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“Excuse me, Rafe?” Tonio caustically inquired in his Italian accent. Though he had dual citizenship, he’d spent most of his life in Florence. Until Rafe had asked him to work at Sampogna’s a decade ago.
“Yeah?”
“I was just wondering…are we planning on serving food today, or should we all go home while you flirt with our pretty new hostess?”
“Shut up,” he said with another grin and a shake of his head at his own idiocy. He was already in his black executive chef jacket and ready to start the lunch service. He just needed to clear his thoughts of the scintillating body he yearned to feel pressed against his.
Tonio ribbed him further. “I can see how those long legs might distract you. I have trouble keeping my eyes off them too.”
“Don’t let your wife hear you say that.”
“Dio mio!” his cousin exclaimed as he thrust a metal spoon in the air for added emphasis. “She’d spit-roast me like a pig at a luau!”
Everyone in the kitchen laughed. Tonio’s wife, Lucy, was from the Hawaiian Islands and liked to hint at how handy she was with sharp objects whenever her husband’s eye wandered. Though it was only ever his eyes… Tonio was hopelessly devoted to the mother of his new twins. As loyal to his family as he was to Rafe and Sampogna’s.
“Let’s get to work,” Rafe said, though he shot one more look at the pass-through door. Yeah, he liked Jenna’s legs. And everything else about her, including today’s flower choices.
Now, if he could just channel his recently resuscitated sexual energy into culinary creativity—spice things up in the kitchen the way his ex-wife spiced up his libido—he just might bring his very traditional restaurant into the new millennium and keep his ass in business a while longer.
* * *
Jenna pushed a four-top table against another one and sat a group of six friends, who’d arrived at the same time, though they’d not intentionally planned to dine together until she’d made the suggestion. They ordered bottles of award-winning Chilean Carménère and Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley, based on the wine pairings Jenna had printed and distributed. They immediately dove into conversation, chatting excitedly in a mixture of English and Italian. She couldn’t fully decipher the latter, but got the gist of the dialogue, all about cruise ships.
She placed the drink order with Gio, Rafe’s very attractive, younger cousin.
He said, “Give me a minute and I’ll aerate and decant the reds for you. I need to grab a jar of olives from the back. I used the last ones in these martinis.” He nodded toward the tray that held four glasses, which a server retrieved for her customers.
“I’ll take care of the olives if you’ll serve the wine,” Jenna said. “Since you’re the resident sommelier.” She knew Gio had been formally trained.
“’Bout time someone noticed.” He flashed a pearly white grin as he visibly perked up. Serving Chianti the majority of the time had no doubt dampened his professional spirits, given his expertise.
“You need to talk up the cellar more, Gio. Your selections are incredible, and I’d like to see you really push these wines. I about fell out of my chair when I read some of the rare vintages you’d purchased—and for such great prices.”
“Yeah, I think we’ve all fallen into the same shit, different day mentality. I gave up making suggestions long ago. But seeing the pairings on paper at each table… That’s hugely helpful, Jen.” He gave her a quick hug. “It’s great to have you back.”
“It’s good to be here.” She squirmed a little in his loose, friendly embrace. Her entire life she’d had difficulty with affection. It was easier not to get close to people—because she always left them. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with the olives.”
Unnerved by Gio’s hug, she headed into the kitchen, striving for her usual composure. Jenna rounded the corner to the short hallway that led to the storage room.
And ran smack into Rafe.
“Oof!” she cried out as her body bounced off his tall, hunky one.
She stumbled backward, but he was quick to reach for her, dropping a package of fresh towels on the floor as his arms shot out. His large hands gripped her waist and he pulled her toward him, so she could brace herself against him and regain her footing.
“Steady there, sweetheart.”
Her palms splayed over his wide chest. Miraculously, she managed to not curl her fingers around his chef’s jacket and pull his body even closer to hers.
He bent his head and added, “This intersection could use a traffic light.” His tone was husky, even sexier than usual, sending a shiver along her spine.
Stepping away from him—needing some physical distance for mental clarity—she lifted a hand from his chest and pointed to the corner of the L-shaped hallway. “Install a mirror up there so people can see each other coming and going.”
Funny how her own voice sounded different too. Sultry and breathy. She cleared her throat in hopes of returning her tone to a more businesslike one.
The corner of Rafe’s tempting mouth lifted at her suggestion—or her innate, inescapable response to him. She refused to consider which was more likely.
“Good idea,” he said. “Need something from the supply room?”
