“I can’t leave. I still have three—”
“Meals to make and preparation to do for tonight? I’ve heard it all before. I’m not buying it. You’re dismissed from my kitchen.”
“Jude—”
A man with a face as sinfully sexy as his shouldn’t be able to scowl like he does. It would have the brawliest man retreating like his momma took off her shoe.
“Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.”
“Will you please do wicked things to me, Chef?” Ty whispers under his breath.
I untie my apron and toss it into Ty’s face before gathering my belongings from under the counter, then spin to face Jude. “Are you su—”
“Yes. Go.” He shoos me away with a wave of his hand before he browns chunks of ground beef in a wok to replace the baked ziti I ruined.
The cool afternoon air of a fall breeze smacks into me when I push through the double doors at the back of Petretti’s. I stand in the alleyway for a couple of minutes, perplexed about what to do. Four in the afternoon is a little late for most people to make plans, but it’s rare for me to walk out those doors before midnight.
After sucking down a lung-filling gulp of air, I head toward my apartment building. I have several series on Netflix I’ve been meaning to binge-watch. Now is as good a time as any. I’ll steer clear of the romance series, though. The last thing I want to do is remind myself how much I suck.
The truth smacks into me hard and fast when I arrive at my apartment building in under twenty minutes. The same walk took Maddox and me two hours last night.
I sigh out my disappointment, jab my key into the front door of my apartment, push it open by a measly inch, then call out Sloane’s name. Just because there’s no noise projecting from our apartment doesn’t mean it’s safe to enter. Sloane’s quietness is usually the first indicator she’s up to no good.
When I fail to get a response after several shouts, I hook my coat over Maddox’s jacket he lent me last night, dump my keys and cell phone onto the entryway table, then flop onto the couch.
I’m only planning to hide from reality for a couple of seconds but soon discover my weary head needed hours when Sloane charges into the space like a bat out of hell. It’s dark outside, and there’s enough drool on the couch cushion to reveal I was out for a couple of hours. I have a problem with excess saliva when I sleep.
“Should I go for fuck-me-slowly pink or fuck-me-fast red?” Sloane holds up the two lipstick suggestions she wants me to pick from. “I want to be fucked fast, but that doesn’t mean I want it to be quick.”
Her facial expression replicates the time she had to put her beloved dog down when I mumble, “It’s called hard and fast for a reason, Sloane.”
“True, but…” When she fails to find an excuse, she dramatically tosses her hand to her forehead. “Just choose a goddamn color. I’ve been staring at them for ages.”
With my lips twisted in pure concentration, I take in the two unique colors before blurting out, “Pink.”
“Pink?”Sloane appears as if she wants to vomit. “I was leaning toward the red.”
I roll my eyes. “Red, then.”
I stare her deadpanned in the face when she mumbles, “But the pink isreallycute.” When the painful bite to the inside of my cheek makes blush unnecessary, she finally concedes, “Fine. Pink it is.” She pivots away, struts two steps, then jackknifes back. I check my face for drool when she runs her eyes up and down my body. Nothing seems out of place, except what Sloane says next, “You’re not wearingthatout, are you?” She nudges her head to my plain black trousers and white polo shirt. “Your boobs look great in anything, but a girl has to occasionally let her hair down.”
Confusion is heard in my tone when I ask, “Are we going somewhere?”
For a woman smarter thanallthe men in her pre-law class, she looks really stupid when she answers, “Dancing. Remember? I told you this morning.”
“Was this before or after I had my morning coffee?”
Sloane taps the pink lipstick tube against her unpainted lips. “I think it was before. Saint needed whipped cream. I went to the kitchen to fetch it…” Her eyes brighten like a light inside her head switched on. “It was before because you dumped your full mug into the sink when I asked if you wanted cream in your coffee before we used it all.”
“That’s right,” I reply, suddenly clicking on. “You stole my right of an early morning pick-me-up. No wonder I’ve been so dead on my feet today.”
Sloane smiles like I’m praising her. I’m not. She’s grinning because she knows I never back out of an agreement—unlike Maddox Walsh.
“How long do I have to get ready?”
She twists her lips while mentally calculating if I have enough time to go from dishwasher sleek to nightclub ready. “Saint left around ten minutes ago, so he should be here in around thirty?”
After putting two and two together remarkably quick for how woozy my head is, I ask, “Saint is coming clubbing with us?” I don’t know why I’m shocked. Sloane has no issues getting friendly on a first date, but she never ‘dates’ more than one guy per weekend.
