Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  After all, this was my dream come true. I’d grown up in the kitchen of my mama’s restaurant and had been saving and scrimping for years to open my own. Cooking was in my blood as much as jazz music and the Saints.

  My happiness took its first hit when the hostess burst through the swinging metal kitchen doors in tears.

  I looked up at her in surprise. “Pepper! What on earth—”

  “That egg-suckin’ son of a motherless goat can kiss my ass!” cried Pepper, swiping angrily at her watering eyes so her mascara smudged all over her cheeks.

  Pepper swore like a sailor, wore too much makeup, had hair dyed an unholy shade of streetwalker red and skirts as short as her heels were tall, but she was a genuinely sweet girl who had a way with people. The regulars loved her.

  Besides, this was the French Quarter. If I required a hostess who looked like a sexless nun, I’d be seating the tables myself.

  I took Pepper by the arm and steered her through the kitchen to the back, near the walk-in freezer. The last thing I wanted was my guests getting a side of Pepper’s notoriously salty mouth with their gumbo.

  I handed Pepper a tissue. “What’s going on?”

  Pepper dabbed at her eyes and dramatically sniffled. “That man who just came in—”

  My stomach dropped. “Mr. Boudreaux?”

  Pepper nodded, then launched into an outraged rant.

  “He said he wanted a table, and I told him unfortunately we were fully committed, and he said what the hell did that mean, and I tried to nicely explain that we didn’t have any available tables, and then he said all snottylike, ‘Don’t you know who I am!’ and demanded I find him a table, and I said I just told you there aren’t any tables available, sir, and there’s a waiting list a mile long, but he cut me off and said—really mean, too, he’s like a crossbred dog!—that his name was all over our menu and if I didn’t get him a table, he’d make sure our name was all over the papers, and not in a good way, either, because he knew all the press! So it was like he threatened me, and when I got upset, he growled at me to stop sniveling! Sniveling! Doesn’t that just dill my pickle!”

  Pepper ended her rant with a stamp of her stiletto heel.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between two fingers and sighed. So Mr. Boudreaux didn’t have a reservation after all. And trusting Pepper to do her best hadn’t exactly worked out as I’d hoped.

  “All right, Pepper, first thing—calm down. Take a deep breath.”

  Grudgingly, she did.

  “Good. Now go back out there and tell him—nicely, please—that the owner will be out to speak with him in a few minutes. Then show him to the bar and have Gilly give him a drink. On the house.”

  “But—”

  “Pepper,” I interrupted, my voice firm. “That is Jackson Boudreaux. Not only could the man buy and sell this town a hundred times over, he’s no doubt connected with all kinds of highfalutin folks, which means that if he feels mistreated, all those people are gonna hear about it, which isn’t good for business. I’m sorry he wasn’t nice to you, but you need to learn how to handle peacocks like that without getting your own feathers ruffled.”

  Smiling to soften my words, I squeezed Pepper’s shoulder. “And remember, the biggest bullies are the biggest babies inside. So just picture him in a nappy with a bottle stuck in his mouth, and don’t let him intimidate you.”

  With a toss of her head, Pepper sniffled again. “I’d rather picture him with a bucket of crawdads shoved up his tight ass in place of that stick.”

  The loud cackle from the front of the kitchen was Eeny.

  “Charming, Pepper,” I said drily. “Now go.”

  With a final sniff, Pepper turned and flounced out.

  It was ten minutes before I could steal time away from the kitchen. When I stepped out from behind the swinging metal doors, I saw Pepper had followed my instructions.

  Jackson Boudreaux stood at the end of the bar, glaring into his drink like it had made a rude comment about his mother. Though the rest of the bar was crowded, around him there was a five-foot circle of space, as if his presence were repelling.

  I wonder if he smells?

  Judging by his appearance, it was a distinct possibility. The black leather jacket he wore was so creased and battered it could have been from another century. The thick scruff on his jaw made it obvious he didn’t shave on anything resembling a regular basis, and his hair—as black as his expression—curled over the collar of his jacket and fell across his forehead in a way that suggested it hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in years.

  No wonder Eeny had called him a werewolf. The man had the look of something wild and dangerous you might run across if you were out for a midnight stroll in the woods.

  He looked up and caught me staring.

  From all the way across the room I felt the weight of his gaze, the sudden shocking force of it, as if he’d reached out and seized me around the throat.

  My breath caught. I had to convince myself not to step back. I forced a smile. Then I made myself move forward, when all my instincts were telling me to turn around and find a vial of holy water and a gun loaded with silver bullets.

  I stopped often to shake hands with the regulars and say hello as I made my way through the room, so it was another few minutes before I made it to the bar. When I finally found myself standing in front of my intended target, I was dismayed to see his expression had turned from merely unpleasant to downright murderous.

  The first thing Jackson Boudreaux said to me was, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  And my oh my did the Beast have a beautiful voice.

  Deep and rich, silky but with an edge like a purr, it was at total odds with his unkempt appearance. It oozed confidence, command, and raw sex appeal. It was the voice of a man secure of his place in the world—a voice that was as used to giving orders to employees as it was to women beneath him in bed.

  A flush of heat crept up my neck. I wasn’t sure if it was from annoyance, that voice, or his disturbing steely-blue eyes, which were now burning two holes in my head.

  Before I could reply, he snapped, “Your hostess is incompetent. The music is too loud. And your drink menu is pretentious. ‘Romeo and Julep?’ ‘The Last of the Mojitos?’ Awful. If I were going on first impressions, I’d guess your food is awful, too.”

  The flush on my neck flooded into my cheeks. My mouth decided to answer before I did. “And if I were going on first impressions, I’d guess you were one of the homeless panhandlers who harass the tourists over on the boulevard, and throw you out of my restaurant.”

  Nostrils flared, he stared at me.

  So much for unruffled feathers.

  To cover my embarrassment, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. “Bianca Hardwick. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Boudreaux.”

  There was a long, terrible moment during which I thought he’d start to shout, but he simply took my hand and shook it.

  “Miss Hardwick. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Formal. So he wasn’t born in a barn after all.

  “Call me Bianca, please. I apologize for the wait.”

  Jackson dropped my hand, and with it, his brief civility. “If I wanted to call you Bianca, I would have. Where’s my table?”

  He glared at me, his hand wrapped so tightly around his drink his knuckles were white.

  Pepper sure called this one. I owe that girl an apology.

  Fighting the urge to kick him in the shin, I instead gave him my sweetest Southern-belle smile. I would not be intimidated, or bullied, or lose my cool on account of this arrogant jerk.

  “Oh, it’s here somewhere.” Deliberately vague because I knew it would annoy him, I waved a hand in the air. “As soon as a table becomes available, we’ll squeeze you in where we can. So nice of you to drop by. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to—”

  “Miss Hardwick,” he hissed, stepping closer to loom over me. “Where. Is. My. Table?”

  I felt a d
ozen pairs of eyes on us. In my peripheral vision, I saw the bartender, Gilly—almost an older brother to me—red-faced in anger at how I was being treated. And was it my imagination, or had the restaurant gone quiet again?

  One thing definitely wasn’t in my imagination. Jackson Boudreaux didn’t smell. At least not bad. Standing so close, I caught his scent: a delicious whiff of exotic musk and warm, clean skin that would have been extremely sexy on anyone else.

  But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Prince A-hole, heir to an international bourbon dynasty, devoid of affection for shaving, haircuts, new clothes, or, it appeared, the human race.

  Nappy! Picture him in a nappy with a binkie in his big fat mouth!

  I lifted my chin and looked up into his eyes. I said calmly, “Maybe you were right about the music being too loud. It must have obstructed your hearing, because I just told you that we’d get you a table as soon as one becomes available. Or perhaps you’d prefer I throw someone out? Maybe that nice elderly couple by the piano? They look much less deserving of enjoying their meal than you do, am I right?”

  His lips flattened. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Through his nose, he slowly drew in a breath.

  I wondered if he was restraining himself from smashing his glass against the wall. Though my heart was hammering, I stood my ground and didn’t blink.

  Finally, he dragged a hand through the thick mess of his hair and exhaled, an exasperated sound that clearly telegraphed how much he enjoyed interacting with the peasants.

  Especially ones who dared to get lippy.

  He snapped, “How long?”

  By this time my smile had died a painful death. “You made my hostess cry. How long of a wait do you think that’s worth?”

  Through gritted teeth, he replied, “I’m not a man to be toyed with, Miss Hardwick. As I told your hysterical hostess, I know all the prominent food critics—”

  I snorted. “How lucky for them!”

  “—and as my name is featured prominently on most of the dishes on your menu, I’d expect you’d be more accommodating—”

  “Technically, Boudreaux is your family’s name, correct?”

  “—because I make it my business to protect anything with my name on it—”

  “Excuse me, how did my menu suddenly become your property?”

  “—and if your food is as bad as everything else I’ve experienced so far, including your attitude, I won’t hesitate to speak with my industry contacts, along with my attorneys about your infringement on my family’s trademark.”

  My mouth dropped open. I stared at him in horror. “You’re threatening to sue me? You can’t possibly be serious!”

  For an answer, he narrowed his eyes at me. A low, dangerous growl rumbled through his chest.

  Oh, no. Oh, no, he did not just try to scare me with that wild animal act!

  I closed the final foot between us, looked straight into his cold blue eyes, and said, “I don’t care who you are, Mr. Boudreaux, or how much bad press you can bring me, or how many overpaid attorneys you have. Your manners are atrocious. Growl at me again and I will throw you out.”

  I stepped back and met his burning stare with a level one of my own. “You’ll get the next available table. In the meantime, have another drink on me. Maybe the alcohol will turn you back into a human being.”

  Fuming, I spun around and walked away, convinced Jackson Boudreaux was the most arrogant, stuck-up, bad-tempered man I’d ever had the misfortune to cross paths with. The only thing I could ever feel for him was disgust.

  As it turned out, I was wrong about that, too.

  TWO

  BIANCA

  Jackson stayed for four hours, straight through the third seating, sampling almost every damn dish on the menu, right down to two servings of blackberry-and-bourbon cobbler for dessert.

  He ate the same way he talked. Mechanically, as if he took no pleasure in it, like it was a nuisance, one more thing to endure in the long, joyless span of his day. Still aggravated by our interaction, I watched from the kitchen as he sat alone and wolfed down plate after plate of food, eyes lowered, ignoring all the curious looks sent his way.

  Stopping beside me to follow my gaze, Eeny exclaimed, “Looks like that boy hasn’t eaten in a year!”

  I sourly harrumphed. “Only the souls of all who’ve displeased him.”

  She chuckled. “I see LaDonna Quinn would like to give him somethin’ else to chew on besides your spicy baby back ribs. Lawd, that dress she’s wearin’ is so tight you can almost see her religion.”

  For the third time, the newly divorced brunette sashayed by Jackson’s table, hips swaying, toying with her hair and fluttering her lashes. She might as well have been invisible for all the attention it got her.

  “Ooh—and here comes Marybeth Lee struttin’ her stuff!” exclaimed Eeny gleefully, pointing to the bombshell Marybeth, man-eater extraordinaire, whose glossy blonde locks and hourglass figure never failed to turn heads. She emerged from the ladies’ room and took the long way back to her table, gliding by Jackson’s table with a sultry smile directed his way.

  He sent her a withering glance and went back to his dinner.

  I mused, “Maybe he’s gay. I’ve never seen a man immune to Marybeth’s double Ds.”

  Eeny cackled. “Judgin’ by the way his eyes were glued to your behind when you were stormin’ away from him at the bar, I’d say that boy is definitely not gay.”

  Outraged, I gasped. “He was looking at my ass?”

  Eeny looked me up and down, her brows lifted. “What, you need to introduce a man to your mama before he’s allowed to get an eyeful of your booty?”

  I sputtered, “No, that’s not—he’s just—what a jerk!”

  Eeny does this thing when someone isn’t making sense where she squints one eye and looks at you sideways. She did it to me now, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t tell me you don’t think he’s handsome.”

  I grimaced. “Handsome? How could I tell? It’s impossible to see past the forked tongue and the horns!”

  Eeny pursed her lips. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Don’t you have some work to be doing, Eeny?” I said, exasperated by the turn in the conversation.

  She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’, if LaDonna and that scandalmonger Marybeth are spendin’ so much time throwin’ their hussy selves in his direction, it ain’t because he’s ugly.”

  “No, it’s because he’s stinking rich. And besides, you called him a werewolf. You can’t think he’s handsome!”

  She clucked like a hen. “Oh, honey. I think all this time you’ve been without a man has made you blind.”

  From across the kitchen, Hoyt let out a hoot of laughter.

  I looked at the ceiling and sighed. “Lord, why do I even employ these people?”

  Hoyt hooted again. “I’m guessin’ that’s one of them ‘moot’ questions, ’cause we both know you wouldn’t have a dessert menu worth eatin’ if it wasn’t for me—”

  “Oh, shut your pie hole and get back to work, Hoyt!” bossed Eeny, propping her hands on her wide hips. “I swear, if I have to hear one more time about your mad skills with pastry dough, I’ll keel over and die!”

  Hoyt, who’d been in love with Eeny for going on sixty years and had been getting rejected for just as long, sent her a lazy grin and a wink. “Aw, c’mon now dawlin’. You know it ain’t my dough-kneadin’ skills that make you weak in the knees.”

  “Ack,” said Eeny, rolling her eyes. “You’re delusional, old man.”

  Hoyt grinned wider. “And you, suggie bee, are a sassy li’l blackberry. C’mon over here and give old Hoyt a kiss.”

  “Pffft! Don’t hold your breath!” said Eeny with a flip of her hand.

  Then Pepper breathlessly burst through the kitchen doors.

  “Bianca! He’s asking for you!”

  My stomach turned. I didn’t have to ask who she meant.

  I peered out to Jackson Boudreaux’s table, expecting to see him throttling one of the
busboys, but he was just sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring daggers at nothing in particular.

  The man gave the term resting bitch face a whole new meaning. He looked like his face had caught on fire and someone had tried to put it out with a fork.

  I said, “What does he want? Did Marlene already bring him the check?”

  “Yes! And then he called me over and gave me this!” Pepper triumphantly held up a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “And when I asked what it was for, he said all meanlike, ‘I don’t like to see a woman cry.’ Can you believe that?” She giggled in delight. “If I’d known I’d get a Benjamin as a tip if I cried, I would’ve been bawling on the customers from day one!”

  I ground my teeth together. The nerve of that man, trying to buy Pepper off for him being an overbearing prick!

  Unfortunately, it was working.

  But I wasn’t about to let him start throwing his money around as payment for his terrible behavior. I might not be rich like him, but I had my pride. Nobody was buying me off. All his wealth didn’t impress me one bit.

  In fact, he could take his money and shove it right up there with Pepper’s bucket of crawdads!

  “Eeny,” I said firmly, pointing to the cobblers I was plating, “make sure these get out to table six. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said, warily eying my expression. “Somebody get the fire extinguisher. I think poor Mr. Boudreaux is about to go up in flames.”

  I muttered, “Poor my patootie,” and pushed through the kitchen doors.

  I made a beeline to his table, stopped beside it, and didn’t smile when he looked up. Cool as an iceberg, I said, “You asked to see me?”

  I’d be professional, but I wasn’t going to kiss his uppity butt, even if he could sue me and get me bad reviews. I didn’t like being disrespected and spoken down to, and liked being threatened even less. Had he simply been polite, this evening would have gone differently, but here we were.

  Staring with open hostility at each other.

  Neither of us said anything. The moment stretched out until it became uncomfortable, and then intolerable. Staring into his eyes was like being physically attacked.