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“Ah, fuck.” Leigh ran back to him, all beanpole legs and arms, and yet oddly graceful. He was six-and-a-half-feet tall, nearly albino white, and Tristan couldn’t live without him. His silvery blue eyes were intent and wary. “You know the amount of A-listers in here, right?”
Tristan nodded. “Why I have to up my game. Can’t have them going back over near the Chinese Theater, yeah?”
“Fuck, no.”
Tristan scribbled the ingredients on the card. “Make it sound pretty, word dude.”
Leigh scanned the card and grinned. “Only if I get a portion for dinner.”
“Deal. I don’t want to see a goddamn swordfish again this month.”
“Good luck with that,” Kendra said.
“Yeah, well, I need a little luck,” Tristan muttered. His ass buzzed again and he growled as he wiped his fingers on the towel at his hip. “Romeo Alazzar.”
“Yeah, boss.”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder at his sauté chef. “Done cranking it in the back?”
“I wish, but you know if you want to get Annabelle’s number, I could try it out for you.”
“Dream on. She doesn’t see anyone unless he’s wearing a tie.” Tristan whipped up a bowl of the chile vinaigrette, ending with the juice of half a lime before spinning the wide white bowl to Rome. “New menu item for the big table.”
“You like to live dangerously.” Rome used his pinkie to take a taste and whistled. “Trying out for the LA Magazine again?”
Tristan shrugged. It had been a few months since he’d been talked about. It would sure as shit help The Hollow to get mentioned in one of the biggest magazines in the metropolitan area. But he built recipes for him and for the patrons, not the press.
They were just an added bonus.
The fact that there was a six-week waiting list for a table at The Hollow was all the ego boost he needed.
He dug out his phone and glanced down at the five missed calls. Juliet’s name for four of them, Rand for the final. He walked to the back of the kitchen to the freezer and ducked in for a second.
It was the only place to find any peace.
The calls were relatively close together, and they were all vid calls. Even in the subzero temp of the huge walk-in freezer, his cock hardened like a goddamn trained dog. Juliet and Sparks had been gone for almost a week now.
His body was a damn tuning fork for them.
He was stuck there in LA while Sparks was riding her perfect body. He fisted his hand and slammed it on a box of chicken. At least he’d managed to have a quick text convo with Sparks before Juliet’s show, but how many times had he missed their calls in the last few days?
Had to be ten or more at this point. About the number of times he’d had to jack off during the week.
His shower was becoming his second goddamn home, and not just because he’d reeked like swordfish for the last three days.
Because his balls were as blue as the belly of the fish at the back of the cooler.
He bent at the waist. His bed had never been a lonely place until now. His life had never felt empty. He had friends and work, not to mention a chock-full social calendar.
He didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d cancelled on Darcy and Emma.
They’d never spoken of going exclusive, but the thought of another woman under him, over him, kneeling over his face…fuck. There was only Jules. Only her dark eyes and endless fistfuls of dark chocolate hair. Her bow mouth wrapped around his cock—wrapped around Rand’s cock. Her hands shuttling over both of their shafts as she knelt between them.
He adjusted his black dress pants and tipped his head back.
They were fucking with his head and they weren’t even here.
His thumb hovered over the call button. Maybe if he tried, he could talk to one of them for just a moment. His goddamn brain was going to explode today. The premiere party was bad enough, but the raging hard-on he lived with lately was distracting and insanity inducing.
