Bad Boys of Red Hook [2] You're the One (18 page)

She could handle a lot of things, but not an apology, not from him, not now—maybe not ever. “Come on. We have to discuss the tasting. I don’t have much time, so I’ll have to use the ingredients I have on hand. Although I’m sure if necessary, I can call a few of our suppliers in a pinch, but they won’t be able to deliver. Would you be willing to pick up a few things? I don’t have a car.”

Logan watched her with concern in his eyes.

She looked around the room and saw that Pepperoni had taken her pants and pulled them up to the chair she liked to sleep on. Great.

“I’ll use Pop’s Jeep and get whatever you need.” He got out
of bed and walked past, bare-assed, stopping only to give her a tap on the backside and a kiss on the cheek before heading to the bathroom. She yanked her pants out from under Pepperoni and gave the little girl a kiss before throwing the pants in the hamper. She pulled her sweater back over her head and tugged on a pair of paisley flannel sleep pants that clashed with her sweater. Oh well, he would be leaving soon anyway. In her experience, once guys got the goods, they didn’t hang around long. She grabbed her chef’s bible, and headed straight for her comfort zone.

Logan stared at himself in the bathroom mirror after having the most incredible sex in his life, and wondered just what the hell had come over him. Temporary insanity was his only guess. He must have imagined it. He didn’t feel things—ever. Okay, that wasn’t true. He felt things for his dad and Nicki and his brothers, but whatever he thought he’d felt with Skye had to be imagined. When it came to women—he cared about them, he liked them, and he enjoyed everything about them, but he’d never met a woman he couldn’t walk away from. Including Skye.

He turned on the cold water and splashed his face. He’d completely fucked things up with her. He’d freaked out and she’d caught him. She’d looked at him as if he’d hurt her, as if she wanted to be anywhere but with him. She’d looked ready to bolt, and probably would have if they hadn’t been in her bed. She had nowhere to go.

He returned to the bedroom and pulled on his jeans. He heard Skye in the kitchen mumbling to herself—she always talked to herself without realizing it. He’d walked into the kitchen at the Crow’s Nest on more than one
occasion, thinking she was in the middle of a conversation only to find her alone. She was a piece of work all right.

He found himself smiling. When was the last time a woman made him smile? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to lose her—at least not yet. He just needed to figure out how to undo the damage he’d done.

Following the sound of smoky jazz, he found her dancing in front of the stove and stirring something that smelled incredible. His stomach growled.

She looked over her shoulder and caught him staring. “I hung up your T-shirt and sweater by the door. I didn’t want Pepperoni to get them. She likes to drag clothing around.”

“I’ve noticed.” Skye pinked up again. “I didn’t mention it before, but I have to tell you how much I appreciate your taste in lingerie. I also appreciate the fact you don’t always wear it. Now, every time I look at you, I’m going to wonder what, if anything, you’re wearing beneath your chef whites.” He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and looked over her shoulder to see what she was making.

“I always wear underwear to work.”

“Maybe we could change that.”

She rolled her eyes and whisked the concoction over a double boiler.

“What’s that?”

“Hollandaise sauce for lobster and spinach omelets.” She shook a frying pan with spinach sautéing and tossed the contents a few times.

“Wow, that sure beats frozen pizza.”

She shrugged. “I thought it would be a nice lunch entrée. You’re my guinea pig.”

“I’d be happy to eat whatever you put in front of me.” He slipped his hand under the hem of her sweater and tucked his fingers in the waistband of her baggy flannel pants. No underwear. He swallowed and closed his eyes, remembering how he kissed every square inch of her stomach, how she came on his tongue, and how amazing she tasted. Just like that, his jeans got tight. “Did you put garlic in there?”

“No. No garlic.”

“Good.”

“If you ever want to eat, you’re going to have to let me go. I can’t think while you’re touching me.”

“Thinking is overrated.” He should know—it wasn’t helping him any. He just wanted to feel her against him, hold her in his arms, make her moan. “Give me a minute. I love touching you.”

“You love eating more.”

“That’s debatable.” He slid his hand out of her pants and right to her breasts—no bra. Thank God. He slid his teeth down the column of her neck and then soothed the skin with his tongue, sucking on the spot where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Skye dropped the whisk, leaned against him, and let out a groan that he felt rumble between her perfect breasts. He was ready to suggest skipping the omelets entirely when she turned in his arms and gave him a shove. “I have a nice white wine in the fridge. Make yourself useful and open it. The corkscrew is in the drawer.” She blew out a breath and picked up the whisk. “If I ruin this sauce, it’s going to be all your fault.”

“Yes, Chef.”

She smiled at that. A smile was an improvement. He opened the wine, poured, and handed her a glass; then he
leaned against the counter and watched her do her thing. The woman was amazing. She worked with an economy of movement, precision, and finesse. She focused totally on the task and fell into a rhythm. It was as if he and the rest of the world had disappeared. He knew how it felt to have that focus turned on him, and he wanted to feel it again. Right after they ate.

She plated the omelets, drizzled hollandaise sauce over them, and grabbed a towel, running it over the rim of both plates before reaching into a bowl of freshly chopped parsley to sprinkle it over the top. “Perfect.”

He had to agree. She was.

“I’d serve this with a fruit salad of Asian pears, red grapes, black mission figs, cantaloupe, and pink grapefruit. Hold on. I think I have some. You find silverware.” She buried her head in her overfilled refrigerator, cursed, and then pulled a tub out and dished up two bowls of fruit salad. She set the table and served.

Logan followed her and held her chair. “Thanks for going to all this trouble.” He sat beside her.

“It’s no trouble. I really love to cook. It calms me. I’m a mess if I don’t get in the kitchen enough.
Bon appétit.
”

He dug in and shook his head. The omelet was amazing. He’d never been a big fan, but this was decadent. “Man, I could get used to eating like this.”

“You know where I work.” She toyed with her food. “I was thinking about the tasting tomorrow. I’d like to do three dishes.”

“Three?” She still hadn’t taken a bite.

“I’d like to do a braised pork belly with mustard and juniper berries, fried crisp, and served with sauerkraut and currant jam. I have everything I need for that. I was going to make it as a special appetizer this week. The
second is a duck confit rillette with crostini, cornichons, and dried cherries.”

“What the hell is a cornichon?”

“They’re small, tart pickles.”

“If you say so.” He looked from his empty plate to hers—she’d taken only a few bites. “Are you going to eat all that?”

“No.” He thought she’d cut a piece off for him; instead, she passed him her plate and continued to nibble on her fruit and wrote notes.

“I thought you were hungry.”

She was still looking at her notes. “Not as hungry as I thought.” He watched her, amazed by the expressions crossing her face, and wondered what the hell was going through her mind.

Her eyes widened and then she smiled—the kind of smile that could steal a guy’s breath if he allowed himself to feel. “How about butter poached lobster served with braised oxtail and potato gnocchi with shellfish butter?”

“Oxtail? Seriously?”

She looked up from her notes. “It’s amazing. I braise it for hours covered in a consommé with garlic, onions, carrots, celery, and star anise. Then I roast it. You’re going to love it.”

“They’re coming for the tasting at one o’clock—you don’t have hours.”

She waved away his objection. “I’ll have plenty of time. How many are we expecting?”

“Five, I think.”

“Good, I planned to braise it tomorrow anyway.”

“You were planning to work tomorrow, beyond preparing the food for the tasting?”

She shrugged. “I was avoiding you, remember? And you haven’t
been following me into the kitchen. Besides, what else am I going to do?”

“I don’t know. Go out with Patrice and Rocki. I know they’ve wanted to get together with you.”

“Only to grill me about you.”

“Oh, so you’ve not only been avoiding me—you’ve been avoiding them too?”

“As if I could. Rocki has no qualms about coming into my kitchen. She stands by the fire extinguisher and stares at me until I talk to her.” She looked up from the book she was writing in. “I’d rather keep this thing between us on the down low. I’m still not comfortable working together and, well, doing whatever we’re doing.”

“Dating.”

She seemed to roll it around in her mind for a minute as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to date him. “Are we dating other people or is this an exclusive thing?”

The thought of her dating someone else had his temper flashing like a short fuse on a pipe bomb. He looked at his hands and realized he’d bent his fork. He did his best to straighten it, then placed it carefully on the napkin, and rubbed his palms on his thighs. He watched her. “Do you want to date other people?”

“Do you?”

“I asked first.” He held his breath.

“Logan, we’re not in middle school.”

“Fine. You want an answer?”

She swallowed hard and nodded when he leaned in.

“I don’t want to date anyone else.” He rose from his seat, pulled her right out of hers, and tossed her over his shoulder and headed back to bed. He laid her down, quickly stripped her bare, and then climbed on top of her. He held her chin and stared into her eyes. “I don’t
want you dating anyone but me. I want to be the only man who knows what you are or aren’t wearing under your clothes. I want to be the only man who sees you naked, the only man you sleep with, and I want to do all of the above often. Do you have a problem with that?” The last came out on a gravelly growl.

She swallowed hard. “No. No problem. I just wanted to know the rules.”

“Good.” Need clawed at him. Man, he thought he’d needed her before, but it was nothing compared with this.

“Logan…”

He grunted like a caveman.

“Don’t think you can pick me up and toss me on the bed and get your way every time we have a discussion.” She yanked on the button of his jeans and his zipper slid down.

“I’m only concerned about this time.”

She pushed his pants down to his thighs. “This time it’s working for you.”

“Thank God.”

She laughed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He grabbed a condom and rolled it on with shaking hands.

“Aren’t you going to take off your pants?”

“No.” He flipped her onto her hands and knees. He didn’t want to tempt fate again and look into her eyes. No, this time he was playing it safe. He raised her hips to his and kissed her shoulder. He had one hand on her breasts, the other between her legs. She was hot and wet and ready. He drove into her in one smooth thrust, and that feeling nearly took his breath away. He was royally screwed.

*   *   *

Logan hadn’t had to sneak into the apartment since he was sixteen. He took the back stairs—the ones farthest from Pop’s room. He even avoided the squeaky top step. As soon as he opened the door, he heard his father’s low laugh. “Foiled again, huh, Logan? When are you boys gonna learn you can’t get one over on me?”

He switched on the light. “I don’t know why I even bothered. I’m a grown man. I can come and go as I please.”

“I assume you’ve been coming with Skye?”

“That’s enough, Pop. My relationship with Skye is none of your business.”

“Yes, it is.” Pop dragged himself out of his Barcalounger and stretched. “She’s my chef.”

He dropped his keys on the counter. “I never said I wouldn’t see her.”

“No, but you said you’d slow the hell down. If this is slow, I can’t imagine what fast is.”

“Did you tuck in Nicki like I told you to?”

“Son, I’ve been tucking in Nicki for months. I don’t need instructions from you.”

“Fine. If you’re through giving me a hard time, I’m going to take D.O.G. and go for a jog. We have a special tasting this afternoon and Skye might need me to run to a few suppliers.”

“A tasting for what?”

“Foods of New York Tours. They’re talking about starting a walking tour of Red Hook and someone in-house recommended the Crow’s Nest. I guess Skye’s food impressed the hell out of him.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”

“No. I figured I’d talk to Bree about it when she returns. It’s a great way to attract new customers.”

“I don’t want new customers. Why the hell would I want a bunch of uptight city people at the Crow’s Nest? We have too many of them coming over as it is.”

“Oh, I don’t know…to increase business, make more money, become a destination?”

“We’re already a destination. We have a great customer base and we’re doing well. I don’t want that to change. I don’t want to ruin a good thing. The Crow’s Nest is a neighborhood joint. It’s a place people come to see a friendly face and eat good food. It’s a place to come for a beer after work or bring a date on a Saturday night. It’s not a place to bring a freakin’ tour group.”

“Why not?”

“Because I own it and I said so.”

“Well, sorry, Pop, but the tasting is on. It’s way too late to cancel and besides, Skye’s worked hard planning what to make.”

“What’s she making?”

“Three things that sound good. Braised oxtail and gnocchi, pork belly, and then something else that sounds interesting.”

“What?”

“It’s good. The woman can cook.”

“Do you think my customers are going to eat oxtail and pork belly?”