Page 18 of Hot and Bothered

Control yourself,Good Girl Jules snapped back.

“Hmm,” he hummed in clear satisfaction. The sensual pleasure she took in watching him eat was soon evicted by a different kind of pleasure. The warm glow she felt when someone tasted one of her humble creations.

Whenever she brought an eggplant dip or artichoke spread to Sunday lunch at the DeLucas and watched as they all plowed through it like they did Tony’s gnocchi or Jack’s focaccia, she felt that zing of victory. She wasn’t a professional chef or anywhere close to the same league as the culinary royalty in her family, but she had something. A spark she felt when she was in the kitchen.

“This isn’t half bad,” Tad said.

“You sound surprised.”

He smiled, a little crooked. “Nothing you do surprises me, Jules.”

“You sure looked surprised when I said I was going to start dating.”

Some unnamed emotion flickered across his handsome features. “I wouldn’t say surprised. More like intrigued. Maybe a little worried.”

“You don’t think I’m ready?”

“I don’t think the world is ready for you, Juliet Kilroy.” He followed it up with a penetrating stare that made her skin itch. The air in the kitchen felt close, oppressive.

“So what are we going to do about it?” he asked in a low voice.

“About what?” Her heart hammered in her chest.

“This amazing talent of yours.” He gestured to the last morsel of the toast and popped it in his mouth. When he’d finished chewing, he spoke again. “What else have you got in your bag of tricks?”

“Salsas, dips…” Things that didn’t require her to read a recipe. Things she could figure out as she went along. Wandering the Green City farmers’ market, she committed the scents and shapes to memory. She felt the skin of an aubergine, remembered that it was purple—just like Malbec—and focused on the shape of the word so she would know it the next time she came across it. It didn’t always work, which was the primary reason why she kept her ambitions to herself. Jack didn’t believe in doing anything by half. He would expect her to attend culinary college and schooling was the worst thing she could imagine.

“I’m so stupid,” she would think during primary school as the letters on the page swam before her eyes. She might recognize basic three-letter words—cat, dog, man—and could sound out some others, but reading aloud was a nightmare. Standing in class, all eyes on her, cruel mouths judging and ready with their taunts at the first stumble. After too many soul-sucking pauses, she would be dismissed to her seat by Mrs. Macklin with her sharp, ferret features.

Tad was speaking and she had to work to focus. “What would you say to putting some of it on the menu?”

“Some of what?” she asked, searching for her place in the conversation.

“This bruschetta. We could try it as a special and see how it goes over.”

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, a slow burn of a smile lifting his face.

Thrown by his offer, she launched at him and molded her body to his. She could still blame the wine, all two glorious mouthfuls, but really, it was the perfect excuse to touch him, absorb all that heat and musk that improved her day by a factor of ten thousand.

“Tad, do you mean it? You’d put my bruschetta on the menu?”

His arms circled her waist and held her fast. Oh…that was nice. She wasn’t quite ready to go so she supposed it was okay to stay here. Hugging her friend. Hugging the hard, hot body of her friend.

“Frankie and Aunt Syl would be happy to look after Evan while you work here.”

Screech.

She stepped back but he still held onto her. Caged in his embrace, she tried to form words.

“Work here? But I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can.”

“No, I can just make the food at home and bring it.”

He shook his head. “Not unless you want to go up against the City of Chicago. It’s illegal to operate a food business out of your home kitchen and it makes more sense to do it here where we’re already covered. Liability issues, you know.”

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