Page 9 of Feel the Heat

“Did you want to hear about the specials?” the cousin asked, vying for his wandering attention. Without waiting for a response, she launched into a recitation of the additions to that night's menu.

“We have two special appetizers tonight—funghi arrosto, which are wood-roasted mushrooms with pancetta, and polpettine arrabbiate. That’s veal meatballs in a spicy sauce.” She leaned in and pushed her hair back behind her ear, a gesture that reminded him of Lili.

Christ, now he was being reminded of her?

“The meatballs are spectacular.”

“I’m sure they are,” Jack murmured, indulging in a dutiful gander at her cleavage before diverting his gaze around her to eye up Lili.

“Next up for primi are two special pastas. First we have ricotta gnocchi with sage and butter sauce.” She pulled a card from her apron and consulted it while Jack tried to silence his inner critic. It was only a neighborhood joint, the staff couldn’t be expected to memorize the specials in their entirety. “We also have penne strascicate—that means ‘mixed up’ and it's fresh penne pasta with sausage, tomatoes, onion and thyme. It's a very old recipe from Tuscany. Uncle Tony says his mother used to make it for the family every Friday night back in Fiesole.”

Jack itched to meet Uncle Tony—he especially wanted to see the man’s kitchen at full tilt—but Cara had said her father preferred to wait until they’d been served their entrées.

Sounded like some power thing. He was used to games like that when he dined in restaurants at the topmost echelon. It was unexpected in a mid-scale establishment, miles from Chicago’s Restaurant Row.

The munchkin was gearing up for the home stretch. “Now for the secondi. Bistecca Fiorentina, made with Chiannina beef. That's for two people. And Branzino al Forno—whole sea bass, wood roasted.” She edged closer to the table, bending over to give them another flash. At this rate, he was confident he’d be able to pick her breasts out of a line-up.

She lowered her voice to bedroom level. “Between you and me, I hate fish. And calling it by its Italian name doesn't make it taste any better.” She chuckled and Laurent joined in, probably thinking he was onto a good thing. Clearly, he hadn’t noticed the Jupiter-sized rock weighing down her left hand. Jack kept his testiness in check. It irked him no end when servers inserted their unsolicited opinions into the proceedings.

Though he supposed, given the size of the menu—the pages upon pages of every Italian specialty prepared since the fall of Rome that just screamed ‘waste’ and ‘where the hell do I start?’—an opinion or two wasn’t such a bad thing. Rather than wade through the tome before him, he made an executive decision. “Just bring us one each of the specials and a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. And make the steak medium rare.”

Once the server had bounced off, Laurent cleared his throat. “I thought after Ashley you had sworn off women.”

Sworn off? Nah, just encased his dick in concrete, that’s all. Ashley had left Jack feeling contaminated and in need of a full-scale mind and body bleach. He had thought they had a connection but in reality, he was just another tool in her quest for celebrity dominance. And once Jack had become better known for his sex life than his kitchen expertise, he realized he had a problem. Casual hook-ups were no longer on the menu.

“You mean the busty munchkin? No chance.” His traitorous eyes sought out Lili who was busy showing a statuesque red head and her plainly undeserving oaf of a date to a table. Finally, some diners under the age of forty.

“I’m talking about ma chérie, Lili.”

Jack snapped his head back so sharply he winced. “Oh, she’s your chérie now? She’s far too young. She must be the same age as my sister.”

“But she’s not your sister,” Laurent countered quickly because no one wanted to dwell on a friend’s sister when the potential of a mind-blowing lay was on the table. Jack silently agreed, not wanting to think on his sister either. Where Jules, ten years his junior, was scatter-brained and likely to lose her job at the drop of a hat, Lili projected a calm responsibility beyond her years. He had been watching her closely ever since he arrived, enjoying the ease with which she managed everyone, customers and staff alike.

Laurent coughed again. It was really annoying. “So if you are truly not interested, you won’t mind if I take the shot?”

“You’re asking permission? You never ask permission.” A muscle clenched in Jack’s midsection, but he chose to ignore it. Not trusting his instincts seemed to be the safest option these days.

Laurent smiled, and for not the first time in their fifteen-year friendship, Jack wanted to pummel him. “You saw her first.”

Jack laughed off his discomfort, forcing his fists to cooperate. “That’s awfully gallant of you. Have at it. Maybe you can bag the chatty cousin too.”

A few minutes later, Cara was back and Gina was struggling with the bottle of Brunello as if it were an enemy combatant. Following a quick sniff, Jack put the glass down on the table. The smell was akin to wet dog, indicating that the cork, and by extension, the wine, had been contaminated by a chemical compound.

“It's corked.”

Her eyes grew wide in clear confusion.

“Bad. Appalling. Wretched.” He tried not to sound too irritated, but come on.

Gina stole a peek at the bar before turning back to face them. “Are you sure you don't want to taste it first?’

Now it was Jack’s turn for the wide eyes. If a guest—if an expert—said the wine was undrinkable, then his word should be accepted without question. Laurent smirked, probably anticipating the ream out that inevitably followed when some sassy piece challenged the boss’s authority, but before Jack could reply, Cara chimed in.

“Gina, you know that saying ‘the customer is always right?’ Well, it's a load of crap. But you know who is right? The chef with several fine dining establishments in three countries and six Michelin stars.”

“Seven,” Jack corrected instinctively. It should have been eight; that two-star rating for New York still rankled. And no matter how many times he told Cara that the restaurants received the ratings, not the chef, she always got it wrong.

Cara continued her defense of his superior nose. “And if Jack says the wine is corked, then it's corked. So toddle off and bring us another one.”

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