“You mean the problems he and his family are causing? No thanks.” I turned to leave.
“Miss Affetto, wait. You’re not even curious?”
I looked back at him. “I’ve been talking to Jack Pensione nearly every day for weeks when he stops into The Sweet Spot to harass me.”
“You mean to order lunch? I was with him a few times if you remember,” the annoyingly precise lawyer said.
I lifted my chin. “Just because he ordered food doesn’t mean I didn’t find his presence harassing.”
And by harassing I meant distracting, nerve-racking, and generally a big, hard-bodied, well-dressed, sexy, mental speed bump I cruised over about every five minutes from the time he arrived until he walked out the door.
“Yes. Well, be that as it may, I assure you he is motivated to listen now.”
I turned to face him, intrigued. “What’s changed? He just won the lawsuit I brought against his family. He’s already getting what he wants. Why would he want to help me now?”
“I’m afraid that’s not for me to say,” Mr. Galli said. “He’d like you to stop by his apartment this evening to discuss the matter.”
“His apartment?” I barked out a laugh. “What kind of offer does he plan to make? The Sweet Spot is my heart and soul, but I draw a line at trading sex to save it.”
Okay that may have been a little premature. Of course, I wouldn’t have sex with him just to save the restaurant, but as an added bonus? No. Right. That would still be wrong.
Mr. Galli pulled a small envelope from his pocket, about the size of a business card, and held it out to me. “From Mr. Pensione. His home address.”
I took it. “Thanks. But you can tell him, I pass.”
“It’s your choice. Keep it in case you change your mind,” Galli said, then held up a finger. “I, uh, trust you’ll keep that address private.”
I shrugged and tucked it into my purse. “You bet.”
* * *
“George?” I flicked on the light switch and closed my apartment door behind me. A heart stopping moment later, my brother popped up on the couch. A quick squeal of shock, after that another head popped up beside him.
“Hi, Kate. Welcome home,” George said. “This is my . . . friend Lenny. He’s uhm, staying for dinner. Okay?”
I nodded but I was still puzzling things out and waiting for my heart to start beating again. “Sure. Hi . . .”
“Lenny,” the man with the Russell Brand hair sitting next to my brother said. He stood, offered his hand over the back of the couch. “It’s nice to meet you.”
After a half second brain fart I lurched forward the few steps to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
The gangly man smiled. “So you’re Kate Affetto. Been waiting to meet you.”
I glanced at George. “Really?”
George was staring at Lenny, a bewildered smile lifting his face. Lenny must’ve felt the question weighing in the air and flicked his attention back and forth between us.
“Oh. George mentioned he had a sister,” Lenny said. “I’m an only child. An orphan, actually. Family’s important to me.”
“I can imagine,” I said and dropped his hand. “You like rigatoni?”
“I love all things Italian,” he said and then turned his smile to my brother and winked.
George practically melted and I rolled my eyes. God, the kid was already in deep. I laughed and headed for the kitchen. I’d been taking care of my little brother and myself since I graduated high school and got a job at a local fast-food joint. I was seventeen. That’s when our father decided his responsibility to his children had been fulfilled and left to “finally live his life.” Yay for him.
I’m only four years older than George, but I’m pretty much the only mother he’s ever known. There were tough times along the way, especially back when George accepted that he was gay. He never did tell our father, but the kids at school had a way of figuring out that sort of thing. As his big sister, I protected him as best I could, but in the end George had to learn how to stand up for himself.
I think it made him stronger, more comfortable in his own skin. It certainly made him more well-adjusted when it came to romance . . . at least compared to me. Hell, he’d had more steady relationships than I had.
We’re family. He depended on me to take care of things. I couldn’t let him down. It’d been just me and George for so long, and no one in the world meant more to me. Above everything else, I had to keep The Sweet Spot running for my little brother, to provide the means to take care of him. The Sweet Spot was all we had.
“So how’d it go?” George asked settling under Lenny’s arm on the couch again to watch TV.
“I lost.”
“Guess Uncle Max was right.”
“Yeah, well, I still think it was worth a shot.”
“So now what?” George asked without peeking back at me.
“I’m meeting Mr. Hardy at the bank tomorrow. He thinks he can make The Sweet Spot look good enough on paper to get us a loan. Said it would take a day or two to get an answer.” I pulled out the pots I needed, snipped three basil leaves, and grabbed a clove of garlic.
“A loan for three million dollars?” George made a doubtful snort. “Good luck with that. Hope you have a backup plan.”
“Right?” I laughed, but my stomach suddenly turned sour. I didn’t have a backup plan. The bank loan was my backup plan, and it was a longshot at best. If it didn’t work . . . I’d lose the restaurant. There was no way around it. What were we going to do? How would a keep a roof over our heads?
I exhaled, forcing the worry, and thoughts of The Sweet Spot, and Mr. Galli, the Pensione family and the harassingly sexy Jack Pensione in particular, from my brain. With practiced precision, I started chopping. I mixed and stirred, adding a pinch of this and a dash of that . . . after a few minutes, the magic took me over and I was lost to the sublime high that always freed me when I cooked.
It was better than alcohol, better than drugs—I knew. I’d tried both back when I was stupid. Cooking provided an escape like nothing else. I was more alive, my mind more free, more inspired when I was in the kitchen. Truth be told, opening a restaurant wasn’t just a way to support George and me. It was a way to stay sane.
An hour later I sighed, totally relaxed, setting the big bowl of pasta in the center of the table. “Come eat.”
The guys didn’t have far to travel from the couch to the table. George and I shared a one bedroom apartment. I got the bedroom, George slept on the couch. The rest of the apartment wasn’t much bigger than that, a narrow kitchen with a breakfast bar that overlooked the living room. The dining table was on the other side of the breakfast bar across from the couch. It was a round table, so George sat next to Lenny and so did I.
George and I always talked about getting a bigger place, maybe a house in the suburbs—when things at the restaurant leveled out and it started making real money. We’d never lived in a house growing up. Always crummy apartments too small for the number of people who had to live there. We never lived in the suburbs. And now it was starting to look like we never would.
“Hey. Isn’t that that guy?” George waved a finger at the TV. “The guy. The Pensione guy. Y’know, Money-bags, the one who’s always coming into The Sweet Spot—the one who likes you.”
Likes me? I started at the TV. Sure enough, the camera panned over a glitzy crowd of people coming out some hot new nightclub in New York. Jack Pensione walked at the center of the crush, his arm around a beautiful starlet who’d just nabbed her second Golden Globe award.
“Turn it up,” Lenny said, and George aimed the remote.
“Jack, Jack,” one of the paparazzi yelled. “Is she taking you to the Oscars? Did you give her that ring, Jack?”
Another voice yelled to Jack’s date. “Jen, Jennifer, are you going to be the heiress to the Pensione fortune? Are you guys signing pre-nups? Is he the one, Jen?”
Neither of them answered a single question, but
the show’s hosts suddenly leaped to assumptions when the starlet’s smile beamed and she held up a bedazzled ring finger. She cuddled close under Jack’s protective arm as he kept her near, pushing their way through the crush of photographers to the waiting limo.
“Oh, that looks like an engagement ring to me,” The pretty TV hostess said.
“Jennifer sure seems to think so,” the co-host said. “But then again, this is Jack and Jen. Neither of them have a great track record for relationships. Wasn’t Jack Pensione just photographed with supermodel Elizabeth Norshell, last week?
“I think you’re right, Mark,” the female hostess said. “And it wasn’t more than a month or two before that there were rumors flying about him and the new star of NBC’s latest hit police drama, Blue Heart. Is it different this time? Is the playboy Jack Pensione finally ready to settle down?”
“Hard to say, Nancy,” Mark said. “Maybe Jen’s the one to finally get him to the altar. I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Sorry, guys and gals. Looks like these two gorgeous eligible singles may finally be off the market.”
My chest tightened and I snatched the remote from my brother, thumbing the power button.
“Hey,” George whined. “I was watching that.”
“We have enough drama in our lives,” I said. “We don’t need to let Jack Pensione’s hormonal high-jinx distract us.”
“Sorry, Kate,” George said. “I know you had a thing for him.”
“Pfftt . . . No I didn’t.” Oh God, I think I did.
“Look at it this way,” George said. “At least you were never mentioned as one of his throwaways.”
“Right. Because that would’ve sucked.” Almost as much as never being the type he’d pick to date in the first place. I tried to smile. It wasn’t totally successful.
Ugh . . . I seriously need therapy.
CHAPTER FOUR
“He asked for you,” Brittney said, rubbing her baby bulge. “Should I tell ’im to fuck off?”
“No!” Holy cow, the girl was blunt. “Even if he is enemy-number-one, he’s still a customer. We have to maintain a professional attitude no matter what. We’re better than that sort of pettiness.”
The pregnant teen nodded, tucking a blonde flyaway strand behind her ear. “Right. So you want Lucas to just spit on his burger?”
“No!” I spun and peered between the warmer shelves. “No spitting in any of the food. Ever. You hear me Lucas?”
The small man smiled, nodding. “Si. No spitting. Got it.”
“Jesus, you people are brutal.”
Brittney shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta be cruel to be kind.”
“What’s that even mean?”
She shrugged again. “Dunno. Saw it on a T-shirt once.”
“Not everything you read on a shirt is worth repeating,” I said.
“Noted,” she said on a loud burp that somehow added an extra syllable to the word. Her shoulder’s drooped. “I think I just peed a little. God, pregnancy sucks.”
“You might want to make a note of that, too,” I said and pushed through the kitchen door to the diner.
Jack Pensione sat in the same booth he almost always sat in. Three booths in from the front door, facing the kitchen door with the New York street to his left. He turned from staring out the window just as the kitchen door swung close behind me. A smile shaped his mouth when he saw me, and he straightened a smidge in his seat.
My heart fluttered in my chest and things deep inside me warmed. What was it about this guy that tripped all my girl hormones? Why couldn’t I see that sexy green-eyed grin and still keep my motor skills working smoothly? It was like my base, animal instincts were overriding my brain. I didn’t even like Mr. Moneybags. Not really. It was just those eyes, and that smile and the body . . . Annoying.
Jesus, I was sure I’d friggin’ lose it if he’d come to gloat. “Hello, Mr. Pensione. What can I do for you?”
“Miss Affetto.” He gestured to the bench seat across from him. “Please, have a seat.”
“No.” That came out harsher than I’d intended. I made it better. “Thank you.”
He blinked at my tone and his smile dimmed at the edges. “You didn’t come to see me last night.”
“Did you really think I would?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t you?”
It was my turn to blink, like working through a brain glitch. He was serious. “One, because I’m not in the habit of going to a strange man’s apartment late at night—”
“Galli gave you the message at four in the afternoon, and we’re not exactly strangers.”
I ignored his attempt at derailing my building rant with logic. “Two, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to listen to you gloat.”
“He did tell you I had an offer for you, right? Something that might solve your problem?”
Clearly the man couldn’t grasp the importance of keeping the momentum of a rant going once it’s started. “Three, I’m no home wrecker. I doubt your new fiancé would have approved of my late-night visit.”
“Again, four in the afternoon and, what fiancé?” He was smiling again. God, that was just so annoying . . . and sexy, and distracting, and . . . damn it!
“Four!” Not sure why I was shouting now. “The whole idea seemed pointless seeing as how you’d just won the right to kick us out of our home. The dirty deed was done. No more problem to solve.”
“Why are you shouting?”
Shoot, I was hoping he hadn’t noticed. I cleared my throat and crossed my arms under my chest. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But let’s be realistic. I’m not really kicking you out of your home,” he said. “It’s a business.”
“Not to us,” I said. “Not to the people who work here. We’re family. You don’t understand what this place means to each of us.”
Jack sighed, deflating a half inch. “You’re right. I don’t. But it doesn’t matter—”
“Ha! Typical,” I said, triumphant.
“I didn’t mean it like—” He sighed again. “This would be so much easier if you’d sit down. Please.”
I rolled my eyes and checked back toward the kitchen. The little window at the top of the door was nothing but blinking eyes, smooshed noses and squished cheeks, everyone crushing together to see.
Maybe I was being more difficult than necessary. “Fine. But I have a business to run. I really don’t have time to sit around shooting the breeze.”
“Right,” Jack said, scanning the restaurant, no doubt noting a grand total of three other customers. “You must be swamped.”
“It’s always slow between the lunch and dinner rush,” I said.
“Of course,” Jack said. “Thank you for sparing me a few minutes.”
I didn’t detect any sarcasm so I accepted his apology by way of a one-shoulder shrug. The truth is, it was way too easy to forgive the hottie business mogul. Victory looked good on the man, his dark gray suit perfectly tailored to his hard body, his dark chocolate hair brushed back from his forehead in a silky wave, and those hypnotic green eyes seeing through my flimsy pretense.
“Please. Sit,” He asked again.
I slipped into the seat across from him, catching a whiff of his sweet manly fragrance and that extra something—something earthy, like trees, wet bark and rich soil. I breathed the scent deep into my lungs, letting it tingle through my veins. God, it was friggin’ addictive. “What’s that smell?”
“Excuse me?” Jack stiffened, touching his lapel.
“No. Sorry. I meant you smell weird,” I said, mistakenly trying to speak during a particularly bad brain glitch. “I mean—not weird. Different. But good. You smell good, but . . . weird.”
His smile turned cocky and he lowered his eyes. “Umm . . .”
Crap. Had that sounded more flirty or crazy? Either way. Crap. “By weird I didn’t mean bad. I mean, obviously, you’re wearing cologne so you smell ah-maaazing . . . but there’s some other stink—”
“Stink—?”
“
Smell. Aroma. Fragrance?” I sighed, the effort to seem sane just too exhausting. “You smell like the outside, okay? Like a forest after the rain. It’s nice, but . . . different—weird in an unexpected kinda way.” And for some reason it makes me stupid.
His smile brightened, amusement glinting in his eyes. “So you’re saying I stink pretty?”
“Forget it.” I become an idiot around him, might as well accept it. “What’s this about an offer?” Smooth.
Jack’s shoulders shook once with a suppressed laugh and he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Uhm, this might sound strange but . . . will you marry me?”
I stared at him, sure there must be more coming, or some clever joke I was missing. “I’m sorry. What?”
He shifted forward, leaning across the table, lowering his voice. “Marry me. Marry me, and I’ll stop your eviction.”
I blinked, giving my brain its much-needed processing time. “Aren’t you already engaged?”
He flinched, brows creasing. “No.”
“But that actress,” I said. “I saw you on TV. You gave her a ring.”
“Oh, that.” He shook his head, looked away and back again. “No. She saw the ring. Said she liked it. So I bought it for her. That’s it. We’re not engaged.”
“Does she know that?”
“Yes.” Jack shrugged. “I think. It doesn’t matter. This is different. It’s business.”
“I’m sorry. What?” I was seriously missing something.
Jack looked behind me at the kitchen door. Judging by the frown that flashed across his face, we still had an audience. He exhaled and refocused on me. “You want to save The Sweet Spot and I want to be . . . head of my family.”
“You mean CEO?” I asked. “I heard you and your father talking yesterday.”
“Yes,” he said. “But to, uhm, get the job I have to be married.”
“Wow, really? How archaic.”
His smile tensed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“And I’m guessing it doesn’t matter who you marry,” I said.
Marriage Claws Page 3
