“Not at all.” Carly replied quietly. “So, we’re good?”
“You bet.”
Jackson tasted that lie for the rest of the day.
Chapter Five
Carly couldn’t tell which was more surreal—the fact that a jackhammer was going full-bore six feet from her kitchen or that the guy behind it had just kissed her senseless over an impromptu language lesson.
Well, what do you expect when you tell the guy how much you love the way he’s looking at you and that it makes you feel beautiful? Carly scowled at the dishes in the sink, giving them an extra swipe with the sponge for good measure.
Okay, yes, technically she had said that, but it wasn’t as if Jackson knew it. There was just something so enticing about the way he’d asked her to speak a language she’d known for most of her life that the words she never would’ve dared to say in English simply poured out without her permission. The way his eyes glittered, darkened to navy blue, had only been gasoline to the flame of her words, and kissing him had been a foregone conclusion.
And, oh God, that kiss. Far from being one of those awkward, first-kiss-out-of-the-gate deals, this lip-lock had been on its own level entirely, generating enough electricity within Carly’s body to power up a small town. The intensity of it, even in hindsight, was enough to send a flush of warmth all the way to her earlobes.
Or maybe that was just sheer embarrassment over Jackson apologizing—not once, but twice—at having kissed her in the first place. As in, sorry for the slip-up, my mistake, have a nice day. Carly brushed her fingers gently over lips that still tingled in the aftermath of Jackson’s sexy little wake-up call. Just beyond the sun-filled windows, the jackhammer’s insistent rat-tat-tat-tat-tat made the floorboards vibrate beneath Carly’s bare feet, rattling her nerves in a steady pulse.
Forget this. She needed her kitchen. She needed to breathe.
Carly made quick work of showering and packing her chef’s whites neatly into her bag, averting her eyes from the goings-on in the backyard as she hustled out the door. The stress of Travis’s ridiculous threat coupled with the go-go-go of her grueling workdays and her lingering homesickness must have gotten the best of her, and she’d given in to a silly impulse. Between the underpants thing and the forgive-and-forget kiss, Carly had fulfilled her embarrassment quota for the foreseeable future, and what’s done was done. All she needed now was to get her body to her kitchen, channel her energy into the food, and her mind would be good and straight.
The rest of her would follow suit. Memory of that kiss be damned.
“Uh-oh. You’ve been here for a while.” Adrian’s voice had more gravel to it than usual, and he eyed Carly with suspicion as he sauntered into La Dolce Vita’s kitchen. “What gives?”
“I had a meeting with Gavin at noon to do the weekly rundown,” she replied, not looking up from the stockpot on the burner in front of her. The hearty aroma of tomatoes and garlic wafted up from the mouth of the pot like a breath being slowly exhaled in satisfaction.
“That soup smells like ten-thirty to me. Eleven at the latest,” Adrian flipped back, arching the dark brow sans piercing. “You want to try again?”
Damn it. She should’ve figured Adrian would know better. “Nope. You want to taste this?”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Fork it over.” He waved his huge hand, palm up, at her in a c’mere motion. “Your peasant soup is like nectar of the Gods, baby.”
The laugh that unwound from her chest was just what the doctor ordered, and the remaining stress from Carly’s morning—hell, from her whole week—began to jog loose and scatter. “Glad you think so, ’cause it’s the specialty soup this week. I thought we’d play with some of the summer vegetables now that the season’s in full swing. They came from the farmer’s market in Riverside. The tomatoes are practically a work of art.”
Her mind caught on the triangle-shaped slivers of zucchini, skin as bright as emeralds as they bobbed through the stockpot on a sea of light, tomato-tinged broth. The tiny, perfect circles of ditalini played off the wedges of zucchini in both color and shape, and both danced in the fresh broth to form a soup that was neither too strong nor too heavy for a summertime menu. When the cooler months came, she’d play with different vegetables to make it heartier, but to Carly, the soup always signaled warmth regardless.
Adrian didn’t waste any time putting the spoon Carly passed over to good use, ladling it deep into the belly of the pot for a taste. “Yeah, well they taste like one, too. Way better than the crap we get through the distributor.” He paused to make a face, then took another bite of the soup to erase his stubbled grimace. “Simplicity through ingredients, complexity through taste. Man, that’s good.”
“Yeah, I’d love to figure out a way to use some of the locally grown produce on more of a regular basis. The closer our source, the fresher the food, you know? Plus, it doesn’t hurt the local economy.” She stirred the soup one more time, swirling the satiny broth.
“Sounds like a win-win. Maybe you should bring it up with management.” Adrian leaned back against the stainless steel counter.
“Yeah, they might go for that. Riverside is close enough to spin a locally grown campaign. I’d love to have fresher produce, and management would probably eat up the PR.” She shrugged, not moving her eyes from the pot.
Adrian’s eyes may have been with hers on the red-gold broth in the stockpot, but his focus was entirely on her. “Hey, are you okay? You usually make this as a comfort food thing.”
“Not always.” Her protest was casual, barely there, but Adrian seemed to register it all the same. He tilted his platinum head at her, and she could practically hear the gears of his brain grinding away at full-tilt. Oh, to hell with it. Carly had never been any good at lying, mostly because she never saw the point. “I just miss New York a little, that’s all. It’ll pass.”
Adrian nodded once, his thick shoulders pulling tight as he reached for a stockpot of his own and took it to the sink to fill it with water. “Maybe you should go back to the neighborhood for a couple of days. See your mama and your brothers.”
Hearing Adrian’s hard New York accent curl around the Italian pronunciation of mama sent a pang through Carly’s gut, for more reasons than one. She hadn’t forgotten her mother’s message on her machine, or the reasons behind it, either.
“No.” The word was clipped enough to snap at her ears as she spoke it, but she didn’t back down. “I’m not leaving my kitchen just because of a little wistful yearning, Ade. It’s stupid. I’ll be fine.” God, how had she managed to skip breakfast and still wind up with heartburn? Carly rubbed the heel of her hand between the twin rows of buttons spanning the length of her jacket.
“She’s not going to stay mad at you forever, Carly. She’s your mama, you know?” Adrian slipped a handful of potatoes into his stockpot and cranked the burner beneath it to life.
As much as she loved her, having to deal with her very Catholic mother’s disdain for her only daughter’s failed marriage and subsequent divorce was about the only thing Carly didn’t miss about being in the city. Plus, there was always the danger of running into Travis in their neighborhood, and considering his recent threat, nothing good would come of a chance encounter.
“You’re clearly underestimating the power of the di Matisse resolve,” she said. “My mama will probably give me grief over this until I’m eighty.”
Adrian laughed in a gruff rumble. “Uh, I work with you every day. Believe me when I tell you, I’m well-versed in the di Matisse resolve.” He jutted his chin at her, dark stubble gracing his sturdy jawline. “All I’m saying is that if you need a dose of home to get you good and straight, then maybe you should go.”
Carly fought to keep her tone light, but it was calm water over a rip tide. “I don’t need to be anywhere other than here. This is where my kitchen is.” It didn’t escape her that she couldn’t utter the phrase this is home. “You’re right. My mother will forgive me eventually, plus, I’d just as
soon give Travis a wide berth. With the shit he’s been pulling lately, the last thing I need is to run into him by accident.”
Adrian grunted, letting Carly shift the subject while he pulled a container of flour from one of the open-air shelves outside the pantry. “What did your lawyer say about his threat over the show?”
Carly managed a genuine smile at both the distraction from her homesickness and her lawyer’s response. “When she was done laughing, she said she didn’t think it would be a problem. The contract for the show was for one season only, and it was fulfilled. I spoke with Winslow personally to let him know that there was no way in hell I’d work with Travis again. Any future projects he wants me for will have to be solo. Of course, he was surprised, because Travis had given him the impression that things were amicable.”
She paused to do the wince-and-eye-roll maneuver that was synonymous with all things Travis before continuing. “Technically, Travis can still drag his feet over the divorce if he really wants to, refusing to sign anything or agree to any reasonable terms. But in the end, my lawyer can file a motion—something about defaulting, I think. It basically says that he’s being difficult and I still want out. And then the divorce will be finalized anyway, even though it might take a little longer. So I doubt he’ll keep up his tantrum for long.”
The added I hope was silent, but it rang through as clear as Prosecco in a fine crystal goblet.
“I hate what he did to you.” Adrian’s hands were fluid motion, measuring flour with green-gray eyes as hard as glass. His brusque quiet belied something louder beneath the surface, something Carly had only seen once but would never forget. Her chest tightened, but her steadfast will overruled it.
“I do, too, but we have a job to do here. I can’t afford to get upset over it. Plus, soon enough, I won’t have to worry about Travis. I have this restaurant, and I have you and Sloane. It won’t be long before we can all go back to New York. I don’t need anything else.” She put a hand on his thick forearm, interrupting him midmotion. “So don’t worry.” Carly’s words were soft, a direct contrast to her sous chef’s troubled expression.
“Carly—”
Nope. Not going there. “Look, I promise that once the summer rush is over and all of this stuff with Travis simmers down, I’ll think about going to New York for a couple of days. But really. I’m fine.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes, but surprised her by letting it go. “Okay. If you change your mind, just let me know. I’ve got you covered.”
Carly nodded, reaching for one of the loaves of rustic bread she’d pulled from the pantry. Peasant soup and garlic bread were the Italian version of tomato soup and grilled cheese, and her need for comfort food just wouldn’t be quelled without the hand-in-hand combination.
“I will. Thanks.”
The thing was, neither the city she’d left nor the place she lived now currently felt like home. So no matter how homesick she got, Carly didn’t have a place to go.
Jackson eased his truck onto Rural Route 4, Carly’s bungalow receding behind him in the rearview mirror. Nine hours of straight-up manual labor had always been just the trick to knock even the most persistent thoughts out of his head, but the image of kissing Carly in the sunny warmth of her kitchen proved to be the exception to that rule. The familiar comfort of the road home became a quick afterthought in the wake of his brain’s ping pong match between hell yes and are you out of your goddamn mind? Team hell yes was outscoring its opponent two to one.
On the one hand, he didn’t really know what Team are you out of your goddamn mind was bellyaching about. Okay, so locking lips with a client he barely knew wasn’t exactly his speed, but come on. Four syllables into Carly’s sexy Italian monologue and all bets were off. With the way her voice rode the rich curves of the language, any man in his right mind would’ve caved. Never mind the fact that he’d probably kissed her for saying something like, “You’re a gaping Neanderthal” or “I can tell you haven’t showered today.”
So all things considered, Jackson should probably file the whole thing under the category of no harm, no foul and get on with it. It was one mutually exclusive, impulsive as hell kiss, prompted by some sexy banter that would’ve made a dead man wake up and take notice.
Except now that he’d taken notice, he couldn’t stop noticing, which was the crazy part. Unable to help it, he replayed the sensual slide of the words again in his mind, the memory of Carly’s full, provocative lips moving around each sound, drawing him in and making him want to . . .
Jackson’s phone knocked him out of his bilingual reverie, and he jumped in the seat of his truck like he’d been goosed with a red-hot cattle prod. Breathing a mixed sigh of relief and frustration, he fumbled for the hands-free device, finally managing to pop it in his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey man, it’s about time. Don’t you check your messages?” Excitement tinged Shane’s voice in a Christmas-morning kind of way.
“Sorry. I got caught up in this little thing called work. Ever heard of it?” Jackson’s crack carried every ounce of the good-natured tone he’d intended, especially since Shane was one of the biggest workaholics he knew.
“Go ahead, be a jackass. See what you miss out on.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Jackson laughed. “What’s up?”
“You won’t believe what I’m looking at right now.”
He creased his brow, making the turn to wind his way up the mountain. “This isn’t a trick question that’s going to get me into trouble, is it?”
Shane barked out a laugh. “You wish. Remember the guy with the ’67 Camaro I met at that auto auction outside of Carlisle last month?”
“Oh, yeah. He had connections close to here. Bealetown, right?” Jackson asked. Shane had inherited Grady’s Service Garage from his grandfather when the old man decided to retire six months back, and Shane was looking to expand it to include his love of restoring and remodeling classic cars. He’d gone to more than a few auto auctions and car shows over the last few months, and Jackson had been happier than a pig in a puddle to tag along and help make contacts.
“Yeah, that’s him. Well the guy he knew out our way has a pristine 1968 GTO, and he’s been looking for someone to rebuild the engine. He gave me a call at lunch and asked if he could bring it out so I could give him an estimate. The thing is frickin’ sweet. He liked what he saw at the shop and we agreed on a price, so I started to work on it a couple of hours ago.”
Jackson shook his head. “I know you work your ass off, but I swear you have all the luck. Those GTOs are off the rails.”
“Yeah, no two ways about it. Just thinking about the thing kinda gives me a hard-on,” Shane said over a laugh.
Hell if that wasn’t dangerous territory for Jackson right about now. “Well congratulations, man. Only you would land a rebuild on a GTO as your first really big resto job. Outside of your Mustang, I mean.”
Shane’s 1969 Mustang was the best kind of bad, all sleek metal and hard lines. The fact that he and Grady had restored it by hand from frame to fender didn’t hurt.
“Yeah. Bellamy’s working tonight, so I was going to mess around with it for a while. You want to come out and give me a hand? I could use your muscle when I pull out the old engine block.”
Jackson pondered it for all of two seconds. “Sure.” What better way to get back to normal than a badass distraction on wheels. “I’ll be there in ten.”
“Cool. Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Congratulations on striking gold in the girlfriend department.”
Jackson’s breath jammed in his lungs, and he pulled back with a start. “Dude, it was only one kiss!” Okay, so the kiss had been knock-your-socks-off good, but let’s get serious. One kiss, even a really good one, did not a girlfriend make.
“Uh . . . when did you kiss Jenna?”
Recognition slapped Jackson upside the head just in time for him to fill the totally awkward buzz of silence coming over the phone line. “Oh, crap. You meant for the party next week.�
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“I did, but clearly you’ve got someone else on the brain. So, who’s your mystery girl?”
Shane’s knowing grin was practically audible through the phone, and although his tone suggested he wasn’t going to drop the topic without either an answer or an argument, Jackson hedged. The kiss had been a one-time-only thing; plus, Carly was Bellamy’s boss, which ranked high on the awkward-meter. He doubted Bellamy would gossip, but still. He and Carly had agreed to forget about it.
Not that he was holding up his end of the bargain there.
“I, ah. I kinda had breakfast with the woman renting the bungalow out on Rural Route 4. I’m rebuilding her deck. The kiss was accidental.” Jackson cranked the dial on the air conditioning. Man, it had to be the hottest day of the year so far.
“How do you accidentally kiss someone? It’s not exactly like tripping over the dog. Unless . . . oh, please tell me you didn’t trip over this girl.”
“You’re an ass, you know that?” Jackson had to laugh, which was actually a good thing, because he was in serious danger of taking this Carly thing way too seriously. “Of course I didn’t trip over her. The kiss was just an impulsive thing, that’s all. In hindsight, it was a bad idea, but it’s really no big deal.”
“So do you maybe want to ask this girl to the party instead? I’m sure Jenna would understand,” Shane said.
Hell if Jackson hadn’t put the cart before the horse on that one. The big, fat negative that Carly had offered up in response to his invitation rang in his memory, and it hammered home the fact that this whole thing had gone far enough. Getting torqued up over a woman was a bad idea anyway. A woman he barely knew? Even worse.
“No, no, no. I’m still in for taking Jenna to the party. Like I said, this morning was just a mistake. Nothing doing.”
The untruth tasted like a mouthful of motor oil, but Jackson stuffed it down. The only way he was going to get back to business as usual was to man up and actually forget about Carly, the sooner, the better. He swooped in for the full-frontal subject change before Shane could get another word in edgewise.
Gimme Some Sugar Page 7
