of his life—his knives—were temporarily lost to him, and he couldn’t deal with having all this time to think on where he’d gone wrong in his life so that food was the only thing he had.

  Jesus, he had to stop being such a sad sack in front of his brother. Max would probably suggest therapy again, which was the last thing Joaquin needed. He had nothing against it, but he just didn’t want to talk about his daddy issues with a fucking stranger. Before Letty, Max had always been his person for that. Since they’d gotten together, Joaquin hadn’t wanted to sully his brother’s happiness with his unresolved feelings about their shitty childhood.

  “Dude, I think you’re depressed.”

  That was the same conclusion that Joaquin had come to, but it was temporary—just until he could get back to work—and there was little to be done about it until then. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Max looked surprised that Joaquin had capitulated that easily. “This isn’t normal.”

  “Of course it’s normal. I’m injured and not happy about it. I’m not healing quickly enough.” Joaquin sighed, wondering if he should admit the rest—the part about how he couldn’t stop thinking about Felix Pascual and hadn’t kicked him out of his restaurant the other day. Even though he was probably ruining the place with his music, his laughter, his high, tight ass, and his dick-sucking lips. “And Felix Pascual is fucking the place up.”

  “Nah. You can barely tell that you’re not there anymore.”

  “You went to eat there?”

  “Yeah, I had to spy for you.” That was why Max was the best little brother in the world. He hadn’t even had to ask him to spy on Felix; he’d done it voluntarily. “And I would only eat at your restaurant the night I proposed to my girlfriend.”

  Joaquin lay back on the sofa and stared, mouth agape. His brother had proposed? And he hadn’t made the food? Disappointment pricked at his eyelids, and tears threatened. He’d never felt this close to crying before his injury. The sappy, depressed shit and the unreal attraction to Felix told him that he was going crazy. But proposing to Letty, truly committing to make a family with another person, was a huge moment for his little brother, and he had no intention of spoiling it.

  He stood up and wrapped his good arm around his brother. “Congratulations, man.”

  Max coughed dramatically. “Seriously, you gotta take a shower before you do that, man.”

  “Are you going to feed me first?” Used to being the one feeding people, he tried to shake it off. Even though he was laid up, his brother had come to give him the news of his engagement when he should be holed up in his bedroom with his lovely fiancée.

  “I’m going to help myself to a beer while you shower.”

  Grudgingly, Joaquin walked toward the back of the house. “It’ll probably take two.”

  At least he could joke about his stupid injury at this point, right?

  Chapter 5

  Felix had been expecting Joaquin to show up in the kitchen—had even been hoping he would do it—since the moment he’d left the last time. Despite the pallor and exhaustion that had been clear the last time, Joaquin was extremely hardy and would heal quickly. Likely not fast enough for his taste, but quickly nonetheless.

  And, from his appearance today, Joaquin would be back in a lot fewer weeks than his doctor had suggested. Instead of the sweatpants he’d had on last time, he was wearing jeans that hugged his crotch like a lover.

  What he hadn’t expected was for Joaquin’s first words to him in three days to be, “Paper that tastes like cake?”

  Felix looked around, thankful that Blanca was in the pastry kitchen downstairs and hadn’t witnessed the lip curl of derision from her real boss. But, unfortunately, that thing happened where the whole kitchen had gone quiet as soon as the chef had entered the room.

  “Back to work, everyone.” Felix approached Joaquin, less carefully this time. Each day made his confidence in this kitchen grow. Each day the staff’s respect for him grew. Even if—though—this was definitely a temporary arrangement, there was no way he was going to squander the respect he’d earned by getting an earful from the big boss.

  The big boss who looked yummier today than he’d ever looked. Joaquin’s hair was a little too long, and his scruff was turning into a full-on beard. He supposed that shaving was hard with one good arm and that a haircut hadn’t been a priority. The renowned chef was also even more delectable in a T-shirt than he was in a chef’s coat wielding a knife. And the way the sling held his arm made his pec pop.

  Jesus, what was wrong with him? Why was he ogling an injured man like he was a side of beef?

  “Let’s hit the walk-in and talk this out.” Joaquin fell in step with him, and Felix caught a whiff of his woodsy-citrusy soap or something. The smell danced through his nostrils straight to his dick. The pictures that had danced through his head every night since he’d noticed Joaquin’s hard-on for him went up on his mental movie screen in Technicolor.

  He rarely met a guy and felt an almost insatiable desire to kiss him. Usually, he got going once the kissing started. Even with Roman, the man had had to talk to him and smile at him with his sparkling white teeth for a few minutes before Felix’s thoughts went right to the naked and sweaty variety.

  But with Joaquin, it was just a smell and the knowledge that he wanted Felix despite himself. Even a peek inside the other man’s head made him want to crack him all the way open. It made him want to get in bed with him and resurface in a few days, weeks, or months. Just a touch of vulnerability from the other man had set fire to the intellectual knowledge that Joaquin was a handsome man he could—theoretically—see himself fucking. The idea that he could screw Joaquin and not walk away with heartache was ridiculous, but his need to do it anyway was on fire. All because he’d realized that Joaquin wasn’t the Superman he’d been holding himself out as over the course of their acquaintance. He was just a man who oozed sex underneath all that overbearing bluster.

  And Felix needed to remember that the overbearing bluster would be back with a vengeance and all the sex would be locked up in due course. As much as he wanted to back the other man up against the shelves as soon as the door clicked closed, the thought that this is temporary stopped him. No one would know. They were truly alone but for a small window that none of the other kitchen staff would dare approach while they were having a meeting. But it didn’t matter. Whatever this was, it would pass, and things would go back to normal. He’d move to New York, leaving his sister to her fabulous life. She’d worry about him less if he put some geography between them. He’d catch up with old friends and maybe go back to being the carefree guy he’d been when he was in his twenties, when he’d first worked in kitchens. He’d do fewer drugs and fuck fewer guys, but he would be the same. He wouldn’t feel used up and worn out anymore.

  He’d feel more like he did now, breathing the same air as Joaquin Delgado.

  None of this hung in the air between them, but Felix silently went over and over why he couldn’t just placate Joaquin with a blow job and send him back home to recuperate. First of all, it was Joaquin’s restaurant—and the only thing he seemed to get emotional about. Second, that hard-on from the other day might not have even been about him. It could have been about any meds he was on or just because he hadn’t gotten laid in far too long. Third, Joaquin Delgado was a very handsome, extremely talented, bad idea.

 
“People love the cake.”

  “You should have run it by me first.” Probably true, but he hadn’t wanted to. Joaquin would have said no reflexively: Felix knew that much about him. And Blanca would have been crushed.

  But he could admit that without crushing Blanca now. “True. I’m sorry.” Then he added the smile that begat the hard-on and hoped it would do the trick again.

  “Don’t do that.”

  Feigning innocence and moving closer, he asked, “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t try to seduce me into doing what you want.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” Joaquin backed into the shelves and clenched and unclenched his fist. He wasn’t about to take a swing at him. That wasn’t his style. He might throw shit in the kitchen, but he was always careful that people were out of the way. He wasn’t violent in the way that his father—both their fathers—had been.

  No, now that Felix had spent a lot of time thinking about Joaquin sexually—pretty much any time he’d spent away from the restaurant in the past few days—he knew where Joaquin got his aggression out. He would give it up hard and good and fast and raw. And he probably liked his sex messy and open and vulnerable—as long as he wasn’t the person who was open and vulnerable. Joaquin Delgado made people moan with the pleasure of eating his food, and Felix would bet good money that he liked making his lovers moan with pleasure even more. They were both hedonists, which was probably something Lola had recognized and why she had tried to set them up, despite their almost-family connections.

  “Is that all?” Felix asked, close enough now that Joaquin’s bent arm brushed his chef’s coat. Close enough to feel the heat of Joaquin’s breath against his lips. “You want me to run new dishes by you and stop smiling at you?”

  “I want my shoulder to be better.” Joaquin’s breath sped up, and his pulse was visible at his neck. Felix’s hand itched to reach out and stroke the side of his neck. Ached to soothe him.