Hot and Bothered (Hot in the Kitchen) (17 page)

“What were they like together? Your parents?”

“Happy. Devoted. Kind of like Tony and Frankie, but more open about it.”

She knew what he meant. Tony and Francesca were one of those model couples. They had survived Frankie’s cancer, their restaurant almost failing, the pain of their eldest daughter’s anorexia, and had come out stronger than any marriage she knew. But they were quiet about their devotion. It was one of the things Jules had noticed first about the DeLucas—how non-stereotypical they were in their Italianness. None of that “Mamma Mia” and constant hugging that you saw on TV or in the movies. Even Cara and Lili were more reserved, sort of like Jules herself. Lili was fond of saying that Jack was more Italian than any of them and he didn’t have an Italian bone in his body.

Hearing that Tad’s parents were demonstrative was fascinating. Tad was like that, too. He was more tactile than she was used to, unafraid of human contact, but in the last year, he hadn’t touched her much since she’d tackled him on her sofa. Probably worried she’d get wicked ideas.

Last week he’d endured her hug when he offered her a job and today, he had let her get close again. Affectionate bookends to that scorching, but far too short, kiss from a few nights ago. She’d forgotten how much that physical closeness meant to her, how the contours of his body seemed to find a worthy match in her soft curves. If only any hard, hot specimen of maleness could do it for her, but with every crappy date, it became increasingly obvious that only one man turned her crank with the simplest touch.

Taddeo Gianni DeLuca.

He might not know it, but he needed it as well. This pulsing desire within her to comfort him, to fill those deep pockets of sadness he wore, pounded through her with a merciless beat. She wanted to draw him out, let him know she could be as strong for him as he had always been for her.

“So your mom taught you how to become handy with a knife. How come—”

“I don’t cook?”

She nodded.

The corner of his mouth hooked up but she could see it took effort. “You do realize that practically every DeLuca cooks before they can walk? There’s always someone on deck. Except Cara.”

Cara could run a kitchen with military precision but put a frying pan in her hand and the room would either burn or starve.

“Just because everyone else cooks doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. If not professionally, then… for yourself.” She wasn’t sure why but this exchange had taken on unexpected significance. So he came from a family of mega-talented chefs and he didn’t want to cook. No biggie, except her conversation with Frankie about Tad’s dream of being a chef and his reaction when his parents died played on a loop in her brain.

The joy left him.

“How about you give it a go?” He slid the chef’s knife across the cutting board.

So that wall would remain in place with the “No Trespassing” sign for another day. That was okay. She picked up the knife and let the weight fill her palm.

“Are you thinking ‘be one with the knife’?” he asked wryly.

“I’m so one with it you should be wearing armor.”

He smiled, just a flash. “Good girl.” He placed the other half of the onion in front of her.

Mimicking his finger position on the onion, she started slicing slowly, careful not to cut into the root. Her usual method of chopping an onion—of chopping any vegetable—had always been haphazard. She got frustrated easily and until now, she hadn’t wanted to take the time to learn even when it would have saved her countless hours in the long run. Really, she didn’t want to ask Jack to teach her because he would see her interest and start expecting things. As a perpetual disappointment to him, she had no desire to set herself up for more failure. Better to stay under the radar.

But with Tad, she didn’t want to hide the passion she felt for creating something. Tad wouldn’t expect anything of her. Tad would just be… Tad.

She couldn’t be sure when exactly it had happened, but she had a sudden wash of his body heat as he leaned in closer to her, his eyes never leaving her hands. Wow, she wished he had that intensity when he looked at her face.

“Make sure you keep your middle finger out front.” Her finger slipped—
oops
—and he moved behind her. She shouldn’t have done that but she couldn’t help herself. And her wicked scheme bore immediate fruit. “Here. Let me show you.”

Oh, yes. So she might have played him there.

The kitchen was suddenly very, very snug. Gently, he cupped his big, warm hand over hers. His fingers shaped hers to his liking while his body shaped hers from behind. Strong, hard chest to her tense, rigid back. His breath, hot and sweet, flushed her neck. The urge to relax into his strength almost undid her.

“Now, slice.”

She started a tentative chop across the flesh—she couldn’t get that word out of her head now—and let him guide her fingers back as the knife inched closer. In her ear, he made a rumbling sound of approval she felt right to the juncture of her thighs.

“Good,” he whispered. “Now turn.”

Her body twisted and because he stayed in position, her hip brushed the top of his hard thigh. His very hard thigh.

“The onion,” he said, amusement warming his voice.

Oh wow, his forearms. Her dream forearms! They hemmed her in on either side, tanned and coated in crisp, dark hair. Delicious, muscle-corded, Italian forearms that would look so good against her pale, English rose skin. A very illicit thought of their limbs entwined—why not break this fantasy out to legs as well?—and moving in torturous unison against cool, cotton sheets staged a coup in her fogged brain. His dark skin would be gleaming with sweat because she would be giving him a fine, fine workout.

Tad turned the onion. Apparently her brain was far too full with dirty fantasies to send a message to her hand.

“Oh, of course,” she said, the words spilling out in a nervy rattle. Was it her imagination or had he moved closer to her? Sweat trickled through every nook and cranny of her heat-saturated body.

Say something.
Anything.
“You must be looking forward to the opening. Your parents would be so happy to see it.”

His body stiffened behind her. “I don’t know about that. This isn’t really what they had in mind.”

“Why?”

“My father wanted a lawyer or a doctor. Someone he could be proud of.”

The pain in those words made her heartsick. How could anyone not be proud of this man who was always there for his family? For her?

She longed to turn into his arms and soothe him as he had done for her so many times. See if she could be a friend without getting all grabby. Just as she came to that conclusion, he spoke again.

“Vivi would have liked you.”

Her breath caught. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re stubborn, you’re brave, and you never give up. She was a great admirer of doggedness. Of people who went after what they wanted no matter the odds.”

Her vision blurred and that earlier urge to lean back against his strong chest finally overwhelmed her. He snaked a gloriously thick arm around her waist and pulled her close. Held her for a few precious moments.

“There are times I think you don’t realize how amazing you are. How great a mom you are and how you’re going to find your place. Just you wait.”

He brushed his soft lips against her temple.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move.

It’s always been you, Tad DeLuca.
From the beginning, his faith in her had been nothing but steadfast.

“Jules.” He turned her to face him and tipped her chin up when she refused to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a big Italian jerk. All that ridiculous stuff about trying to protect you.”

“Is that what you were doing yesterday in Starbucks when you muscled in on my coffee date?”

“A guy who runs a rug company, Jules? Come on, I was doing you a favor. I knew as soon as I got him talking about it, you’d see visions of your dinner conversation for the next fifty years. Aaron Roberts would turn your brain to minestrone.”

She hmphed, annoyed because he was right. Of course, the mere existence of Tad was enough to turn her entire body to a soupy, gloopy mess.

He brushed the underside of her jaw with his knuckles. “You mean so much to me and the thought of you with some other guy who might not get how great you are pisses me off to no end. You’re a fucking queen and you deserve the best.”

She had no idea what she deserved but she sure as hell knew what she wanted. This man before her, in the worst way possible.

“That’s a lovely thing to say,” she whispered, because it was.

“I have my moments.” He smiled, heartbreaking and beautiful at once.

“A queen, huh?”

“A
fucking
queen. And don’t you forget it.”

In the charged space between them, she felt closer to him than ever. Which made what she had to say next exceedingly difficult.

“About the opening tomorrow… well, I can’t make it.”

His face darkened to thunder. “Why not?”

“Usually I can rely on Frankie or Cara to look after Evan, but all the DeLucas will be here to celebrate their golden boy made good.”

He shot her a look more black than golden and extracted his phone from his pocket. As usual, she was envious of the phone that got to spend so much quality time next to Tad’s lovely assets.

“Sylvia, it’s Tad.” His dark mood changed to sunny in an instant. “I need a favor.”

She backed away, meaning to give him privacy but he hand-shackled her wrist and pulled her toward him. The light pressure from his fingers on her wrist made her tingle everywhere. As if he knew just what an effect that had on her, he rubbed heated circles over her pulse with his thumb, all without paying attention to her face. It was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced and she had plenty of options to call upon from her Tad playlist.

About forty finger pad whirls later, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. She hadn’t heard a word of his conversation.

“Aunt Syl can take care of Evan.”

“But doesn’t she want to go to the opening?”

“I promised her a free meal for her next date with Father Phelan. Guy’s an oenophile and his secret is that he uses a nice Bordeaux for the sacramental wine instead of the special kind the Archdiocese ships in by the crate load. I’ll wait on the two of them hand and foot if it means you’ll be there.”

Sylvia was a big fan of the clergy at St. Jude’s, or rather one clergyman in particular. The parish priest couldn’t actually date, and if he could, it probably wouldn’t be a bouffant-crowned widow in her sixties, but trust Tad to know the woman’s weakness and exploit it. He seemed to know every one of Jules’s.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, her voice scratchy.

He clasped her hand. Warm, dry, secure, but not safe. Never that. “It wouldn’t be the same without you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Chapter Ten

He who eats alone suffocates.
—Italian proverb The knock on the office door was soft, yet ominous. How a soft tap could be ominous he had no idea. He braced against the onslaught of the people he didn’t want to see. Pretty much the lot of them except Jules.

“Your public awaits,” he heard in Francesca’s sweet soothe.

His public.
All waiting to wish him well or tear him down. What in the hell had he been thinking opening his own business? So the myths of restaurant failure were exaggerated but it was still as high as twenty-five percent.

He raised his head from where he had been resting it between his legs while he willed blood to flow to his brain, but she was already inside, hunkered down with her hand on the back of his neck.

“Taddeo, are you unwell? Do you feel faint?”

“I feel like my stomach is going to swallow up my balls and give them an acid bath.” Hello, word vomit. “Sorry.”

Her lips widened into that puckish smile and he remembered how good she had always been to him. Even during that dark time after the accident when he didn’t deserve a kind word.

“Your parents would be very proud of you. It is quite an accomplishment for one so young.”

He didn’t feel young. He felt like the most beat-up, elderly twenty-nine-year-old who’d ever lived.

“Tony and Dad opened DeLuca’s when Dad was twenty-five.” Paul McCartney recorded
Abbey Road
when he was twenty-seven. George Harrison was only twenty-six. Besides, all he was doing was opening a wine bar. Not exactly changing lives here. The acid bath churned, threatening to corrode his throat and all the organs in between. “Dad wanted more for me, Frankie.”

“Yes, he did but he was hard on you. It is the way of all the DeLuca men.” His cousins had borne the brunt of Tony’s expectations but managed to come out strong and resilient. “Remember that you are your own man, Taddeo. Not your father’s or your uncle’s. You have the right to be happy.”

Happiness as a right? The pursuit of it, perhaps, or at minimum the pursuit of hedonistic pleasure. Anything beyond that seemed greedy when his parents would never again feel the sun on their cheeks.

“This year, Taddeo… maybe it’s time to stop being so hard on yourself.”

In his aunt’s eyes he saw her worry that he was going to take all that shame and self-loathing and give it an extra twist. Francesca was the only one who knew how bad it got. Every year, he carved out a couple of days away: a friend’s cottage in the Upper Peninsula, a flea bag hotel in Cabo, anywhere he could lay low and drink himself to unconsciousness. She had tried to talk him through it, but she also realized he needed it to survive the rest of the year. Between them was an unspoken understanding that she keep it from the rest of the family. Doubtless, she was worried he’d take off on another round-the-world binge and he didn’t exactly discourage that conclusion. In the end, charming Tad emerged from his drunken cocoon and went back to his daily business.