Fire Me Up

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “Did you just shush me so you could say your piece?”

  Adrian paused, his body going rigid against hers even though his gaze didn’t waver. “I guess I did.”

  “Mmm.” Teagan pressed up on her toes, relishing the taste of his shock as she brushed her mouth over his. “I’ll let you slide exactly once, but if you make a habit of it, you will be sorry.”

  He drew back, but only enough to pin her with a wide-eyed stare. “You’re going to let me help you?”

  Something that had no name loosened in her chest, and she felt her body slowly unwind against the strength of his frame as she tucked herself into his left side. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that the words bubbling up from inside her were ones that would normally scare her to death. Right now, for the first time since she’d walked into the Double Shot to find her father half-passed out behind the bar, Teagan wasn’t scared at all.

  “Yeah, Superman,” she said, wrapping her arms around the broad expanse of Adrian’s shoulders and holding on tight. “I’m going to let you help me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even though Lonnie had been true to his word about not reappearing at the Double Shot, Adrian triple-checked the side door before making his way back through the now-darkened kitchen. The dirtbag might’ve kept his distance this week, but Adrian knew it was just a matter of time before the guy oozed back into the place. The only thing criminals like Lonnie wanted more than leverage was money, and he would come looking for his soon enough.

  And no matter how right Adrian felt in Teagan’s kitchen, by the time that happened, he needed to be good and gone.

  He shook off the thought, aiming himself at the door to the dining room. Like many small-town establishments, the Double Shot closed early on Sundays, and the last few hours of tonight’s service had been slow at best. Despite the lull, Adrian knew he should feel tested at the seams, like an old shirt wrung out one time too many. His hands might not have been on the food itself, but orbiting around Teagan and Brennan and Jesse, making sure things were done properly or redone, keeping the meager line running smoothly . . . yeah. It was enough to exhaust anyone.

  Christ, he felt more energized than ever.

  “Hey.” He swung through the door connecting the kitchen to the dining room, eyes moving automatically to the spot where Teagan liked to sit on the customer side of the bar. Her auburn hair was twisted up in a sloppy knot on the back of her head, and a couple of decent-sized wisps had broken free to frame her face, with even more brushing over the shoulders of her snug-fitting button-down shirt. She pushed the rolled-up sleeves past her elbows, lifting her attention from the fat stack of papers in front of her to meet his gaze.

  “Oh, hey. Did Brennan and Jesse go home?” She blinked a few times, as if readjusting from the time warp of coming out of deep concentration. The uncharacteristic softening at the edges he’d seen earlier this week as she’d told him she wanted his help was long gone, replaced by the armor-hard moxie that once again screamed don’t touch. Adrian knew he should honor it, that getting involved with her now that they were working together was a bad idea of unrivaled proportions, and that what he really should do was walk her to her car.

  Trouble was, he’d already seen the flip side of her, the one that screamed dare me, and he’d never been particularly good at keeping himself in check when those two words entered the equation. And while part of him knew he should walk away before he screwed things up, a darker part of him wanted to dare her until neither one of them could stand.

  “Hello? You in there, Superman?” Teagan straightened against the time-softened leather of her bar stool, a fleeting look of relief floating over her face as she elongated her body into a stretch. The move sizzled through him with suggestion before the more general implication hit him without subtlety. As tough as she was, she had to be utterly spent from the grueling week they’d just had. And here he’d been, caught up in the provocative rise of her breasts beneath her shirt as she’d lengthened her arms overhead.

  God, he really was an ass. It was all the more reason he should steer clear of her.

  “Yeah, sorry. Brennan and Jesse are out, and everything in the back is prepped for tomorrow. You need anything done up here?” Maybe if his brain focused on work, his dick would man up and follow suit.

  “Oh. No, thanks.” Teagan’s don’t touch demeanor lifted just slightly around the edges. “The front of the house is set for tomorrow. I was just working on the plans for the street fair. My father and I put together some ideas when I checked in on him this morning.”

  Ah, right. Brennan had mentioned she’d spent the morning with the old man when Adrian had arrived for dinner shift. “How’s he doing?”

  She crossed her arms, and all of a sudden, don’t touch made a screaming comeback. “Dr. Riley says he’s holding up okay, but he’s still doing a ton of work from home. He’d be better if he didn’t push it so much.”

  Well, that apple had taken a nonstop trip under the tree, hadn’t it? Teagan probably pushed the boundaries even in her sleep. For a hot second, Adrian was tempted to call her on it. She was going to burn out herself if she didn’t take it easy. But pushing her meant she’d push back, and that road had a bad destination.

  No matter how provocative the trip looked.

  Adrian cleared his throat. “Looks as if you two got a lot done.” He shot a glance at the gargantuan stack of papers covering the glossy wood in front of her, and she nodded.

  “It’s going to be really tight, but after looking at the logistics, I think we can swing doing this street fair three weeks from now.”

  Adrian let out a low whistle. He’d worked on enough catered events in his career to know that even twice that many weeks would make for an insane time line. But three weeks was what they had, so he said, “It’ll be tight, but not impossible. You put in for the permits?”

  A frown pinched the edges of her mouth. “Yeah, but the fire code reads like an unabridged version of War and Peace. Making sure we’re up to spec for an event this size is going to be a pain, but I might be able to call in a favor with some of the guys at the station.”

  Damn, Adrian hoped so. The last thing they needed was to get shut down before they started, and while he might know his way around everything from a Hibachi to a high-end kitchen, getting things up to code for an off-site catered event fell smack into Adrian’s don’t-look-at-me category. But maybe if he got her talking about the parts that were working, it would ease a little bit of the stress clearly marking her face.

  “What about distributors?” he asked, aiming for his comfort zone, and bingo, Teagan’s expression brightened a notch.

  “My father’s working the supply end pretty hard. It looks as if we might catch a break with that local brewery in Riverside. He’s trying to charm them into a discount that fits our budget. Said he thinks we can cut a good deal on the beer. Knowing him, the deal’s probably halfway done already.”

  “Sounds like a good start.” With the stack of work at her elbow, he’d be willing to bet Teagan had put every waking hour—and maybe even some of her sleep time—into the plans she’d already made. God, she’d make most event coordinators in New York look like full-time slackers. But not even die-hard intentions would keep her going if she keeled over from exhaustion. “We can work on the food service part tomorrow now that you’re rolling with the rest. I’ll walk you to your car if you’re ready to go home.”

  “Okay, sure,” she said, although she didn’t accompany the words with movement. He didn’t mind the wait—hell, all he’d be going home to were his four plain white walls anyway—so he leaned back against the edge of the work space across from her.

  “You look a lot happier without the sling.” Teagan tipped her chin at his left arm, which was now thankfully free and clear of the constricting canvas nightmare, courtesy of a visit to the outpatient PT clinic in Riverside yesterday. Of course, the monstrosity of his cast was still present in all its fiberglass glory, stopping just shy of his elbo
w and holding his thumb prisoner. But at least he had his shoulder and decent use of all four fingers back.

  “Yeah. The physical therapist said my rotator cuff looks good enough, and Dr. Russell agreed. Said he didn’t want the joint to get too stiff from not moving. Something about the scar tissue, I guess.”

  “So you’ve dislocated it before?”

  Shit. Of course she’d know that. “A time or two.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Something I should’ve known better about.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably against the service counter behind him, and damn if Teagan missed not one ounce of his unease.

  “I’m sorry, that was really nosy. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” She dropped her pencil and bit her lip, and okay, yeah. That did nothing to assuage the dark, demanding urge to break ranks and kiss her senseless.

  “No big deal,” he said, and hell, even if they were only here for another five minutes, this was going to be a long night.

  An apologetic smile flickered over her mouth, and she sank against the wooden backrest of her bar stool. “I know I should be exhausted. I mean, I’m pretty sure my back went into complete lockdown a couple hours ago. But still, I can’t get my brain to settle down.”

  “Being wired after a shift is pretty normal, even though it’s late at night. Almost all chefs get that way.”

  Adrian had learned the hard way that twelve straight hours of unvarnished adrenaline jammed into a pressure cooker environment tended to do that to a person. Add in the off-the-wall hours that went with the restaurant industry, and voilà. Even the most stalwart circadian rhythms were toast.

  Teagan shrugged, ghosting a palm over her lower back. “I’m definitely not a chef. And anyway, I’m used to weird hours. We do twenty-four on, forty-eight off at the station, and then I’m here most of the time I’m not there. This just feels different.”

  Adrian grabbed a clean bar towel from the neatly folded stack by the sink built into the back counter, cranking the hot water knob as high as it would go. “Let me guess. You feel like your mind could run a marathon even though your body’s ready to give out?”

  Teagan stiffened, just a slight shift of her spine that probably wouldn’t have been noticeable if he hadn’t been right across from her, and she pulled her chin up with that totally stubborn, totally sexy air that burned his resolve down to fumes. “My body’s not ready to give out.”

  Jesus, she was difficult. It would drive him nuts if it didn’t turn him on like a goddamn spotlight. “You don’t have to be so tough all the time. Nobody here is going to think any less of you if you turn out to be human, you know.”

  That got her attention. She measured him with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, caught somewhere smack in the no-man’s-land between cautious and curious. “And how do you know what anyone here thinks of me?”

  “Because I’m perceptive.” He ran the bar towel beneath the jet of steaming water, leaving it there for a minute before letting it burn his fingers as he wrung it out as best he could with one hand. “Anyway, being wired just means your mind is adjusting to the way things work in the kitchen. You’re actually getting used to it quicker than most people do.”

  “You think so?” Her expression clearly outlined her doubt, but he shook it off.

  “Yup. It’s an adrenaline thing, just like you said the other night. Not too different from being a paramedic, I’d assume. At least as far as the pace is concerned.” Okay, so she was still pretty stiff and awkward when it came to the actual food. But at least that, he could teach her. The grace under pressure part? You either had it or you didn’t.

  “I didn’t think you remembered that conversation,” she said, catching the bar towel he’d folded tightly into a plastic storage bag. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a heating pad. For your back. And I don’t forget conversations.”

  Teagan’s coppery lashes fanned up in surprise, but she shocked the hell out of him by lifting the edges of her mouth into a tiny smile. “Old school. Very nice.” She tucked the bag around behind her, her expression collapsing into a moan of relief as she pressed it against her back.

  Well, shit. Of course he hadn’t thought she’d acquiesce over something little when she was so hardheaded about everything else.

  Adrian selfishly let the sound of her sigh thread through him before battening down the sexual hatches yet again. He needed to cut this attraction off at the quick, before he didn’t. “Glad you approve.”

  “So how do most chefs deal with it? You know, when your brain doesn’t want to stop going?”

  “The usual outlets, I guess. Some people drink too much. Others have sex.”

  “Oh.” Matching pink spots crept high over Teagan’s cheekbones, but she didn’t budge. “And what do you do?”

  “Neither.” Not anymore, at least. His mind tilted backward, landing on a spot five years ago that he’d give just about anything to erase. Not going there. “I cook.”

  “If the idea is to find a way to unwind from the intensity of the kitchen, doesn’t more cooking just perpetuate things?” Teagan asked, putting the makeshift heating pad on the bar in front of her and slipping off the smooth wood of her stool. She crossed the pass-through to the other side of the bar, her boots clacking against the hardwood before being swallowed by the buffer of the rubber mats as she approached the cooler.

  “Not if you do it until your mind is straight.”

  She nodded. “Is that why you want to be in the kitchen no matter what? So it’ll keep your mind straight?”

  The question was so matter-of-fact, so free of judgment that Adrian’s answer barged out before he could even think about cloaking it or swallowing it back. “It’s one reason, yeah.”

  “Wow. And I thought I was a workaholic.” Teagan palmed the handle of the cooler, sliding the frosted glass door on its track and propping it open with her lean forearm. She laced the fingers of her other hand comfortably around a bottle of water, barely looking at it as she uncapped the thing and passed it over with movements so practiced, he’d bet his one good arm she could do it in her sleep.

  “You are a workaholic. What are you doing?”

  “That kitchen is conservatively eight thousand degrees, and even without that sling, you’re still healing. You need to stay hydrated.”

  Adrian lifted a brow. “And what about you?”

  “Well, since I’m not crazy about cooking even when I have to, I guess my only option for getting my mind straight is to have a beer,” she said, reaching back into the cooler for an amber-colored bottle.

  A not-so-tiny, definitely dark part of Adrian was tempted to point out she’d skipped the sex option. But hell, he was having a hard enough time keeping his hands over in his own camp as it was. If they started talking about sex, that beer was never going to make it to her lips.

  And he couldn’t afford to make the same mistake twice.

  “Not too many women go for a straight-up beer after a hard day’s work,” he said, veering back into safe-topic territory.

  Teagan shrugged, tilting her bottle upward. “I was raised in a small-town bar and grill. It’s not as if there’s an extensive wine list.”

  The laugh that sprang up from Adrian’s chest felt rusty, as if it hadn’t been used in far too long. “I spent half my life in a house so Italian, there was a wine list at breakfast. In fact, I’m pretty sure my nonna never had beer in the house the entire time we lived there.”

  “So do you speak Italian, then?” She paused to slide her fingertips over her right forearm while keeping her eyes fixed on his tattoo. “Or just a couple of phrases?”

  “No, I’m fluent. Nonna was pretty adamant about me learning the language. We lived in a really Italian neighborhood in New York, and it was easy enough for me to learn.”

  “She adopted you when you were ten?” Teagan moved back around to the customer side of the bar, scooping up the makeshift heating pad and pressing it against the small of her back. Her curiosity, even in
the face of exhaustion, was so wide-open and genuine that rather than cut the conversation off at the knees, Adrian just answered.

  “Yup. She volunteered at the soup kitchen in the shelter where I’d been living between foster homes.” He kicked his legs out in front of him, settling back against the workplace counter again. “I hung around the kitchen twenty-four seven because I was hungry. All the other volunteers shooed me away, but not Nonna.”

  “She fed you?” A streak of something Adrian couldn’t catch flashed over Teagan’s warm brown gaze, but he shook his head.

  “Nah. She put me to work. At first, it was just easy stuff, like washing vegetables and counting out portions of bread. But then she let me move up to stirring onions in the stockpots and teaching me how to measure and slice. I was totally addicted.”

  “Did she get into trouble for letting you help?”

  “Are you kidding?” he scoffed, but with a lot more endearment than edge. “Nonna ran that kitchen from stem to stern. Even after she adopted me, we worked at the shelter twice a week without fail. I guess teaching a moody ten-year-old foster kid how to cook was a little unorthodox. But she said she knew from the start where I belonged.”

  “Living with her, you mean?” Teagan asked, lifting her beer to take another sip.

  Adrian paused, his words rattling through him like a heavy-bottomed saucepan being dropped from the top shelf. “In the kitchen, Red. I belong in the kitchen.”

  “My mother was the same way.” Teagan’s voice went low, but not soft, her eyes firm on the bottle in her hand. “So is that really why you’re here? You need to be in the kitchen, and mine is the only one available?”

  The question was laced with an obvious desire to know, but he dodged it anyway. “You need the help,” he pointed out, but she blew right past the deflection just like she blew past his composure.

  “And you’re on parole. You’re risking an awful lot to be here, Adrian. So what gives? Is the kitchen really more important to you than anything else? I . . .” Teagan hitched to a stop, but only for a second. “I need to know, okay?”