So, I swallow what’s on the tip of my tongue and guide us over the edge.
Chapter 39
Don’t Trifle with It
Poppy
I underestimated Jack’s charms in his chef’s whites.
The night of the Pastiche disaster, they were wrinkled and stained from the crush of service. And for too long after, I tried studiously to ignore them, as if by not acknowledging his looks, his magnetism didn’t matter. Now, though, bleach has made the thick white fabric luxurious. His black hair curls slightly over the starched collar. As he buttons it to his throat, he looks every bit ready to do battle. Even the nonslip clogs on his feet are sexy, a realization that has me gasping for air through a barrage of giggles.
He scowls at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” I wave my hand helplessly, looking at my own clogs. They’re hideous. I’ll change into heels before the actual event later, but for now, I’m stuck with these, and the knowledge that he ordered them specifically in my size. I bite the inside of my cheek. “You just look...”
He saunters in my direction, a dark, intent look on his face. “Go on.”
I retreat slowly. Unfortunately, there aren’t many places to run on a tiny houseboat. “We don’t have time for this.”
“I’ll make time.”
I squeak, scrambling for the stairs to the deck. He grabs me around the waist as easily as he would a rag doll, crushing meagainst his hard chest. He batters me with kisses, growling when I squeal. Pressed tightly against him, I feel his racing heart. It makes me smile. Most likely it’s pounding because of arousal, but maybe a touch of nerves, too.
The pop-up has to go well. Without it, opening night won’t be half of what it needs to be. And if my father isn’t impressed, our efforts will have been for nothing.
I ease away from him, flipping my braid over my shoulder. “Chase me to the restaurant?”
He’s all too willing to take me up on the offer—although he doesn’t give me much of a head start.
Later, inside the gleaming, newly decorated interior of Fable, the air feels tense with possibility. I fuss with the dining room, going over each place setting yet again. Behind the bar, Chester wipes down glasses, and in the back, I hear the clamor of Jack, Hazel, and Owen setting up the workstations. Kiara should be along soon; she’s leaving the clinic in the hands of her assistants for the day. Herman will arrive closer to service, along with the servers we hired to help me manage the front of house during the event.
That’s what we settled on, in the end: I’m front of house manager, Jack is back of house manager, and we’re going to try our hardest to work together and not kill each other.
“You look like you’re going to puke,” Chester remarks casually.
I nudge a knife into place. “I’m cool as a cucumber.”
“What are you making for dessert again?”
“Cake.” I move on to another table, rearranging the flowers in the centerpiece. “Tropical flavors. Lots of mango, passionfruit, lime...”
“And is that finished and in the fridge or something?”
“No. I’m staying out of Jack’s way until he can communicate in actual words instead of grunted commands.” I pinch my brows together. “Are you trying to psych me out?”
When we arrived, I offered to help Jack cut and portion the fish, but he practically shoved me into the dining room. It’s just as well, because I can hear the bass of what, unfortunately, I now recognize instantly as Black Sabbath. Maybe he’s just sore that he lost our race.
“I’m not.” Chester holds his hands up, rag slipping from his fingers. “It’s just... I want you to do well, Pop Rocks. I want this to be incredible for both of you.”
I smile. “Jack hates that, by the way.”
“Pop Rocks?”
“He thinks you should be forbidden from giving me a special nickname.”
“He’s just mad he didn’t think of it first. Plus,” Chester adds, grinning, “my heart belongs to a certain Latina with a rockin’—”
“A rockin’ what?” Kiara asks as she joins us in the dining room, a tray of coffees in hand.
