All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (14 page)

Cara tried to lose the hurt expression she knew was soldered to her face. As elder aunt, she had looked after several DeLuca cousins and the little scamps had escaped without major injury every time, but her family always acted like Cara might run screaming into the street at the first sign of a baby crying.

“I love playing at glamorous aunt,” she said with a pressed-on smile. Beads of desperation trickled between her shoulder blades. “I get to hand them back and it gives me a chance to wield my nefarious influence while they’re young.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Lili said slowly, and called Jules back.

Cara didn’t do a lot of things: relationships, all-you-can-eat buffets, and camping, to name a few. Yearning was definitely on the list, yet here she went again hankering after things she had no right to.

Shane was to blame. Las Vegas and Stoli were co-conspirators. This morning, she had finally fallen asleep at three A.M. only to jolt awake an hour later from a dream in which she was nursing a devil-haired infant with a dimple. She couldn’t have standard erotic dreams like everyone else; her dreams had to be about birthing Shane Doyle’s spawn!

The sensual dreamscape was reserved for her waking hours. Since telling Shane they were over before they started, her whole body had been in heat like an alley cat, and Lili’s encouragement to go for it was not helping her oversexed brain. Under no circumstances did she want to revive the corpse of their marriage, but a little electroshock therapy wouldn’t go amiss. Just a pleasant release of the building tension with her neighbor…her coworker…
her husband.
Oh rats, when she put it in those terms, it sounded like she should be making a reservation for the nearest padded cell.

In recovery from her disordered eating for almost a year now, Cara had no illusions. She was a ticking time bomb. She knew she could relapse, descend into that spiral and become that woman she hated. The bad daughter, the worse sister, unworthy of her Italian card. Hell, it had already happened. She had lost control and tied the knot with a stranger, a move that could only be described as stupid and selfish. Not so different from old, self-absorbed Cara who bailed when her mom needed her. Her family could never know.

Taking it a day at a time, keeping her life on an even keel, this was what Cara had to focus on. She needed all her love for her family. For herself. There was none to spare. Shane Doyle might have the best-tasting nipples on the planet and his warm, dry hand wrapped around her as they stumbled down the Sunset Strip might have been the best feeling in the world, but it was an illusion. An alcohol-fueled illusion.

Cara wanted Shane more than she wished she didn’t and that was exactly why she couldn’t have him.

Chapter 7

Shane wasn’t sure what he’d expected as he glided quickly up the steps of Jack and Lili’s brownstone on Evergreen Street. Something more palatial, perhaps, not quite so welcoming and cozy. After all, this street, only a few blocks from his flat but far enough off the main drag to be peaceful, boasted two-million-dollar properties. A perfect location for the millionaire rock star chef. He rang the doorbell and then turned to the street so he wouldn’t look like a sad-eyed orphan with his nose to the glass.

The prickle he felt between his shoulder blades as the door opened was his first clue tonight was not going to go as planned.

“What are you doing here?”

Ah, the dulcet tones of the old ball and chain.

He spun around. “I’m here to see Lili.”

His neighbor-wife looked cool and sexy in a dusky pink dress like a man’s shirt that wasn’t much longer. She also looked less than pleased to see him.

“She’s gone out with Jack and Jules to a restaurant opening. It’s just me—and Evan.” She threw a cautious glance over her shoulder as if she expected the infant to come out and defend her from the big bad wolf at the door.

“Lili asked me to stop by with some cake samples for the wedding.” He thrust his bag of tricks in her general direction in case words alone weren’t enough to explain his presence. It wouldn’t do if she thought he might be stalking her. “I must have got the time wrong,” he added, though they both knew he hadn’t. It sounded as though Lili could give her aunt Sylvia a run for her matchmaking money.

Avoiding the bag, she stepped back and waved him in. He gave the situation a millisecond delay before his curiosity overrode his rising annoyance at Lili’s machinations. When would he have another chance to see where Jack lived? Passing through the long hallway flanked by arty seminude photos, he tried to suppress his excitement at being in his brother’s home.

He placed the bag down on the kitchen island and waited to see how Cara would play it.

“Can I get you anything? A drink?”

“A glass of water would be nice.”

While she poured the water from one of those water filtration setups, he drank in the surroundings. The kitchen was, in a word,
da bomb
. Of course, Jack would have something supersonic and this was a chef’s wet dream. All state of the art, gleaming stainless steel. A space that God would be happy to cook in. Joined with the living room in an open-plan style, Shane imagined that the design was right up Jack’s alley. He talked a lot in the restaurant when he cooked, and no doubt, he’d want it that way at home. Cooking for his family, giving them a play-by-play of what he was doing or how last night’s service had gone down.

She handed off the water glass and he took a long gulp.

“What did you bring?” She flapped at the bag of samples, evidently impatient to get him out and on his way.

“A few options.” He withdrew them carefully, each one in takeout boxes from Sarriette. “Lemon angel food with pistachio cream. Chocolate ganache with mint. Pineapple with a mascarpone frosting.”

He had spent his day off baking in the restaurant’s kitchen—he even had to start over on the pineapple after that lughead Dennis mistakenly turned up the oven temperature to preheat for flatbread—and now that Lili wasn’t even here to taste it, he was not a happy camper. He would have preferred that her matchmaking efforts didn’t result in him slaving like a navvie when he could have been…shit, what else would he be doing? Cooking at home and fantasizing about his neighbor-wife, that’s what.

Said fantasy eyed the slices suspiciously like they might grow fangs, jump off the table, killer-spider style, and pierce her neck.

“Want to taste? The planner should have some perks.”

The look she gave him felt like a swipe of her tongue over his lips, giving the distinct impression she’d rather be tasting him. Which made no sense at all, considering how she’d kicked him to the curb. He was just about to dismiss it as a figment of his lately muddled imagination when she yanked out a drawer, extracted a fork, and did something odd. So odd, he had to blink a couple of times to clear his vision.

She eeny-meenied.

She didn’t say it aloud and she didn’t do the little hovering jabs with her fork, but her eyes moved deliberately from piece to piece. Most people were instantly drawn to their favorite because their default setting was chocolate or because anything with angel food sent them into a full-on mouth-gasm. With Cara, it was as though she wanted it all but her scarcely leashed control required a method.

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Catch a cake slice by—Pineapple, you’re it.

She sliced off a sliver, a razor-thin slice that a bird wouldn’t find satisfying, and he watched, entranced as it passed her full, glossy lips. By the second chew, she turned away to the sink and laid the fork down, but not before a triumphant wave washed over him. Because he’d seen her joy and knew he’d had some small measure in contributing to it. He might be a dud as a husband but he could still make a mean dessert.

“You don’t want to try the others?” he asked, knowing full well what her answer would be. Lemon Tart was back from her sabbatical. There would be no more sampling.

“We should leave it to Lili and Jack to decide. Not bad, Doyle. Not bad at all.” She smiled and it was like watching the sun set over Lake Michigan. A burnished glow, but with a hint of sadness because the day was over. Yep, he was feeling poetic.

The part of him that longed for her acceptance perked right up along with his dick. Compliments, especially hard-won compliments from his hot wife, turned him on to a near unbearable degree. He really should be heading out but he was starting to like the vibe.

On the kitchen island lay Cara’s big binder, the one she carried with her everywhere.

“How’s the planning going?”

“Not bad.” She bit her lip. “Would you like to see?”

He’d rather sever his left testicle. “Love to.”

She launched into a recitation of the planning, from odes to the flowers to a pros-and-cons rundown of the five different types of wedding favor she had in mind. Printouts and spreadsheets overlaid with colorful sticky notes spoke to her ruthless efficiency and organization skills. And her excitement. Her face lit up, her hands got busy, she became more Italian. She became more like the woman he had married. Good to know it wasn’t only the alcohol.

She flipped to the seating plan and he placed his palm flat on the page.

“Sorry, I’m babbling,” she said with a breathy hitch that hit him somewhere above his diaphragm.

“No, it’s great.” He nodded at the chart. “I just wanted to see if Uncle Aldo has been pulled out of the penalty box yet.”

The upturn of her lips showed her pleasure that he had remembered.

“I’m looking into special oven mitts to keep his proclivities in check,” she said, “but my main concern is that I’m drawing a blank on unique centerpieces for the tables.”

Centerpieces. Now that was more his speed. “How did they meet?” He knew Jack and Lili’s hookup in a bar had gone video viral, but he wasn’t privy to the details.

“She hit him over the head with a frying pan because she thought he was trying to steal stuff from DeLuca’s. She was dressed as Wonder Woman at the time.” Her small head shake gave the impression
she
would never act so impetuously but they both knew better. Vegas had changed all that.

“Almost as memorable as our first night together.”

The corner of her mouth crept up into a not-quite smile. “Almost.”

“Well, all Jack’s restaurants are named after herbs. You could do something with herbs that people could take away. Put them in British tea tins or Italian wine bottles for the ethnic link.” He rubbed his chin, noting he needed a shave. “Or maybe sugar sculptures.”

“Sugar sculptures?”

He scanned the countertop, looking for a piece of scratch paper. His eyes fell on a handwritten list that, on closer examination, looked like instructions for handling Evan: his favorite story, the temperature to heat the milk to, the name of his pediatrician. Judging by the misspelled words and transposed letters, it looked like Jules might have literacy problems.

On a blank sticky note, he sketched Wonder Woman wielding a skillet and hooking with her lasso a man who bore a distant likeness to Jack. He pushed it toward her. It felt like a negotiation.

With her forefinger and thumb, she drew on her plump bottom lip. “Sugar sculpture requires a lot of skill.”

“I could make them.” When she still looked skeptical, he added, “Would you like to see my résumé, Ms. DeLuca?” He made sure to pronounce it
Miz
and the lift of one perfectly shaped eyebrow told him she got the point. He touched his phone and pulled up some photos. “I did a lot of sugar work at Maison Rouge when we catered for private parties there.”

The sweet warmth of her breath fanned his jaw as she leaned in to look at the photos. He cycled through them quickly so she’d get a feel for his capabilities until she ordered him to stop with a cerise pink nail tap on
the
one.

“I recognize this. It won an award for something.”

“Best Design at the International Exhibition of Culinary Art.” It had been over a year ago but even now, pride swelled his chest. Drawing on Renaissance art for its inspiration, his sugar showpiece took the form of an angelic woman emerging from a sea of multihued glass. That he was the youngest winner ever of the award wasn’t too shabby either. And he hadn’t needed Jack Kilroy to get him there.

“It’s amazing, Shane.” Her brow furrowed. “What the hell are you doing at Sarriette? You don’t have any opportunity for this kind of work there.”

Too true. Sarriette’s events were Mickey Mouse affairs compared to Maison Rouge, and the dessert menu was simpler in keeping with Jack’s back-to-basics vision. But Chicago held other attractions, one of which was invading every one of his cells with her dizzying nearness.

“I needed a change.”

If her narrowed eyes were anything to go by, that didn’t cut it. Ambitious people found it difficult to understand behavior that went against the grain of progress. She took the paper from him and overlaid his crude drawing with a few confident lines.

“It might look cool if Lili was busting out of her wedding dress while she got her superhero on. Like she’s transforming.” This thought sent Cara into a flurry of giggles. “You’re full of surprises, Irish.”

A fizz of something burst between them, making his pulse beat wildly but not unexpectedly. Cara had this effect on him. A combination of druggy highs and nervousness, a fix that would never satisfy. He knew what it felt like now and was beginning to understand its power and how he could rein it in, but even a shot of methadone was like manna to a junkie. He moved in closer and breathed in her perfume. Hot, floral, sexy.