by Lacey Black
He tsks.
Before he can argue why his line of thinking is right and mine is wrong, I grab the pizza cutter on the counter and start slicing. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel his eyes on me, watching and probably grading my performance. I make sure to leave each triangle a different size, something I’d never do at home, but since I enjoy watching the veins in his temple pop out, the ugly inconsistent pieces leave me feeling gleeful.
“You did that on purpose,” he mutters, plating two slices of pepperoni and pushing them across the counter to my brother, who dives right in.
I shrug and give him a satisfied smirk. “Maybe.”
He blows out an exasperated breath and plates a slice for each of us. “Come on, troublemaker. Let’s get you fed so you can get home to sleep. I expect a white chocolate and cranberry muffin just for me in the morning.”
***
I check the clock for the umpteenth time, then chastise myself for doing it. Again.
Why am I constantly looking to see what time it is?
Maybe it’s because you really thought Jasper would come by this morning for the muffin.
Then I just get mad at myself all over again, hoping he’ll actually come by this morning, but it’s not looking too good, considering it’s almost ten. Jasper’s usually at the restaurant way before now, which means he’s probably prepping for lunch and not giving me or the muffin a second thought.
I wish someone would consider my muffin…
Wait.
What?
Where did that thought come from?
Maybe it’s the fact I haven’t dated in a really long time, not that you have to date to have sex. It’s just never been my thing. I’ve always found value in relationships. Getting to know and eventually trusting someone with your body and your heart. Those butterflies in your belly and the little touches and glances that make your heartbeat kick up with excitement.
I miss dating, but there has been no time for it as of late. Sure, I’ve considered making time, but that’s hard when you’re building a business and taking care of your brother.
I’m sure this annoying flutter in my stomach and the anticipation that fills my chest when I think about Jasper is merely because it’s been so dang long since I’ve been on a date. Or had sex for that matter, but we’re not going there. And we’re definitely not going there with thoughts of Jasper.
Jasper.
And sex.
Jasper and sex.
Sex with Jasper.
I groan out loud just as Daisy pops her head around the doorway. “Hey, Lyn. Someone’s here for you,” she states with a quick smile before disappearing back up front.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I follow in her wake and stumble to a stop as soon as I push through the swinging doors. Jasper is here. He’s standing back, away from the counter, and talking to my brother, and my eyes are drawn to his professional khakis and polo shirt.
“Hey,” he says, throwing a wave my way.
Flustered, I start to make my way in his direction, but suddenly stop and turn around. I grab a small white bag and slip one of the white chocolate cranberry muffins I made fresh this morning inside. I’d love to say it was completely on my own, but that would be a lie. I made them specifically with him in mind. Fortunately, I had plenty of cranberries to whip up a few batches of muffins for today.
When I slip back through the doorway, Jasper takes a sip from his coffee cup and catches my gaze. Something softens in those dark chocolate orbs, something that causes a zing to rush through my veins.
“Here,” I rush out, practically thrusting the bag into his hand.
Why am I acting so weird?
“Is this what I think it is?” he asks, sparkling eyes searching the contents of the little bag.
“Maybe,” I reply, finding myself grinning.
Jasper takes a sip of his hot coffee. “Well, I don’t have much time. I’m still short an assistant chef. Thanks for this,” he adds, holding up the bag.
“You’re welcome. Anytime.”
He doesn’t move, but neither do I. We stand there, like two idiots, just staring at each other, grinning. How long we stand there, I have no idea, but the bell over the door snaps us both out of the trance we’re lost in.
“Well,” I start, clearing my throat.
“Yeah, well,” he replies quickly, taking another sip of his drink.
“I should,” I stammer, pointing my thumb over my shoulder indicating the kitchen.
“Yeah, I should too,” he states, finally taking a step toward the entrance. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay.”
I don’t even realize I’m not breathing until he’s out the door and pauses before crossing the street. I watch him go, mesmerized by the way he moves, as I suck in greedy gasps of oxygen. He reaches the big wooden front door of Burgers and Brew and hesitates.
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.
My heart stops beating as he turns around and meets my gaze through the window, holding it for several long seconds. Then, with the slightest smile on his gorgeous lips, he slips inside and disappears. It’s only then do I feel myself relax.
“Someone has a crush,” my brother sings, causing me to jump.
“Oh, hey, Dust. I didn’t realize you were right behind me.”
He grins. “Obviously, or you wouldn’t have been standing there, gawking and drooling.”
I make a face, much like a sister does to her little brother. Except, usually not when she’s in her thirties. “Shut up, I was not.”
He snorts a laugh. “Okay,” he argues sarcastically, clearly not believing me. “I’m going to bring up those pies now.”
“I’ll help,” I say, glancing one last time back to where Jasper disappeared.
“I got it. You go ahead and stay here, spy on the neighbor, and pretend like you’re not,” he teases before turning around, the squeak of his walker wheels mocking me as he goes.
“Stop being stupid, Lyn,” I mumble, steeling my spine and prepared to push Jasper right out of my head. I have things to do. Very important things. I have no time for silly fantasies about rich chocolate eyes and a panty-melting grin.
I glance back across the street, picturing exactly how amazing his ass looked in khaki pants.
Or how his shirt molded oh so snuggly to his chest beneath his coat.
And what about those lips? The ones I can picture so vividly, how soft and firm they’d be sliding down my neck.
“Ugh,” I groan, retreating to the confines of my kitchen.
Far, far away from the restaurant across the street…
And the sexy man inside.
Chapter Thirteen
Jasper
Holy fuck, we are busy.
I’d expect nothing less on a Friday night, but it’s not helping when we’re a man down. Doug, the assistant chef for the evening shift, called off sick, and Ross is out of town visiting his daughter and son-in-law, so I can’t even call him in to help. We still haven’t hired a lunch shift assistant, so I couldn’t ask that person to stay. Mark is here doing what he can to man the prep station and the fryers, but it’s a struggle. It probably doesn’t help I’m barking at him every two seconds, but I can’t seem to help it.
I’m flustered.
I’m frustrated.
And dammit, I’m exhausted.
Yet, I won’t complain. This is what I signed up for. Busting my ass in this kitchen is what I do, and I’ll continue to do so, making sure every order is right before it goes out.
“We’re getting backed up out there,” Isaac says, blowing through the doorway and annoying everyone like a bad rash.
“We’re doing the best we fucking can!” I holler, adding to the tension already fog-thick in the kitchen.
“I know, I know. How can I help?” he asks, approaching, but also not getting too close.
“Grab those fries before they burn and add some salt. Divide the batch between these three plates and get them out to
the damn table,” I bark without removing my concentration from my grill.
“Got it,” he mumbles nervously, stopping only long enough to wash his hands before jumping in to help.
“Gotta move quicker,” I mumble, sliding the specialty burgers onto the awaiting toasted buns and pushing the plates closer to him for fries.
“Get off my ass, man. I don’t usually do this. Besides, it’s not like you allow any of us in here to help anyway. Maybe if you did, we’d be able to jump in and help when needed without getting our asses chewed for not knowing what to do,” Isaac retorts, finishing up the plates and yelling, “Order up!”
The shitty part is I know he’s right. I’ve never allowed them to really work in my kitchen. If they can’t do it, it’s not for lack of asking or trying. It’s because I’ve always insisted they get out and pushed them away. This is my kitchen, and I’m damn territorial. Yeah, Isaac may be correct in his angry outburst, but I refuse to admit it.
Not happening.
Just then Jameson slaps through the doors, the familiar scowl on his face. “There’s a line to the door,” he declares, glancing around at the chaos surrounding me.
“Yes, I know. We’re doing the best we can, but it’s hard to keep up when you’re short-staffed,” I argue, throwing six more patties on the grill with aggression.
“Okay, geez, settle down,” he replies, throwing both of his hands up in surrender.
“It’s a Friday night, Jame, and we’re busy as fuck. I’m short an assistant, which is why I’m relying on Numbers and trying not to yell at him for not knowing the salt to fries ratio. Shit, we’re producing food, man. That’s all I can say.”
He scratches his scruffy jaw and glances between Numbers and me. “Don’t say shit and food in the same sentence. Okay, I have an idea. Be right back.” Then, he’s gone.
I huff a deep breath and return my focus to the task at hand, trying to ignore the way Isaac whistles a little tune. Is he doing that just to annoy the hell out of me? Well, it’s working, especially since he’s whistling “Don’t Go Away Mad,” and no doubt, it’s meaning is directed at me.
Fucker.
Just as I’m about to lay into him for ruining Mötley Crüe for me for the rest of my life, the kitchen door flies open once again. I assume it’s one of the servers coming in to collect completed plates or submit more orders, but I realize quickly that’s not the case. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I swear I can feel her presence without even glancing up from the grill.
“What are you doing here?” Numbers asks, the happiness evident in his voice.
The water turns on as she replies, “Jameson just said you guys needed help, so I’m helping.”
I turn, my eyes drawn to the curve of her ass in a pair of flour-speckled leggings. I’m pretty sure I can actually see a white handprint on the side of her thigh. My cock gives an appreciative little twitch in my pants.
I strain to hear as Isaac goes over and gives her a rundown. Something he says makes her laugh, a sound that both settles the storm raging inside of me, but also burns my gut with jealousy.
Jealousy.
When did I become this man?
The day Lyndee Gibson walked back into my life.
She steps up beside me and gives me a hesitant smile. “Hi.”
“What are you doing?” It comes out much gruffer than I mean.
Reaching for a fresh bowl of cut potatoes, she dumps them into the basket and drops it into the grease. “Jameson said you guys needed help. So I’m helping.”
“I don’t need your help.” I cringe at my automatic response.
She shrugs and glances around. “I’m sure you’d manage fine, but it’s busy out there and he said you’re short an assistant chef. It’s been a while since I’ve worked in this type of kitchen, but I can handle it,” she replies, lifting her chin ever so slightly and meeting my intense gaze.
I flip my patties and spread more seasoning before moving on to the ones ready to come off. I don’t ignore her—there’s no way in hell I can, especially when she smells all sweet and delicious—and it takes all my focus to keep my eyes where they belong.
On my grill.
“You’re also in charge of grilling the buns there,” I state, pointing my spatula toward the device that toasts the buns. “Put them in the top and press down the lever, like a toaster you’d have at home. The buns will come out the bottom on the tray.”
She doesn’t reply, just does as she’s told. Lyndee moves around easily.
“Do you have a ratio?”
I stop. My wide eyes turn to look at her as she dumps the basket of fries and reaches for the seasoning bottle. “What?”
Lyndee shrugs. “Well, I remember how crazy you were in school about making sure there was the right amount of seasoning on whatever you were making, so I figured you had some weird system for seasoning your fries.”
I swear, I just fell in love with her.
“Uh, yeah,” I answer, wiping my hands on my apron and reaching for the bottle. “Like this.” I demonstrate my perfected technique for spreading seasoning across the hot fries. It requires you to move and shake in two long passes, instead of just haphazardly throwing the flavoring and leaving big globs.
I see the corner of her lip curl upward. “I can handle that,” she replies, reaching for the shaker in my hand. Our fingers touch and electricity shoots up my arm.
“No doubt you can,” I mumble, stepping back and severing contact.
“You just stay on your side of the kitchen, you hear me, chef?” she asks, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I don’t need you coming over here and messing up my system. I got this,” she declares, holding up her hand dramatically in my direction in the universal stop sign gesture.
As a grin spreads across my mouth, I turn to face my grill, the tightness in my chest finally starting to ebb. Even though we’re busier than hell, I relax and let Lyndee help. It may look like nothing to everyone else, but to me, this is everything. An olive branch has been extended; one I’ve grabbed on to with both hands.
I’ve never been so grateful.
***
I keep stealing glances. She’s leaning against the counter and chatting with Katelyn, the high schooler who works a few evenings a week as a dishwasher on the nights she doesn’t have cheerleading. I have no idea what they’ve been talking about for the last twenty minutes or so, but there’s been a few giggles and a lot of smiles. Considering Katelyn already put away the final dishes, it’s not like I can get mad at her for talking on the job. Technically, she’s done.
A few minutes later, I head for the lights, ready to shut down the kitchen. “You ready, Katelyn?”
“Yep! All done.” Her reply is upbeat, as is her bouncy walk as she moves to the doorway. “It was nice to meet you, Lyndee. I’ll stop by the bakery soon.”
“Good night, Katelyn. Drive safely,” Lyndee responds with a warm smile.
I glance her way and hold up a finger. “I’m going to walk her to her car. Stay here.” If she’s upset by my gruff demand, she doesn’t show it, just gives me a small grin and nod.
It only takes me a few minutes to make sure Katelyn gets off okay before I’m returning to the kitchen. The sounds of Jameson playing guitar filters down the hallway, making me smile. That man is crazy-talented, and I love to listen to him play.
When I reach the kitchen, I find Lyndee slowly walking along the back wall, taking in the storage shelving system. She stands in the shadows, the one remaining strip of light barely reaching her slender frame. “These are impressive,” she says without turning around, clearly hearing me enter the room.
With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I make my way to where she stands. “We spared no expense when it came to the kitchen but had to cut costs elsewhere. The original storage units were cheaply made, even though they still cost a pretty penny. After we had our first profitable year, I asked for replacements. I knew these would be expensive, but they are so worth it. We’ve not h
ad one issue with sagging under the weight, and they’re made of steel. Best upgrade we’ve made so far,” I tell her, watching her profile as she takes it all in.
“Someday, maybe I’ll have shelves like these too,” she replies longingly.
I take a step closer, eager to catch her sweet scent, but all I smell is grease and meat. It actually makes me smile, because now she smells like me. Like my kitchen. My business. It makes me want to kiss her.
Clearing my throat, I make sure my hands are still shoved in my pockets to keep from reaching out. “What brought you in to Burgers and Brew tonight?”
She shrugs her shoulders and moves away, finishing up her trip around the kitchen. “Dustin had gone home already. He was super tired from the day and wanted to rest, so I said I’d bring home dinner after I finished up at the bakery.”
My heartbeat kicks up a few notches as guilt sweeps in. “That was hours ago,” I state, noticing it’s already nearing eleven.
“It’s okay. Jameson ran a sandwich to him earlier,” she says. “When I was out by the entrance, preparing to place an order with your hostess, Jameson came out and saw me. We were chatting for a few minutes before he left me to order. A few minutes later he came back and asked if I could help out in the kitchen. He promised to check on Dustin and make sure he had food, so I agreed to help you.”
I’m not sure which I’m annoyed at more: the fact he was, again, all chummy with Lyndee, or the fact he asked her to help when it wasn’t his call to make.
We finally make our way back to the doorway. “I think Jameson put my coat somewhere,” she states, glancing around.
“I bet I know,” I reply, heading to my office. As I go to get my own coat off the hook behind my door, I find a much smaller, feminine one hanging on top of it. I grab it, the familiar scent of sugar and cinnamon wraps around me like a warm blanket. When I bring it to my nose and inhale like some creepy pervert, my cock notices and springs to life.
Returning to the main kitchen, I hand her the coat and watch as she slips it on. Realization sets in. She’s about to leave, and I don’t want that to happen. I want to spend more time with her. “Do you want to come over to the bar with me? Jameson is playing, and he’s pretty good. You can have a drink before I take you home.”
