by K B Cinder
Ew.
I pushed off the counter as I untied the strings of my apron. “I’ll handle him. I’m sorry. I’ll do rounds while I’m up there to check on other guests.”
Helen waved off my offer. “Take your time. The afternoon lull is in full swing. He’s the only guest.”
“Thanks.” I hung my apron on a hook and set about handling the bear of a man as quickly as possible.
Hopefully, Helen didn’t think I was in the habit of having friends and family drop in. I was a hot mess, but I’d always taken my work seriously. Sage was out of his damn mind for visiting on my first day.
I rushed into the dining room and froze solid, a smoky, earthy cologne tickling my nose for the first time in months.
My eyes drifted to table four, the two-seater in the corner occupied by a sandy-haired man whose sapphire eyes were locked on me.
I wanted to scream.
To cry.
To throw a salt shaker at his face.
But I couldn’t.
Assaulting—or a-salting—a guest wouldn’t end well.
Helen was my last chance at graduating. Maybe I was speaking too soon, but I wouldn’t mind working for her after graduation, either. I couldn’t fuck this gig up.
I forced one leg in front of the other to walk over as my body buzzed with the urge to run.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, the words falling out in an angry snarl as I neared the table.
Up close, the blue of Slater’s eyes was as bright as ever, though crimson lightning streaked the whites. His once-smooth jaw housed day-old stubble, while his tanned skin flushed red. It was hard to ignore how good he looked, though. Bloodshot eyes and all.
Mother Nature was far too kind to the chiseled jerk. Couldn’t she at least give him a unibrow? A mega zit?
Dammit.
When you see your ex for the first time after the breakup, you’re supposed to look like roses while they look like reheated slop. Since he’d crashed my shift, the opposite was true, a smattering of flour on my hip hinting at a rendezvous with the Pillsbury Dough Boy while my hair was slicked back and my face makeup-free. Hardly a Maybelline moment.
He honed his blue eyes on mine. “I’m sorry.”
Anger kept my jaw from dropping in shock. “I wish a simple sorry would solve my problems, but unfortunately, most of America still wants my head on a stick and thinks you’re a saint. Too bad they don’t know you’re the patron saint of assholes.”
The fucker smiled at my jab. “I had my publicist issue a statement. My fans know you received a bad edit, so they’ll lay off. I’m sorry.”
As half-assed as his apologies were, his voice still turned my insides to jelly, the silky, smooth baritone making quick work of the scenarios I’d planned for in the shower a hundred times. The ones where I’d told the asshole exactly what I thought of him and won every imaginary argument to a standing ovation of shampoo bottles.
“Why are you here?” I demanded, regaining my footing.
He seemed to cringe at the bite to my voice, but I didn’t care. “To apologize in person. For everything.”
“You had a show to run,” I fired back with an eye roll. “Drama sells, right? Well, I hope you’re happy with Staci.”
She and her perky sweater chickens probably looked great on his arm.
Annoyance flashed in his eyes. “I’m not with Staci; I haven’t seen her since that night. I was scripted to pick her. She was supposed get her own show when we conveniently broke up.” He stuck finger quotes around broke up as he spoke. “Having an uncle in Hollywood pays off.”
Wasn’t that convenient? What a damn liar. “Oh, sure. You two looked cozy after you said her name.”
A dramatic groan poured from between his lips as he lulled his head back. “I hugged her; that’s it. It was a show for the cameras.”
“Sure, Slater.”
He was so full of it. They totally kissed. Staci ran up to him, he wrapped his arms around her, and they… what did they do? Shit. I hadn’t seen them kiss. I was too busy crying my face off. Regardless, he still picked her.
“You deserve to know what really happened, so here I am. I wouldn’t fly here to lie to you.”
Pft. He was acting like he was the pot of gold at the end of the shit rainbow.
“Is that all?”
He laughed, the low purr sending goosebumps skittering across my skin. “Tough crowd, huh?”
“You picked another girl over me, then went radio-silent for oh, what, nine months?” I shot back. “I acknowledge your apologies, but frankly, you can shove them up your ass. Too little, too late, Slater.”
“Slater?” he echoed, leaning back in his chair to look up with a grin. “Am I supposed to call you Nunes?”
Those bedroom eyes and that easygoing smirk made him sexy enough to pounce.
Jesus, what was wrong with me?
I should have kicked the chair legs out from under his lying ass.
“I’d prefer that you didn’t call me anything,” I replied, casting a nervous eye at the kitchen door. God, I hoped Helen wasn’t listening. “I’m busy, and I need to get back to work.”
“Let me take you to dinner tonight.” He flashed the smile that once made my knees weak.
Fortunately, they’d gotten a lot stronger since lifting me to stand again after he plowed me over with lies.
“I’d rather not,” I said, stepping back on the heel of my ugly kitchen shoes to flee toward the kitchen. “Later, Slater.”
8
Theron
Hot. Damn.
I watched the ass I’d dreamed of for months sashay away as Talita stormed into the kitchen.
My cock swelled to life, my jeans suddenly tighter under the flimsy wooden table. What I’d give for another night with her. A night that would never happen again with the straight-up hate in her eyes.
Fuck.
I wasn’t sure what I expected when I walked in the doors of the gaudy restaurant, but for whatever reason, flat-out rejection wasn’t on my short list.
I was too goddamn cocky.
That, or just plain stupid.
Tracking her down was relatively easy thanks to Vince. My manager was more like a bloodhound than a man when it came to getting what I needed on a time crunch.
Now that I’d gotten what I wanted and apologized, I was second-guessing the decision. I wanted more.
She was radiant in her natural habitat, the superficial layers of Hollywood stripped away. Heavy makeup no longer hid her bronze skin, allowing her cheeks to flush that sexy pink shade and reveal just as much as her deep brown eyes. Those wild curls she’d hinted at were back, though secured in a tight bun I longed to undo. I’d give my left nut to run my fingers through it.
A heartbeat after Talita disappeared behind the swinging metal door, the tiny woman who’d served as hostess reappeared, a pink apron now shielding the yellow plaid pants that had blinded me upon entry.
“You should never upset the chef,” she warned, the smile hinting on her lips not matching her words. “You never know what’ll end up on your plate.”
“She’d never spit in my food.”
I was fairly certain she wouldn’t, at least. Talita wasn’t the kind of person to fuck with people’s food. She would feed her worst enemy a culinary masterpiece with a smile just to flex her kitchen muscles.
The woman neared, a mischievous twinkle that edged on uncomfortable shining in her eyes behind a pair of massive glasses. “You sure about that, tater tot?”
“Tater tot?” It was strange enough that the woman didn’t recognize me. Paired with the nickname, we were in another realm of weird.
An exasperated hand landed on her hip as she cocked it to the side, mimicking Talita’s earlier stance. “Yeah, tater tot. Now, what can I get you from the kitchen?”
“Oh, uh…” I reached for the menu she’d traded for my name when she’d seated me. A name she hadn’t given to Talita, or the curly-haired goddess wouldn’t have come out of th
e kitchen willingly. “What do you recommend?”
“What are you in the mood for?” she asked, her lip twitching. “I don’t have all day to decide for you. I’m not your mother.”
Well, fuck. Things were quickly going from bad to worse. The women of Agatha were immune to the charm I relied on.
“Something sweet.” I was picky as hell, but you couldn’t go wrong with sweet. Unless it was licorice, but I doubted that was on the menu.
“You’re in luck. The chef is preparing a fresh batch of loukoumades. I’ll grab an order for you.” She extended a hand for my menu, the thick watch on her wrist matching her over-the-top pants.
I handed her the menu, thoroughly confused what the hell she’d just said. “Luke-ah-whats?”
Mediterranean cuisine wasn’t high on my favorites list. I had the palate of a toddler, and anything fishy wasn’t happening.
Fuck. Talita knew that.
The woman plucked the menu from my grasp with a scowl. “It’s a donut. You’ll like it. If you don’t, you’ll still eat it.”
Hopefully not a fish donut.
“That’s awfully presumptuous.” I wasn’t sure what happened to the sweet grandma that greeted me, but she could make a reappearance at any time, and I’d be a-okay with it. The latest version seemed more likely to smother me than mother me.
“Not eating is an insult to the chef, and based on the zing in the air, something tells me you don’t want to insult her.”
I blinked. The zing?
She didn’t give me a chance to ask what she was talking about before fleeing to join my heart in the kitchen.
Sweetness replaced that so-called zing in the air when the woman reemerged with a plate held high a few minutes later. I had no idea what was coming, but it smelled like heaven, and my mouth started watering like a goddamn Saint Bernard.
“When I make loukoumades, they’re made with love. I can’t promise these were, but I can tell she made them with care. Talita is talented with her hands.”
Very talented. Talita was the only woman who’d ever made me cum from a handy, and that was a feat.
I forced away the dirty thought as she lowered the plate in front of me.
My eyes feasted on the hunks of dough, the golden spheres dripping with honey. Two large ones sat closest to me, side by side, while a trail of three smaller ones crept up the plate. A spurt of honey and powdered sugar seemed to erupt from the top, spraying into the vacant space of the white plate like a volcanic eruption.
It looked as good as it smelled, but something about the shape seemed odd. The large, rounded base. The way the other pastries formed a line, the top piece almost mushroom-like.
Wait.
“Is that a…?” My eyes drifted from the plate to the smiling server.
The woman’s giggles answered the question for me.
A pastry penis stared up at me, its balls glistening in the light as ground pistachios formed a makeshift bush.
Once the momentary shock wore off, a rumble of laughter bubbled in my chest. “Give my compliments to the chef,” I said with a grin. “She’s an artist.”
Dick or not—the food looked great.
A saccharine smile washed over the woman, the friendly, grandmotherly facade returning. “She wanted to put a few in a bag, but a plate is a more suitable vessel for a restaurant, don’t you think?”
I nodded, the smile hurting my cheeks as something else dawned on me. “She wanted to feed me a bag of dicks.”
God knows she’d told me to go eat one a hundred times during heated matches of Call of Duty late at night.
She nodded as she backed away from the table. “Sorry to disappoint, but a plated pecker will have to do. Don’t stuff too much in your mouth at once. You’ll gag.”
* * *
Talita never reappeared, and the woman wouldn’t relay any information about her despite my best attempts at prying. From what Vince had said, she’d just started at the restaurant, so the woman likely didn’t know much about her.
I paid and left after devouring the pastry penis, choosing to wait out Talita’s shift in the parking lot. I had a script to learn, and my rental car was comfortable enough to relax in, so I welcomed the downtime.
Creepy? Maybe. But I needed to talk to her more. I couldn’t explain why. She felt like home, and I needed as much of that warmth as possible before jetting off to hell again.
Overall, the upcoming season of Sinners sounded promising as I read, a few lingering loose ends finally tied up. The new writer on the team paid off, and for once, my character didn’t sound like a second-coming of Shakespeare rolling on ecstasy.
With the season reviewed and the first episode mainly to memory, I caught a flash of espresso curls out of the corner of my eye.
I tossed my phone into the passenger seat and hopped out, not wasting a second as her slender hips sauntered toward a silver sedan under a lamppost. “Lita!”
She stopped, her shoulders dropping as she took in a ragged breath. She’d released her hair from its updo, revealing a heap of corkscrews. “Leave me alone.”
I shut the car door, leaning against the side of the vehicle. “We need to talk,” I said, the statement hanging between us as she remained frozen in place. “Please.”
She glared over her shoulder; the wind whipping her curls as her full lips formed a hard line. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, I have a lot to say to you.” I kicked at the asphalt, trying to keep the word vomit at bay. “Let’s grab dinner.”
“You’re still hungry?” she asked, the corners of her mouth hinting at a smile. “I thought you’d be stuffed.”
A laugh fled my lips to gallop between us. “You gave me a mouthful earlier.”
Her shoulders shook with a trapped giggle as she looked away, her cheeks flushing red while her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Nice role reversal, huh?” I teased. “I have a newfound appreciation for your skills.” Foot meet mouth. God, I was an idiot.
Her cheeks rosied more at my words, and she tucked a curl behind her ear.
That zing the hostess spoke of was suddenly apparent, the electric pull white-hot between us. Time might have passed, but nothing had changed.
“I really need to get going. I’ve been on my feet all day.”
I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “All the more reason to grab dinner with me. Let someone else do the cooking and relax.”
“I can’t relax around you,” she admitted, shifting weight between her feet.
“But a sink full of dishes at home sounds good? Look, I know I’m a jackass. Let me do something nice for you.” The urge to rush over and pull her close struck in waves, forcing my hands into fists.
I’d give her the stars if I could, but dinner was a start. If we had more time, I’d charter a helicopter and fly her to New York for the night. But I’d sold my soul to fix everything, so that pesky little thing called time was running out.
Her mouth contorted as if she were tasting the decision on her tongue, her lips looking more than kissable.
Nope. Not going there.
I was in town to talk. That’s it. My lips, hands, penis, and otherwise were out of service.
“You can’t go anywhere without a crowd gathering,” she stated, knocking sense into me as she did.
Son of a bitch.
My palms clammed up as desperation set in. “I’m not opposed to takeout. How’s lo mein sound?”
She could eat diamonds while I ate dirt for all I cared. Nothing mattered as long as I had time alone with her.
She eyed me warily, her fingers flexing on her leather purse strap. The desire to run was all over her face, but her feet remained firmly planted on the asphalt.
“I’ll give you my fortune cookie…”
Please. I’d give her an actual fortune if that’s what she wanted. I had enough zeros in my bank account to handle it.
She rocked back on her heels, a tiny smile
spreading to set my nerves at ease. “Only if I get an egg roll.”
9
Talita
What the hell, Lita?
Sucker was officially my new middle name after falling for Slater’s charm all over again.
Pathetic was likely a better fit, but I needed to keep a shred of dignity for the road.
I mentally kicked myself the whole way from the restaurant to my apartment, each glance in the rearview mirror confirming that I wasn’t dreaming. That Slater really was there in the flesh.
My kryptonite followed in a rental car, the modest sedan the opposite of his usual Maserati. That didn’t seem to make a difference as he drove, still tailing my ass close enough that I debated brake-checking him once or twice.
While he parked in the visitor’s row at my complex, I waited outside of my car and wondered what the hell was wrong with me as the seconds passed.
Countless self-administered pep talks went out the window at the slightest bit of pressure. I gave in for a damn egg roll for crying out loud.
Maybe I deserved Pathetic as a middle name. Talita P. Nunes. TPN. At least it didn’t spell out anything terrible. Though it did sort of look like a shorthand for tampon.
Slater wandered over, his hands tucked in the pockets of a black leather bomber jacket. His hair was longer than I remembered, the sandy waves falling around his face, rebelling from the movie-star tousle.
“Thank you for the dong donuts.”
I pulled my jacket close as the wind picked up. “Glad you liked them.”
The phallic art wasn’t entirely my idea, with Helen egging me on to make something raunchy as she handed me the order ticket. She’d known he was the reason behind our pie baking without asking, even when I’d tried to explain him away as a nosy family friend.
Slater stopped when he was an arm’s length away, his cologne bridging the distance between us. “You should teach me how to make them sometime.”
“I’ll text you the recipe.”
He let out a husky laugh. “I won’t have time for a while, so we’ll have to hold off on that.”
