Bad Boys of Red Hook [2] You're the One (19 page)

“If Skye makes it, they will. Pop, this is important to her.”

“Fine. But you’re going to be the one to tell Bree that she’s going to have a freakin’ tour tromping in at all times.”

“Bree will be fine with it.” He hoped. He’d seen Bree with a mad-on and he certainly didn’t want her to put him in her sights. Her aim was way too accurate.

“Yeah, well, if I were you, I’d start praying now.” Pop walked right up to him and looked him up and down. “So, you and Skye are together now?”

“Yeah.”

“Has she told you what she was running from yet?”

“No.”

“So the lady keeps her cards close to her vest even with you two being together. It’s a rough way to start a relationship. Secrets are never good.”

“They’re not always bad.”

“Then why keep ’em?”

He shrugged—Pop didn’t look all that concerned. “What do you know? Did you run a check on Skye?”

“Damn straight I did.”

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing that I’ll share with you. That’s privileged information. If you want to know so badly, you’re going to have to get it from her.”

“I’ve tried. She said it’s personal.”

“And the fact that you’re sleeping with her doesn’t change things? Why do you think that is?”

Good question. “It’s complicated, Pop.”

“Relationships always are. Is she the only one keeping secrets?”

“I’ve been straight with her from the get-go.” Except for the weirdness whenever he touched her. Yeah, the second time around he realized it wasn’t only looking into her eyes that did it. He didn’t know what the hell it was. All he knew was it freaked him out—just not enough to stay away from her. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but whatever it was, he wished it would go away.

Pop smiled at him like he knew something Logan didn’t. “Oh, I see how it is.”

“You see how what is?”

His smile just got wider and he rubbed his hands together. “Shit, boy, if you can’t figure it out, I’m sure as hell not gonna be the one to tell you. You’re smart—I know your IQ, remember? You’ll put it together eventually.”

“Give me a break, Pop. Will ya?”

“I am, son. Now you go ahead on your jog. I’m going to turn in. I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

“Yeah, so am I.” He went and changed, got the dog out of Nicki’s room, and took him for a five-mile run. It hadn’t helped. Nothing took away the feeling that he was in way over his head this time.

Shit, one trip back home and now he was emotionally attached to a ten-year-old girl, the lover of a woman who had more secrets than the CIA, and the son of an ex-cop bar owner who was pissed as hell at him. He was triply screwed.

*   *   *

Skye came awake slowly and felt as if her head were on a hairy pillow—but Logan wasn’t hairy. A snort had her opening her eyes and she realized she was using Pepperoni as a pillow and not Logan. “Sorry, sweetie.” She pulled the sleepy puggle into her arms, avoided Pepperoni’s mile-long tongue, or tried to anyway, and looked for Logan. He was nowhere to be found. She listened to the quiet of the morning. It didn’t sound as if he was even in the apartment. He probably had to get home before Nicki awoke.

She stretched and hurt in places she didn’t know she had, but couldn’t erase the smile on her face. Logan had been insatiable and she’d learned that, with him, so was she. She felt great and would feel even better after taking a long soak in a hot tub.

She got out of bed carrying her chef’s bible with her and looked over her schedule for the day. She had a plan, and her plan was going to take some time to make happen. She went straight to the kitchen to make coffee and clean up the mess she’d made, only to find it spotless. She did love a man who knew how to clean a kitchen. Okay, not loved—but liked a whole lot.

Logan had definitely made up for the weirdness after their first time. And by the fourth time, he looked as if he’d gotten over whatever it was that had bothered him—either that or she’d just been too exhausted to notice and too fulfilled to see straight. She’d curled up on top of him and slept like the dead.

By the time she’d bathed, dried her hair, and fed and walked Pepperoni, she was running late. She pulled her sweatshirt around her and shivered. It was time to go shopping for a coat—after her next paycheck. She ran into the kitchen of the Crow’s Nest, started the coffee, and prepped vegetables.

An hour later she had the pork belly and oxtail braising, and the potatoes were almost ready to go into the vegetable mill to make gnocchi. She considered calling in one of her line chefs—Enrique had said he’d welcome more hours—but she wasn’t in the mood to share her space. No, today, more than ever, she needed her kitchen all to herself. And making gnocchi was always relaxing. Besides—she looked over her notebook—there was nothing she couldn’t handle on her own.

*   *   *

Logan lurked outside the kitchen listening to Skye talk to herself. She was a piece of work all right. He just hoped she wasn’t pissed at him for leaving without saying good-bye. He’d thought about it, but she’d looked so
cute curled up with the puppy, he didn’t have the heart to wake her. He thought cleaning the kitchen would make up for any points he lost by not leaving a note—he’d tried to write one, but couldn’t come up with anything that hadn’t sounded trite.

He stepped inside the kitchen and waited for her to finish dropping what looked like dough into boiling water. “Good morning, beautiful.”

She jumped and brought a floury hand to her chest. “You scared the crap out of me, Logan. Don’t you know not to sneak up on people in a kitchen? We have sharp knives.”

“Sorry.” He pulled her hands away from her chest, ignoring the flour he was sure would dust his black sweatshirt, and brought them around his waist, then nuzzled her ear below her baseball cap. “I thought you’d hear the swinging doors. I came to ask if you needed me to make a supply run.”

“No, I called and Dave is going to drop off a half-dozen lobsters. I was able to catch him before he left.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

She looked into the pot and gave it a stir. “I need a bucket of ice.”

“Ice.” He was about to give her a kiss when she shoved a five-gallon bucket into his chest.

“Now. I’m going to have to pull these out in a minute and I need to drop them in ice water to stop them from becoming overcooked.”

“I’m on it, but I want a rain check on the kiss.” He didn’t wait for her response; he just took the bucket and headed to the ice machine, wondering if she’d ever had sex in a restaurant kitchen. After all the sex they’d had last
night and this morning, he should be sated. Hell, he should be incapacitated. He shouldn’t want to take her on the worktable and run ice cubes all over her squirming body—at least not yet.

He might as well have disappeared after pouring the ice into a container of water. Her total focus was on the gnocchi she transferred from the ice water to a tub. She ran from the stove to the walk-in and back to stir whatever she had boiling.

He turned, not bothering to say good-bye—she was already talking to herself. Her complete focus was on her task. He didn’t take it personally.

He stepped out of the kitchen, heading to the office to take care of the liquor order, when the sound of glass breaking made him take a detour. He cursed, grabbed the broom and a dustpan, and found Rocki practically hanging over the bar—her head and arms reaching over the service side, and her ass on the customer side. He’d recognize that ass anywhere—it was encased in black leggings, and her feet were hanging down.

“Shit.”

One of her heels had fallen off and the other was hanging from her toes. At least the glass—make that glasses—she’d broken were behind the bar.

“Rocki, what the hell are you doing?”

She arched her back to peer at him through blond and pink bangs. “I was trying to get a glass.”

He peered over. “Looks as if you got a few of them.”

She blew the hair out of her eyes. “I was going for a soda.”

He bent down and grabbed the stilts she called shoes. “You know, you could actually go behind the bar. That
way you wouldn’t drop your shoes or our glasses.” He helped her down and handed over the heels. “I saved the shoes, but the glasses, I’m afraid, are a total loss.”

Shaking his head, he grabbed the broom and dustpan, ducked under the pass-through, and cleaned up her mess. He’d been cleaning up after Rocki ever since he’d arrived. The woman was a walking disaster. He emptied the dustpan into the trash and washed his hands. “So, what can I get you?”

“Seltzer with lime.”

He tossed a glass in the air and caught it. He’d already prepped the bar for the tasting, so he reached for the ice and poured, and then grabbed a lime and rolled it on the cutting board—knife in hand.

“So, you and Skye, huh? That certainly didn’t take long.”

He almost sliced his finger off. When he got the guts to look at Rocki, she didn’t have to tell him; the jig was definitely up.

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and shot him a don’t-even-try-to-deny-it look.

Skye was going to be so pissed. If Rocki knew, it meant she’d alerted Patrice, who worked faster than the Associated Press. “Fuck.”

“I should hope so, considering how long you were gone last night.”

He shook his head. He didn’t even want to ask.

“Nicki was worried about you. She called me to chat this morning. So, you got home at four and had words with Pete, and then took D.O.G. for a run? Like you didn’t get enough exercise last night? Your stamina is impressive. But then I had a feeling you would be.”

What was a guy supposed to say to that? He had no clue and cursed the fact that his ears were burning.

Rocki obviously relished his discomfort, if her cat-in-the-fishbowl smile was anything to go by. “When I told Patrice, we decided to give you a break—after all, Skye’s a huge improvement over that Payton chick. It didn’t take long for you to dump her when she got here.”

“Look, Payton and I just didn’t work out. She’s not a bad person, she’s just not the one for me.”

“Yeah, it’d be like loving a mannequin with the personality of a Stepford Wife.”

“Rocki, that’s enough. This thing with Skye is—”

“Hot?”

He raised an eyebrow.

She leaned forward. “Just a tip: The next time you play with chocolate cake and whipped cream, you might want to clean up after yourselves. Simon said you went through a full can of Reddi-wip. Kinky.”

Logan cringed. “We had help with the whipped cream.”

Her mouth formed an O and her eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs. “Intriguing.”

“Not that kind of help. Damn, you’ve got a dirty mind. Let’s just say Pop has a real gift when it comes to killing the mood.”

“Coitus interruptus?”

“No. God, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

“The kind with a Y chromosome. Logan, women have to be in the mood; men just have to be breathing.”

She had that right. Still, he didn’t think he would have taken Skye on the bar. At least that was what he told himself, but after last night, he wasn’t too sure. “So what are you doing here?”

She smiled at him—the kind of smile that made a man want to protect his privates. “I’m meeting Patrice.”

He groaned. “No, give me a break, Rocki. Don’t go
causing problems between me and Skye. She’s still weirded out about the whole working-together thing.”

“Yeah, about that.” She placed her elbow on the bar to hold up her chin and then tapped hot pink nails against her cheek. “How did you two get together anyway? When she first started here, she didn’t even like you.”

He thought back to the first time he touched Skye and damned if he didn’t have a shit-eating grin on his face. “Oh, she liked me all right. She just didn’t want to. She still doesn’t. So do me a favor, will ya? Just leave it alone.”

There was a knock on the door. Rocki jumped off the stool and ran—her stilts tapping against the hardwood like a woodpecker—loud and annoying. She threw the lock and Patrice stepped in.

“Thank God for home day care.” Patrice’s eyes met his and she didn’t even try to hide her you-got-trouble smile. “Heard you’ve been a busy boy, Logan. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to meet your ex. It’s a good thing Rocki filled me in. She texted me pictures and everything.”

“Great. Thanks, Rocki.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“So.” Patrice tossed her purse on the bar. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?” Okay, so he was playing dumb. What else could he do?

Patrice shook her head. “It won’t work. It doesn’t even work for my husband and he’s got skills. I take it Skye’s in the kitchen?”

“Leave her alone, Patty, or I’ll have to call Francis.”

She smiled and all the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

He wanted to bang his head against the bar—repeatedly. “Francis is on his way here now, isn’t he?”

Patrice checked her watch. “He’ll be here any minute.”

The door swung open and Logan’s refrigerator-sized friend stepped in.

“Francis.” God, what else was going to happen? This was Skye’s worst nightmare and it was quickly becoming his too.

“Hey, Logan.” He shot him a she’d-tie-my-dick-in-a-knot-if-I-didn’t-show look. The man was blushing like a schoolgirl on her first date. “I heard you and Skye—”

“Stop!” Logan slid under the pass-through. “Shit. It’s like I’ve died and gone to hell.”

Francis smacked his hands against his gargantuan thighs and shook his head. “Man, is Skye making you sleep on the couch already?”

Kitchen doors slapped shut. “No, but I might. What’s going on here?”

“Skye.” Every muscle in Logan’s back and neck seized. He spun around feeling like a puppy that had been whipped, and its master had just come through the door with a new belt. Holy shit. He was acting like Francis.

Skye looked from Rocki to Patrice to Francis, but her gaze didn’t rest until it seared Logan’s retinas. She didn’t know what the hell was going on, but she knew it wasn’t good. Especially since it appeared that everyone and their uncle knew she and Logan were sleeping together. Okay, not sleeping—she’d barely gotten any sleep, at least not enough to deal with this situation. She was going to kill him.