by Elaine Fox
She was silent a long minute and he looked back over at her. It might have been his imagination but her cheeks looked pink as she dished scallops onto Skip’s plate.
“I, uh…”
“Do you mean does she have restaurant experience?” Skip interjected, picking up his knife and fork. “Because that’s what I’d want to know if I were you. Who is this person taking over my place of employment?”
Skip looked at Roxanne and prompted her with a nod.
“Well, yes, of course you’d want to know that,” she said with a light laugh. “And I have years of restaurant experience, trust me. My parents owned a restaurant in downtown D.C. I practically grew up in.”
She held out a hand for Steve’s plate.
“You mentioned that.” He handed it to her. “At that first meeting. Mama’s, right?”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “That’s right. Did you know it?”
He watched her hands as she put his plate down on her empty one. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t really say I remember it.”
She nodded, her smile fading slowly as she filled his plate. She handed it back to him. “So, have you, ah, been a bartender…long?”
He chuckled wryly and speared a scallop. “Too long, yes. Since college.”
“So you went to college?”
His eyes shot quickly up to hers. Was that surprise in her voice? Did she think a lowly bartender wouldn’t have gone to college? “Yes, in fact. UVA. History major.”
Her brows rose, impressed. Score one for Steve, he thought, and popped the scallop into his mouth. Perhaps he was rising in her estimation, if only a little.
As the first bite sank onto his palate, he had to stop and look down at his plate. The flavor was amazing—a rich, creamy burst of it in his mouth that was totally unexpected because of the simple look of the dish.
“This is incredible.” He poked the fork at another scallop, as if making sure it was real. “What did you do to this?”
“Isn’t it?” Skip said. He was focused on his plate as well.
“I wish I had gone to college,” Roxanne said, almost wistfully.
Steve stopped eating. She hadn’t gone to college? Now he felt like the snob. There was nothing wrong with her not going, of course, but he had her pegged as such a princess he was surprised she hadn’t been personally escorted through Vassar or someplace.
“Never too late,” was all he could think to say.
She laughed and her beauty hit him again. “I guess I’ve done all right without it so far. And I think I’ll be a little too busy for a while now.”
He gazed at her a long moment, longer than he’d intended. When she glanced back at him he dropped his gaze to his plate.
She had done all right, he thought, realizing that she hadn’t answered his question about what she’d done before this. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said this building couldn’t have been cheap. Throw in a business on top of that and she had to have some serious assets.
Family money? he wondered. His eyes swept her face again, marveling at the smooth skin, the way her dark eyebrows gave the perfect tilt to her eyes.
She caught him looking at her again and his eyes darted away.
“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t mean to stare. I was just thinking how you could have been a model. You’ve got that look.”
She gaped at him, clearly startled. She turned her head to Skip.
He looked back down at his plate, ashamed that he’d been reduced to saying something that sounded so much like a pickup line. “But I’m sure you’ve been told that before.”
“Well, yes.” She cleared her throat. “But I don’t want to make money off my appearance. Ever. I did nothing to earn my looks.”
She was so firm he felt stupid for having said anything. He wasn’t even sure why he had, except that without the spoiled-rich-girl mantle he’d given her she had suddenly seemed even more stunning. And she could be a model, he thought, let’s face it.
“Well, not so for me.” He laughed a little too heartily. “I’ve worked hard for my craggy face and I use it. I think it makes the customers open up to me more.”
She smiled, her voice emerging gently. “You don’t have a craggy face.”
He laughed again, stupidly, and ate one of the truffles. “This really is the most amazing food.”
The entire meal was amazing, Steve thought. The best food he’d ever eaten, in fact. He didn’t know why she was hiring a chef when she had this kind of talent herself, and he told her so.
She smiled self-deprecatingly. “If you think this is good, wait until you taste Monsieur Girmond’s food. He’s…he’s a magician. He does things with food that you just have to see and taste to believe. He’s an absolute artist.”
She held her hands together at her heart as she said this and Steve could see the passion she had for her work. Considering it was food, it was a wonder she was so thin.
The conversation loosened up nicely throughout the meal and laughter began to flow almost as freely as the wine.
Steve found himself enjoying not just Skip’s irreverent company, but Roxanne’s wit as well. She seemed to have figured out the waitstaff pretty astutely, making it easy for him to offer what tidbits of information he had about each one. And he admitted to her that up till now he thought she’d made pretty prudent hiring and firing decisions.
She was surprisingly gratified by that.
“Thank you,” she said warmly, “that makes me feel good. Especially when everyone’s been saying how crazy I am to attempt this.”
“Really?” Steve glanced at Skip.
“He’s the worst one,” Roxanne said sourly, sipping her wine.
“Well, don’t you agree?” Skip said to Steve. “I mean, you’ve worked in restaurants since college, haven’t you? Would you want to own one?”
Steve tilted his head, looking from Skip to Roxanne. “I don’t know. It’s not something I’ve ever considered.”
Skip threw out a hand. “There you go.”
“I don’t mean it that way. I just was thinking about other stuff. Other goals.”
“Like what?” Roxanne looked at him with interest.
It was his turn to be firm. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn’t want to talk about his aspiration before he achieved his goal. He didn’t want to be seen as some pathetic wannabe. Not by anybody, but especially not by Roxanne Rayeaux.
“Nothing I’ve accomplished yet,” he said with a tempering smile. “But I’ll let you know when I do.”
His tone was obviously effective, because Roxanne didn’t press. Instead she excused herself to get the desserts.
If Steve thought dinner was fantastic, dessert was a whole other story. She’d prepared several things to try out for the restaurant, so it was something of an orgy of sweets after the meal. A crème brûlée, something called a bombe Andalouse, a chocolate Napoleon and fresh fruit in a sabayon sauce.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Steve moaned, leaning back in the chair.
Roxanne brought out espressos for the three of them. “Did I kill you?” she asked with a wicked grin.
His eyes warmed on her. “You did. And what a way to go. This was the most incredible meal I’ve ever had. I know I keep saying that, but it’s true.”
Roxanne laughed and cast her eyes down to her coffee as she sat. “I’m glad you liked it. Maybe now you won’t be so resistant to French food.”
“I think a lot of things on that list are getting more palatable.” He held up a hand to Skip. “But don’t go out of your way to track down a French film.”
“How about a French poodle?” Roxanne asked.
Skip put a hand to his chin and drummed his fingers along his cheek. “Hmm, I’m trying to remember what else was on that list.”
“Skip.” Roxanne’s voice held a warning. She knew just what he was referring to; she could tell by the fiendish look he gave her.
“French toast, I think.
” He grinned at Roxanne and she lifted a brow. “But it’s not quite time for breakfast. Yet.” He glanced at his watch, then sat bolt upright in his chair. “Holy shit, is this right? Is it really midnight?”
Roxanne smirked and looked into the kitchen at the clock. Nothing like instant payback for his evil intentions. “So it is. And on a school night.” She tsked.
“Oh my God, I’ve got to go. I have an eight a.m. P.E. class to teach.” He shot out of his chair and looked around for his coat. “Rox, I’m so sorry to leave you with all these dishes.”
“Don’t worry.” She waved a hand. She was feeling so relaxed at the moment she was even thinking she might leave them until morning, something she almost never did. “Go, get some sleep. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you, doll.” He kissed her cheek while dragging on his jacket. “Spectacular meal, as usual.” He turned to Steve, hand outstretched. “Steve, good to spend time with you. Hope to see you again.”
They shook.
“Might be hard to avoid me,” Steve said.
Roxanne looked at him in surprise, her cheeks heating. What did he mean by that? Had she been too nice to him? Had he seen through her to that tiny piece of her that tonight had found him attractive?
Oh God, she thought. Did he think now that maybe…maybe he would be having, uh, dinner here more often?
But he must have caught her expression.
“I live right upstairs,” he added quickly. “And work right downstairs. Hell, I never leave the building except for special occasions.”
Roxanne sighed.
Skip laughed and slapped him on the back. “Oh. For a second there I thought you meant—”
“Good night, Skip,” Roxanne said firmly.
“Good night, Roxie.” With a grin and a wave, he dashed through the door.
Steve looked after him, his face a study in contrasts in the candlelight. He was really quite handsome, she thought, noting the shadows at his cheekbones, the light shining through his gray eyes. She even liked the way he slumped in his chair, all casual and angled.
But Steve, here for, uh, dinner, more often?
No, she shook her head. No. He was an employee, for God’s sake. Not to mention just totally inappropriate for her anyway.
She tried to picture him at the Met and knew he’d sooner hunt rattlesnakes than go to an opera. Tried to imagine him strolling through an art gallery, sipping a glass of chardonnay, and could only imagine him scoffing at the idea. Real men do Jell-O shooters.
No, he was not her type. She wanted a guy like Martin. Handsome, cultured, urbane.
Steve might be handsome, but he was as cultured as a dime-store pearl.
Martin, on the other hand, had had connections all over New York City, knew everyone who was anyone, had his own limo and never failed to get into the most exclusive openings.
Yes, call her shallow, but she knew what she wanted, because she’d almost had it. It was another Martin she was after.
Well, a Martin minus the wife.
“Is he going to be okay to drive?” Steve asked, looking back at her.
She forced herself back to the present and started picking up plates. She was not going to start thinking about Martin. “He takes the metro.”
Steve rose too, and picked up glasses. “You’re kidding. That’s like a mile away. I should give him a ride.”
That got her attention. He was completely sincere. It would never have occurred to Martin to give Skip a ride. “What a nice thought. But don’t bother. He runs. You’d never catch him now.”
“He runs?”
“Yeah. He’s a fitness instructor and a coach. He prides himself on being in shape. I know it’s crazy, believe me, I tell him all the time, but he regularly runs to the metro after a night out. Says it works off the night’s excesses faster.”
“Okay…”
Roxanne laughed and shook her head. “I know.” She headed into the kitchen.
Steve followed. When she turned on the hot water, he took her by the shoulders and gently moved her aside.
The instant he touched her, her skin warmed and she felt like melting back into him. How long had it been since she’d been held, or even touched? A year?
Longer? Sometimes she felt starved for it, and now was one of those times.
“Let me do this,” Steve said, adjusting the water temperature. Water flowed over his hands and through his fingers, making them look both graceful and hard. “You just cooked the best meal I’ve ever had. You are not doing the dishes, too.”
She stepped back carefully and attempted to get a grip on her libido.
One kiss, she thought, would be so nice. Just one hot kiss, hard arms around me. Passion. Heat. God, it would feel so nice.
She sighed. Steve looked over at her and smiled.
But not with Steve, she told herself, moving away to one of the island bar stools. Definitely not with Steve. The last thing you need is a one-night stand with a bartender. Or worse, a relationship with someone so different from what you want. If you want to be touched by someone, wait for your date.
But the idea of P.B. was as appealing as trying to eat another piece of cheese. She was stuffed and tired and pleasantly hazy from the wine. And Steve was right here…
She pushed the leftover brie away and picked up a wineglass. She was fairly certain it was hers. She tipped the contents into her mouth and watched Steve’s back.
“You’re doing a pretty efficient job there, Steve. Somebody raised you right.”
She could see him laugh even as she heard it, his head dipping slightly and his back moving under his shirt, but he didn’t turn around. She smiled.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “You see, I have hidden assets as an employee.”
There, she pointed out to herself. Right there, even he’s saying he’s an employee. And boss-employee relationships don’t work. Especially when it happens only because the boss is horny and the employee handy.
“So in a pinch I can use you as a dishwasher,” she said, thinking, It’s a pinch now, can I use you for something else? This thought actually made her giggle.
Steve turned around, a half smile on his face. “What’s going on back there?”
She sighed and put a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I seem to have had a bit too much to drink.”
“Join the club.” He turned back to the dishes. “Good thing I don’t have to get up in the morning.”
She sat in silence and watched him work for a while, alternately marshalling her fantasies and letting them run free. She felt so relaxed and happy at the moment she almost couldn’t hang on to the idea that anything she did now would be wrong.
She’d gotten through a vigorous year of schooling. Made the move from New York. Broken off completely with Martin. Bought this house and started a restaurant. Or rather, almost started it. But here she was, back home with friends. She’d had a lovely evening with people who wanted nothing from her. Everything so far had worked out. She should celebrate that.
She smiled to herself and folded her arms in front of her. She was happy, she thought. What a lovely feeling that was.
Steve finished the dishes, just as she was coming to this conclusion, and he turned from the sink, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
She even had a handsome man in her kitchen. What could be better?
“I think that’s it.” He looked at her warmly. “I better go, too. Let you get some sleep.”
“Hmm, yes.” She rose from the stool as he moved into the living room.
At the door, he stopped. She stopped too, maybe a little closer than she might have a bottle of wine or two ago. Just slightly inside his personal space.
“Thanks for dinner. It was…” He looked down at her and she could tell he was aware of how close they were. “Amazing.”
“Thanks for coming.” She smiled slightly, let her eyes drift to his lips. “And for cleaning up. There’s nothing like a man who cleans.”
Sh
e was close enough to smell the soap he used. To hear his breathing. To feel the slight breeze of it on her cheek.
Slowly, she moved her gaze from his lips back to his eyes and saw the heat in them. Her lips curved a bit more. She would see if he did something, if he made a move. If he did…well, maybe just one kiss…a kiss didn’t have to mean anything…
“Okay,” he said softly.
She watched the pulsing of the artery in his neck, thought about how it would feel to put her lips on it.
She was incorrigible, she thought. But God, she was hungry.
She looked back up into his face and saw an answering hunger there. So when he bent down to kiss her cheek, she shifted her face, ever so slightly, at the last minute so he caught the corner of her mouth.
He drew slightly back, just enough for them to focus on each other’s eyes, and stayed there an eternal moment. Roxanne held her breath under his assessing gaze. Then, when she couldn’t take it another second, she moved forward that bare inch and touched her lips to his again.
She almost felt the whoosh of the genie leaving the bottle.
Steve stepped closer and put an arm around her waist, cinching her in tight to his body. She raised her hands to his shoulders and her mouth opened under his. Their tongues found each other and mated, their lips moving in synch, a dance, an age-old interplay of heat and sex and desire.
And restraint.
Steve pulled back first, his expression intense, his eyes searching.
Roxanne couldn’t hold his gaze. She put a hand to her lips and tried to slow her breathing. “Thank you,” she said, apropos of nothing, in a near whisper.
He hesitated a fraction of a second, then answered, “Good night.”
7
Bar Special
Scotch Sling—for that unexpected injury
Scotch, soda, lemon peel
“How come you sound so muffled?” Steve’s sister, Dana, asked.
“Because I have a pillow over my head.” Steve pushed the pillow off and readjusted the phone receiver at his ear.
“What are you doing still in bed? It’s almost noon.”
