The menu.
“The menu,” he said, echoing her thought.
Jillian slid her hands into the pockets of her coat as she eyed him. “It was a special request, Clark,” she said, already knowing that when a patron gave her carte blanche for the side dish with their chicken, she prepared her Lyonnaise potatoes—something not on the menu.
He looked grim and released a long drawn-out breath.
“I am the executive chef, Clark—”
“Of your first restaurant that is part of an international brand,” he said, cutting her off.
Jillian fought the urge to rotate her head to release the sudden tension. “When will the training wheels come off, Clark?” she asked, keeping annoyance from her tone.
He stroked his chin. “When you prove you will not let what happened to your first restaurant happen to this one,” he said.
Jillian stared at him. Hard. Unrelenting. Cold. Even as the heat of embarrassment warmed her belly. “Until you step from under the protection of the Cress brand and attempt to build something on your own—to fly without a net and risk it all—then don’t you dare sit there in your feigned glory and fool yourself into thinking you can look down your nose at me.”
“And yet here we both are with that Cress safety net,” he countered with a smug look.
Jillian gave him a withering glare before she turned to leave his office, slamming the door behind her. She paused on the other side, hating that he was right. She felt constrained by the reins Cress, INC. had on her culinary creativity. Being watched and scolded. Judged and found lacking to some degree.
But here I am.
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
And I chose it over Cole.
Her regret was visceral.
Jillian pressed a hand to her belly as she made her way back to the kitchen.
* * *
The next morning, Cole drove his all-black vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle through the streets of Manhattan, enjoying the feel of the wind as he dipped in and out of traffic. Outside of cooking, he felt the freest on the back of his bike.
He slowed to a stop at a red light, sitting between a Land Rover to his left and a white convertible to his right. At the soft beep of a horn, he turned his head to the right to look through the tinted visor of his helmet at a beautiful caramel beauty with freckles and shocking red hair. She slanted him an admiring smile. He raised the visor to reveal his face.
Her smiled widened.
He gave her an appreciative look just as the light turned green, and she pulled off with a wink and wave. He chuckled before he lowered his visor and accelerated forward as well, guiding his bike between vehicles to leave her behind eventually.
By the time he reached the underground parking garage of the Midtown Manhattan building housing the Cress, INC. offices, he had forgotten the red-headed beauty. The moment of flirtation had been nice, but his focus was not on the sweet intimacies of a woman. Parking his Harley in his assigned spot, he locked it and made his way across the spacious, filled garage in his jeans, boots and a long-sleeved black button-down shirt of crisp cotton. Unlike his brothers, Cole shunned office attire—partly to annoy his father and partly because he found suits constraining and only wore them when necessary.
He rode the elevator up to the fortieth floor. Cress, INC.’s corporate offices occupied the entire floor of the towering building housing offices, a test kitchen, cafeteria, conference room and private dining room for the family. On days his mother wasn’t at her renowned culinary school and worked from these offices; she prepared lunch for the family and staff. He stepped off the elevator and crossed the polished floor, pausing as the frosted automatic doors slid open.
Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzz.
He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his pants.
“Good morning, Mr. Cress,” someone said.
“Morning,” he said, raising his hand in greeting at the passerby as he looked down at his phone.
His mother was calling.
Their Cold War had to cease—he knew that. Especially with him returning to work.
“Hello,” he said.
“Welcome back, son,” Nicolette said.
Someone had alerted her to his presence. The concept of Big Brother had nothing on a curious mother—especially a powerhouse like Nicolette Lavoie-Cress.
“How can I help you, Mama?” he asked, aware that his tone was still cool and distant with her as he made his way down the wide hall to his office. He gave his brothers Luc and Sean a wave through the glass wall of their offices.
“The family is doing an interview and cover shoot for Scrumptious,” she said of Cress, INC.’s flagship magazine.
He entered his office, pausing to take in the sight of the Manhattan skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun was bright and its rays almost blinded him.
Jillian had loved the feel of the sun on her naked body. He remembered mornings she would lie on a yoga mat beneath the loft windows to relish the beams as they warmed her body, giving it a golden glow. Never had he seen anything more beautiful.
“Cole?”
“I can’t make it,” he said, jarred from his memory. “You know I run my food truck on the weekends.”
The chair behind his deck swiveled to the front, revealing his mother sitting in it.
“Rather dramatic. Don’t you think?” Cole asked as he walked over to his ebony desk and set his phone facedown upon it along with his keys.
Nicolette stood, looking beautiful in a tailored black-silk pantsuit. “Not unlike you disappearing,” she said before opening her arms wide and bending her fingers to beckon him. “I haven’t hugged my son in months. Let’s fix that ASAP, Cole.”
He stepped into her embrace, towering over her height.
Nicolette rose on her toes in her heels. “I did things wrong, but I meant well,” she said. “Forgive me?”
Cole stepped back and busied himself pushing his shirtsleeves up his arms before claiming his seat. “Forgive? Yes. Forget? Not yet,” he said.
“Even if my actions revealed the flaw of blind ambition in Jillian?” she asked.
He stiffened as he stared at his mother hard. “You and I will never discuss Jillian Rossi,” he said.
Nicolette held up her hands as if conceding. “We need you at the interview,” she said, switching gears.
“I’m available at any time outside of the weekend,” he said, logging on to his computer.
“Your food truck wasn’t important to you during your...sabbatical,” his mother pointed out as she walked around to claim one of the seats in front of his desk.
“So, you could imagine my urgency to get back to it as soon as possible,” he countered.
Nicolette eased her hands into the pockets of her pants. “When you were a toddler, you clung to me more than any of your brothers—even Lucas once he was born,” she said.
Cole steeled himself. She was going into full guilt mode and pulling at heartstrings. His mother was the best at it.
“You would love for me to pull you in my lap and read to you,” she continued with twinkling blue eyes and a genuine smile. “It was the best. Just me and my little Cole Man. The sound of your little raspy voice asking me to read some more was better than a flawlessly cooked soufflé. Just perfection.”
She sighed.
“What went wrong, Cole?” she asked. “Pourquoi me deetestes-tu?”
He chuckled and tapped his fingers atop his desk as he eyed her. “I don’t hate you,” he answered her question. “I was angry at you for interfering in my life, and I need to make it clear to you not to do it again. It feels disrespectful as a grown man.”
She nodded in understanding. “It is not easy to accept that your boys—”
“Sons,” he interjected.
“Fine,
Cole,” she snapped before releasing a long breath as she balled her hand into a fist and pressed the side of it to her mouth. “You’re grown.”
“Thirty,” he stressed. “Your youngest is twenty-nine.”
“Don’t remind me,” she muttered.
Cole chuckled again.
Nicolette eyed him and then offered the smile that made America love her. “Cole, this weekend is the only time available for Scrumptious’ team to get in and get it all done to make the deadline for the mag to go to print.”
He remained quiet.
She nodded, taking his silence for consent. “Thank you,” she said with emphasis as she stroked her hair, which was fast becoming more silver than blond.
He gave her a brief nod before turning his attention to his emails. His team’s most recent analytics report showed a plateau or steady decline across all online social media platforms and the massive company website.
“I’ll be meeting with my team today regarding a redesign and relaunch of the website,” he said as he opened the site and frowned at its slowness to upload.
“I know you have no real interest in the CEO position—”
“At all,” he insisted.
“My rebel,” she said softly.
He glanced over at her. She was his mother and he adored her—flaws and all. So he offered her his smile.
“Knowing you don’t want it, I’m proud of you for still taking the initiative, and I look forward to hearing more about your plans,” Nicolette said.
In truth, he was looking for a diversion from his thoughts now that he was away from the intoxicating recreation of Europe. The project would help him focus on something else besides...
Missing Jillian.
Nicolette rose from her seat to walk across to the office’s glass entryway. She paused beside his name etched in the glass. “Will you be home tonight, mon fils?” she asked of her son without turning around.
Cole frowned. He didn’t enjoy hurting his mother. He had simply just respected the anger she’d caused in him and allowed himself time to forgive and move on. So he knew his next words would be a blow. “I have a real-estate agent looking for condos...” he began, opening and closing his hand into a fist that he was sure must feel like the grip on her heart. That comparison led him to press his palm flat against the desktop. “Until then, I’ll be staying with Gabe and Monica.”
She stiffened.
Her love for her children was not in question. Never.
“I need privacy. I’m a grown man, but maybe it’s hard to respect that if I’m still living under the same roof as the entire family at thirty,” Cole explained.
Saying no more, Nicolette left his office and walked away. The sound of her heels against the polished tiled floor soon faded.
Cole wiped his hand over his mouth, longing for the days when his life was much simpler. When annoying his father was the most demanding task of his day. Adoring his mother without question. Felt the loyal bond between him and his brothers. Enjoyed the time spent cooking in his beloved food truck. And finding the sweetest no-ties, uncomplicated passion with Jillian.
Now?
Everything seemed disjointed. He felt shattered into pieces and twisting in the wind.
He hated it.
One week later
“You look amazing, Jillian.”
She gave her date a warm look as they danced to the jazz band in the club that had recreated the vintage feel of Harlem. “Thank you,” she said, offering him a smile that belied the nervousness she felt.
Miles Fairmount was the handsome, well-built man who owned the market where they purchased live seafood for CRESS III. After several offers for dinners, Jillian had finally accepted—desperately in search of a remedy for the “I love Cole Cress” blues. She needed all the help she could get.
Seeking a connection, Jillian raised her hand from his shoulder to his nape and leaned a bit closer to lightly rest her forehead against his chest. She inhaled his cologne and closed her eyes as they swayed to the music.
But all she could think of was that Miles wasn’t as tall as Cole, who could easily rest his chin atop her head and whose height forced her to lean back to look up into his face. And his cologne was spicier than the cool notes Cole preferred. Because of Miles’s bald head, there were no soft curls to tease on his neck. His hand on her back felt unfamiliar. They were not moving in sync.
He was not Cole.
Jillian released a heavy sigh.
Miles paused. “Everything okay?” he asked.
Her eyes studied his face. He was a handsome man. A nice man. Successful and charming.
But not Cole.
That blue-eyed playboy has me all messed up.
Miles chuckled and raised her arm above her head to slowly spin her before gently guiding her body back against his. “I don’t have a chance. Do I?” he asked, sounding amused.
He’s insightful.
Jillian offered him an apologetic look. “You would—”
“If...” he offered.
She nodded and bit the corner of her bottom lip.
“So where is he?” Miles asked as he danced them in a circle among the other dancers on the black floor with its red-hued lighting that harmonized the soulful ambience.
“Not with me,” she admitted in his ear, feeling the loss of Cole as tangible as the pain of a deep cut.
“Is he on his way back?” Miles gently maneuvered her into a dip and then lightly jerked her body back up against his.
Okay, this is fun, Jillian admitted to herself.
“No,” she admitted to him.
“Then maybe you should go to him,” Miles offered before he raised her arm for another twirl.
And say what?
Forgive me? Understand me? Have me?
I love you?
But did she want a relationship with Cole or anyone else? Did she want to put her heart out there just to be disappointed? Was Cole worth risking it all?
I’m already heartbroken.
And her biggest fear pulsed with a life all its own deep inside her, causing sleepless nights and nail-biting sessions.
Just because I love him doesn’t mean he loves me.
As Miles twirled them around the crowded floor, her thoughts filled with Cole’s anger. Their fling had lasted longer than expected. Why was he so angry at her? That she’d chosen her career over great sex? Or...
“Miles?” Jillian said. “Can I get a male point of view on something? Is that okay? It’s about him.”
“Sure.”
Although she felt uncomfortable talking to her date about another man, she longed for a male perspective on something that had nagged at her of late. “What would cause a man to be so angry about a woman ending a no-strings attachment?” she asked.
He continued to sway as he considered her question. “Depends...” he began. “Could be I’m an egomaniac refusing to admit a woman would want to end things and feeling I should have been the one to do it.”
That made her wince slightly.
“Or... I cared for her more than even I knew I did,” he offered.
Hope sprung to life in her chest.
“Or... I felt betrayed,” he finished.
Her gut clenched. At that moment, Miles had hit the nail on the head of her assessment and could be called MC Hammer.
“So, if she chose a great job in San Fran offered to her by one of his loved ones to ensure the end of their relationship?” she asked near his ear, her voice tentative.
Miles leaned back to look at her. “He may think you used him for a come-up,” he suggested.
“Right. I didn’t, but I can see how he may think that,” Jillian admitted, feeling so weary that she allowed her head to rest against his shoulder.
Miles chuckled and patted her back consolingly.
Jillian you’re on a date!
She jerked up her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, regaining her composure.
“In the words of Usher, you got it bad,” he said. “The only thing to do is a have conversation...with him.”
It was her time to chuckle. “Am I the worst date ever?” she asked.
He spun her away and then pulled her back to him. “Sadly, not at all,” he said dryly.
That drew a full laugh from her—head flung back and all.
“For tonight, let’s enjoy some good fun and good music,” Miles said. “And when I see you Tuesday at the market, we’ll just share a friendly smile and remember we wished each other well in our love lives...apart.”
“Deal,” Jillian agreed.
Miles took several steps back as he swayed their hands between them. Dance, he mouthed.
She did, holding the flared skirt of her red dress as she gently rocked her hips. It felt good to focus on the music and not work, missing her family or Cole—for at least a little while.
* * *
Cole released a yawn and set his laptop beside him on the bed as he sat back against the tall leather headboard. He checked his watch. It was well after midnight. He had been going through mockups for the new web design and overseeing plans for a massive launch party. He’d been at it all day and long after arriving at Gabe and Monica’s sprawling Tribeca condo.
Wearing navy pajamas that were totally for the sake of modesty while living with his brother and his fiancée, Cole left the bed and crossed the large room to use both hands to open the French doors. The heat of summer was fading quickly as early fall was approaching. He looked down at the street from the towering height, taking in the traffic, the bright lights and the still fast pace of New Yorkers even with the late hour.
There was a time when he would have been among them, searching for fast times and faster women to while away the late hours. Over the last year, Jillian’s apartment had appealed to him more. Just being there with her—laughing, cooking, watching silly television shows, or lost in the heat of their desire for each other—had satisfied him. That year had led to him no longer seeking—or needing—the nightlife.
Harlequin Desire June 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 39
