Page 6 of Wrong Number, Right Valentine

“You have your dishwasher face on.”

Yikes. Shimmering with slimy sweat. Not a good look.

“I can see you’re far away, thinking of maybe lying on a beach, the sun beating down.” He grinned. “I get it. I used to wash dishes years ago when I was in college. It’s the only way to get through a shift.”

Oh, how wrong he was. Instead of me getting a suntan or dashing into the ocean to cool off, Reg was in my daydreams. And he wasn’t wearing any clothes.

“You must be pleased with how the night turned out.” Judging by the mountain of dishes that had passed through my hands, the restaurant was packed.

And despite his manger label—which he was—Reg was also the owner. He must have washed a lot of dishes and wiped down countless tables to end up owning a restaurant like this.

“I am.” He indicated the rest of the kitchen staff. “But it was a team effort. I couldn’t have done it alone, and tonight you were a member of the team.”

“Thanks.” Cleaning crud off pots was hardly a talent, but I was glad he was happy with my scrubbing skills.

“You need to eat.”

I did, but how did he know? Was I drooling? Staring at his butt too long? Eyeing his crotch? I’d done all the above but hoped he wasn’t paying attention.

“How did you know?” My face burned with embarrassment, but the whole of me was overheated from being in the kitchen and having Reg so close.

“Chef.” He jerked his head at the man for whom the kitchen was his domain. “Told me you haven’t had a bite all night.”

I snapped my teeth shut, trying to shove out the image of me nibbling on Reg’s cock.

“I’m—”

Reg cut me off. “Don’t tell me you don’t need a meal. You’ve done the work of three guys this evening.”

“That’s kind of you and Chef.” I glanced at the chef, caught his eye, and bobbed my head.

“Good. Order whatever takes your fancy.”

Sweat slithered into my briefs and coated my butt. That would be Reg on a platter, an apple in his mouth and his legs spread wide, his cock standing straight and tall.

“Okay. On one condition.” Sassy wasn’t a good look for a dishwasher, but I’d bet Reg didn’t engage with the regular guy as he had with me tonight. Not that he thought he was above such things, but there were too many demands on his time.

He probably thought I’d mess up and kept an eye on me.

Reg raised a brow.

“That you eat with me. You’ve been bustling in and out of the kitchen all night. There hasn’t been any time for you to put something in your mouth.”

I shouldn’t have said that. It was an awkward way to say eat, and poor Reg shuffled his feet and his eyes grew dark.

“I could eat. What would you like?”

I’d heard orders being called all evening, and I chose the linguine with clams. Reg agreed and Chef told us to sit while the staff prepped the food. Though I wasn’t a fan of Valentine’s Day before coming here this evening, I was hoping there were some cupcakes left over, slathered in pink icing, or the chocolate-coated strawberries.

Who was I? A cynic flipped to a romantic after being elbows deep in sudsy water?

And with both Reg and me eating pasta, I imagined one or both of us with a strand of pasta dangling from our mouths. Hmmm, no, that wouldn’t work. One of us was eating while the other’s mouth gaped as his companion sucked pasta between his lips.

It was too early to do that sillylet’s suck either end of the pasta until we kissroutine. I’d always groaned when watching that on screen. But now I’d do anything to share that moment with Reg.

“The linguine is that good. I can tell by your face you’re anticipating the dish being put in front of you.”

“Exactly.” I managed to get out the one word. But I was lying. I was envisioning something else.

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