by Mia Malone
“Yes,” I hissed.
His lips over my nipple formed a smile, and the hand between my legs moved away.
“Not yet,” he told me, and his fingers resumed their soft, lazy slide over my body.
When I tried to touch him, Brody pushed my hands back to the slats, closing his own over them. A muscular thigh shifted over my hips as he used his body to hold me still.
“Not yet.”
He kept it up until I was breathing hoarsely and rocking my hips against him, hoping to hit the right spot to relieve a pressure that had built to where I thought my whole body would go up in flames. Then he moved my legs apart, and I felt him move.
“Finally,” I moaned. “Please, Brody.”
A finger slid inside, and I arched my back as his tongue moved over my clit in a slow swipe. Then it disappeared.
“Not yet, baby,” he rumbled.
When I was ready to scream, he suddenly turned me around and yanked my hips up, so I was on my knees. A firm hand pressed my upper body down into the bed.
“Don’t move.” I heard the rustle of clothes, and then he was behind me. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” I said, and I did.
I wanted him to take me more than I wanted to breathe.
His palm hit my behind with a loud slap, and it burned through my body as he moved his hand over my butt, soothing the sting and sending tingles along my spine.
“God,” I moaned.
“Wait for it, baby,” he said hoarsely, and his palm slid over the place he'd just slapped. “You’ll get my cock.”
Then his palm hit my butt again. I moaned again as he caressed me, and felt the tip of his cock slowly penetrate.
“Fucking you now, baby,” he rumbled.
“Brody,” I breathed.
“That's me,” he said and pushed inside in one long thrust.
He kept a slow pace at first, but when I was whimpering with his every move, he leaned forward and pulled the blindfold away. The only light in the room came from the door, but I twisted my head around a little and saw him. His face was hard and focused but when our eyes met, his softened, and he started bucking his hips faster. I wasn't prepared for it and fell forward, but he followed me into the bed.
Then he moved his knees outside my legs, pushing them together slightly, and hit the perfect spot inside.
“Don’t stop,” I moaned. “God, please don’t stop.”
“Are you gonna come for me, baby?” he growled.
One of his arms came up to hold me in place, and then he started pounding, but I was too far gone to answer, and then it hit me in long glorious waves, washing through me as he groaned against my neck. Then he planted himself deep, and I felt his cock jerk as he groaned loudly again.
We didn’t move for a long time, and when he finally kissed my shoulder, I was too sated to do anything but smile.
“I’m usually not late, baby,” I murmured. “But for you... I guess I can make an exception.”
He started laughing, and his deep chuckle moved right through me, so I smiled again.
***
I was sitting in my favorite corner of the Café with a cappuccino and my iPad. I also had my sketchpad and was supposed to be drawing, but I'd lost all inspiration, so I decided to take a break and browse the internet for a while. Brody and Jag hadn't yelled all day, which was a miracle, and Patrick was leaning on the counter, watching them chop something or stir something or whatever. They were laughing, and the way their deep voices rumbled through the café made me smile.
I went back to clicking aimlessly on various links and was about to go and get another cup of coffee when my eyes fell on the heading of an article. I froze, and stared at my iPad, trying desperately to get my stunned brain to take in what I saw.
Then I squealed so loudly Brody left whatever he’d been doing and came running.
I tilted my head back to grin right in his worried face, and shouted, “There’s an article about the Café!”
“Jesus,” he exhaled. “You scared the shit out of me.” Then my words registered, and he frowned. “An article? Where?”
I told him, Jag and Patrick what website I'd lazily browsed in on, and the name of the woman who had written a piece called, “Waterfront Café in Bakersville; An unplanned visit.”
“Shit,” Brody muttered. “I know that woman, she’s a pretty well-known food critic. She used to live in New York, but I think she works out of Boston these days.”
“But this is great?” I asked when he kept scowling.
“No, babe, it’s not great. There was an incident, and she hates my fucking guts.”
Patrick started laughing, and Jag sighed.
“Did you –”
“I stabbed her with my skewer.”
Patrick stopped laughing abruptly, and we stared at Brody who was watching my iPad as if it would jump up and bite him.
“You stabbed her with your skewer,” Patrick echoed in a drawl that made my brows go up.
I could guess what the tone of his voice meant and didn’t like what I heard.
“Please tell me that isn't a euphemism for your... you know,” I wheezed out.
Brody’s eyes locked on mine, but he barked out a short laugh when understanding hit him.
“Babe. My dick is my dick. Don't do euphemisms so I will not call it a fucking skewer.”
Oh. My assumption that the incident had been of a sexual nature had been wrong, it seemed.
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled.
“I was turning a fowl, and she said something next to me. Don’t know who let her walk in there and wasn’t expecting any goddamned morons in my kitchen, so I turned.”
Oh, God.
“And stabbed her?” Patrick snorted.
“Yeah. It was just a graze, hit the fat in her upper arm. She ran out of there and wrote in the review that I’d chased her with a knife.”
“Did you get fired?” I asked but saw the exasperated look on his face, and added, “Well, what did you do?”
The woman was evidently still alive, but perhaps she would have a minor hearing impairment after the yelling Brody surely had treated her to.
“Called a buddy who’s also a journalist. He told the story from my angle, including the information that I was incredibly pissed off and refused to serve her until she corrected her story. A few colleagues of mine chimed in, and the newspaper made her apologize.”
“Bet she didn’t like that,” I murmured.
“You’d win that bet. She liked the quote about her upper arm being fat even less.”
Yikes.
“What does she say?” Jag asked with a deep sigh and a nod toward the iPad.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t read it?”
“Read it,” Brody ordered. “She's written about my food a few times after the incident, and it has not been glowing reviews, but reasonably fair.”
“Okay,” I said and clicked on the article.
Brody
Of all the goddamned people to walk into his place, of course it had to be that woman. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too bad, Brody thought, and braced as Marie started reading.
“I was driving home through Maine after visiting my parents when I decided to stop for lunch somewhere. Imagine my surprise when I walked into the Waterfront Café in Bakersville and found Brody Baker in the kitchen. For those of you who don’t know who Brody is; he’s the former head chef from restaurants like...”
Marie trailed off, and her eyes widened.
“What?” Patrick asked, and Brody winced.
“That’s a really long list of restaurants, Brody,” Marie said.
“Yeah,” Brody said. “I moved around a lot. Skip that part, babe, and get to where she starts talking about the food.”
Marie scrolled down slightly and then she started reading again.
“I wondered what someone like Brody Baker would do in a small-town café, even one
which is a landmark in the town his ancestors founded and gave their name. Judging from what one usually gets in places like this, I assumed it would be greasy and deep-fried, or at best bland and ordinary, but let me assure you; Chef Baker has not lost his famous touch and runs a small establishment with food of extraordinary quality. Brody and –”
Marie choked and slapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were on Jag suddenly, and they were full of laughter.
“What?” Jag asked, brows high on his forehead.
“Brody and his ridiculously handsome son, Jag, work in the small kitch –”
Patrick's loud laughter cut her off, and Marie couldn't stifle a giggle. Brody glanced at Jag who was rolling his eyes.
“Get to the food,” Brody pushed, and Marie looked down on the screen.
“Sorry,” she murmured, and went on reading, “Work in the small kitchen. They have an easy rapport, and I spotted the usually so grim and demanding Chef Baker smile more than once. Brody's partner Marie is a talented artist –” Her voice hitched slightly, and Brody decided that he’d take whatever the goddamned woman said about his kitchen because of that look on Marie’s face as she swallowed and went on, “Talented artist, whose work is on display in the Café, and she designed the newly remodeled interior. It is cleverly done indeed, mixing a sense of tradition with local charm and a touch of whimsy.”
Marie stopped and swallowed.
“I love her,” she whispered. “A touch of whimsy –”
“Babe,” Brody said and reached for the tablet. “Keep reading or give me that. I told you it looks good in here.”
“Right. Okay... Brody's uncle Jools Martin – who owned the Café until eight months ago – is a charming, elderly gentleman with evident pride in his legacy but perhaps even more in the future built under his watchful eye by the next generations.”
The silence after that paragraph was complete and then Patrick murmured, “A charming old gentleman? Are you sure it’s about this place?”
“Watchful eye, my ass,” Brody growled, pulled the iPad out of Marie's hand and scrolled through the rest of the article, looking for the pieces which actually was about the food he'd cooked.
“Elegant in its simplicity...” he mumbled as he read. “Fresh take on familiar food without spoiling the origin... Perfect balance between keeping the old-style comfort and adding innovative influences from both Asia and South America.”
Then he stopped reading and stared at Marie.
“You gave her a piece of your Thermidor roll?”
“What? Oh, Brody, I know who it was,” Marie squealed. “You made me try the roll, remember? She was nice, and her daughter almost fainted when Jag explained the photos to them.” She turned to Jag and asked, “Don't you remember them?”
“Nope,” Jag said but added with a snicker, “But women faint around me all the time because I’m ridiculously handsome.”
“That you are,” Patrick cut in with mock seriousness.
Brody had continued reading and barked out laughter.
“Babe, for fuck's sake. You called the Thermidor orgasmic?”
“It is.”
“Jesus.”
“She didn’t like it?”
“She agreed with you.”
“Exactly. What else does she say?”
“Yada, yada, we don't take reservations, we don't have a website...” He glanced at Patrick and added, “You'll like this bit at the end; I've been back twice since my first visit, and if you feel like extending your stay in Bakersville into the evening, I recommend the Waterfront Bar, two doors down from the Café. It’s a charming and friendly place run by Brody’s brother, Patrick Baker, and it’s a perfect place to wind down after a day spent on the water or strolling through the charming town with its quaint shops and beautiful houses. A fairly run-down Motel is the only place to stay, though, and it's a three-hour drive from Boston, but this unspoiled gem is a must for anyone wanting to leave the beaten track and relax surrounded by beauty, friendly people and most of all, absolutely amazing food.”
When he’d read the last part, he heard the others talk excitedly but had to turn away and take a few deep breaths. He’d thought he left all that behind. That the glory and praise didn’t mean anything anymore. It cut through him to realize that he still had a piece of that ambition left inside.
“Are you okay?” Marie whispered, and he felt her hand in his.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Didn’t expect to feel –”
She waited for him to continue and he tried to sort through the thoughts bouncing around in his head.
“Not sure what I feel,” he said finally.
“It was a good review,” she stated calmly, “I’d guess pride, satisfaction and probably some nerves.”
“Don't feel fucking nervous,” he countered. “I know the plates we send out of the kitchen are fucking fantastic. But yeah... I liked reading that review a bit more than I expected.” She moved closer, and he pulled her into his side. “She liked your art.”
“A couple of people have asked if it’s for sale,” Jag added calmly. “Told them to talk to you.”
“Really?”
Brody felt like laughing when he saw her surprise. His food was excellent, and he knew it, but she didn’t seem to understand that her art was excellent too.
“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize the woman. She looked nice,” Marie said. “Tall and slim, amazing highlights in her hair. Her daughter looked just like her.”
“Well she was a far from slim redhead when she invaded my kitchen,” Brody muttered. “She must have shed quite a few pounds.”
“Bro,” Patrick murmured suddenly, and stared at the screen. “This article has been shared on social media. A lot.”
Brody sighed and nodded. It would have been, by people in the business who knew him, but also by potential customers.
“We might be busy this weekend,” he said and turned to his son. “I’ll call Mom, she’ll want to read it. After that, we should look through the pantry and see if we need to stock up on shit.”
“Okay,” Jag agreed. “You think a lot of people will drive all the way up here?”
“Might,” Brody said.
He was pretty sure the people he knew down in Boston would start calling within hours, and a few of them would come.
“You should get some of your old colleagues to come and help you out,” the boy murmured.
Brody stared at his son and realized that here was another one who didn’t know his own worth.
“Nope,” he said calmly. “Don’t want those morons in my kitchen. Got all I need already.”
“Yeah?” Jag said with a crooked grin.
He tried so hard to look nonchalant, but Brody saw the flash of pleasure in his son's eyes and promised himself he'd shout a lot less and remember to tell the damned kid that he was good at what they did.
“You do okay,” he muttered.
“So do you,” Jag said after a short and awkward pause.
“You’re killing me with all the flowery words,” Patrick cut in. “Soon you’ll be braiding each other’s hair and sing fucking campfire songs in the kitchen.”
“I’ll leave that to you,” Brody retorted. “He got your cutesy looks, after all.”
Chapter Fourteen
Family stick together
Brody
Two of his friends who were also former colleagues and men who had provided some serious competition over the years walked into the Café. They smirked as they ordered half the menu each and grinned when Brody calmly told them to cut it out, pick one dish each and sit the fuck down.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Brody was about to leave his kitchen and fucking kill the goddamned bastards. The Café was busy but not packed, and they’d still placed their asses at that table in that particular corner, laughing and joking as if they’d suddenly morphed into salacious fucking fountains of charm.
One of the morons said
something of an apparently hilarious nature, and opposite them at the same table, Marie giggled in that adorable way which scrunched up her nose and made her eyes shine.
“Dad?” Jag grunted. “That fish is already dead.”
“Shut up.”
“Are you nervous?”
Brody turned slowly and stared at his son. No, he wasn’t fucking nervous. Two of the best chefs on the east coast were about to eat his food, but he didn’t particularly care. Or, not much anyway.
“It’s as if you want me to hit you,” he growled.
“Go ahead. It might make you stop worrying that Marie will ride off into the fucking sunset with one or both of them,” Jag said and turned to take out a Thermidor roll from the grill. “Focus on the fucking food you’re plating in a second instead.”
Brody closed his eyes briefly and tried to not snort out laughter.
“Wiseass,” he muttered.
“In my genes,” Jag deadpanned.
Then they plated the morons’ food, and Brody called out, “Order up, table eight.”
He wasn’t going to walk out there and serve them.
“Looks good, Brody,” the man said.
“Thanks. Tastes better.”
His friend chuckled as they walked together back to the table, where Brody set a plate in front of Marie.
“You need to eat,” he murmured and watched her face light up when she saw the fish tacos.
“Yay,” she murmured and tilted her head back to aim her happy blue gaze at him. “Thank you.”
He caressed her cheek swiftly with the back of his hand and decided that; Fuck it. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
“You’re seriously doing a Boone on me?” she murmured, and he started laughing.
He had indeed done the human version of peeing on his territory but hadn't thought she'd realize it.
“Of course,” he murmured and turned to the men at the table, ignoring the fact that they were laughing at what probably was the smug look on his face. “Enjoy the food, gentlemen.”
Both men walked over to put their empty plates on the counter when they'd finished, and Brody had expected them to. Here we go, he thought, knowing that neither of them would hold back.
