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One
April
Jillian Rossi pushed her tortoiseshell spectacles up on her nose as she looked over the rim of her cup of coffee at the spacious chef’s kitchen of the townhouse in the prominent, historic Lenox Hill section of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She eyed the dark wood custom cabinets against the light walls, chrome appliances and bronzed fixtures. She loved the space. Knew it well from working as the private chef to its owners for the last year.
Not that she wasn’t used to working for the wealthy and famous.
After many years of learning about cooking at the elbow of Ionie, her beloved grandmother, Jillian had gone on to culinary school with a dream of one day opening her own restaurant. Social media success garnered for posting home-cooked savory meals and delicious desserts led to her traveling the world as a personal chef for well-known athletes and celebrities—waylaying her restaurant dreams. Yacht parties. Elaborate dinners. Whirlwind events during award season. Private jets. Mansions. Penthouse apartments. Private islands. Celebrities.
“Lifestyle of the rich and famous,” Jillian sighed.
Several years later she’d left being a part of the more glamorous side of life to finally open her restaurant, assuming her days serving as a private chef were over. Unfortunately, the venture had bombed, leaving her in massive debt just a year after its opening. The sting of disappointment and embarrassment from her failure was all too familiar, and the past year had not lessened it any—nor had the return to work as a private chef.
She loved cooking. And, considering the Cress family were world-renowned chefs, they seemed to enjoy the meals she prepared without question. Jillian took that as a feather in her cap. She just considered the position a step backward in her career path.
Been there. Done that. Now I’m doing it again.
Jillian crossed the kitchen to enter the large pantry to the right. Here there were custom cabinets filled with perfectly organized essentials. The counters were marble-topped and beneath one section there was an under-the-counter commercial-size freezer. There was also a large rinse sink to handle food prep if necessary.
As she moved to the office area set up for her, she checked the laser printer to ensure the cream heavy-bond paper with its gold, raised monogram was loaded. Using the touch screen computer, Jillian printed off copies of the breakfast menu. One for each family member’s platinum-rimmed place setting.
She was used to the grand nature of it all.
Being in such luxurious surroundings by such an accomplished Cress family only furthered her desire to succeed. The former chefs now operated a multimillion-dollar culinary empire. They also owned this five-story, ten-thousand-square-foot townhouse, which was large enough to accommodate the entire brood. The parents, Phillip Senior and Nicolette. The five sons: Phillip Junior and his wife, Raquel, and their four-year-old daughter Collette, Sean, Gabriel, Lucas and—
“Morning, Jillian.”
Cole.
At the deep sound of the voice of Coleman Cress, she paused for one telling second before reaching to remove the printed menus. The pace of her heart sped up as she looked over her shoulder to see him standing in the open doorway. Filling it with ease.
Like his four brothers, Cole was a handsome man with a tall, lean, toned warrior-like physique. He had almond-shaped eyes of a grayish-blue against his medium-brown complexion. His good looks were best described aschiseled—from his high cheekbones and broad nose to his square jawline. But there was a complementary softness to his full mouth and the long lashes framing those eyes. He kept his dark brown curly hair cut low, the shadow of a beard and mustache intensifying his magnetism. His clothing preference—normally dark T-shirts, denims and leather motorcycle jackets—gave him just the right amount of edge to draw long glances.
Often, Jillian found his looks similar to that of the actor Michael Ealy.
Just pure goodness.
Her pulse raced. “Good morning, Mr. Cress,” she said as he stepped inside the pantry and closed the door behind him. She extended her arm to hand him a menu. “Omelets for breakfast. Here’s the list of the choices of ingredients.”
Cole locked eyes with her and smiled, as smooth as syrup spreading across warm pancakes. A knowing smile. A charming one with just a hint of the wile of a wolf. “Mr. Cress?” he mocked as he strolled across the pantry to stand before her, ignoring the paper. “Why so formal? Last night it was Cole.”
Cole, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.
She forced herself to break their gaze, shivering in her awareness of him, and flushed with heat at the memory. Over the last year they had shared many. Hotly. Secretly.
Cole eased his large hands beneath her monogrammed chef’s coat and settled them on her hips. She felt the heat of his touch through the black leggings she wore. “Tell me you don’t want to kiss me,” he whispered against her mouth as he lowered his head.
She closed her eyes and waited to feel his mouth with sweet anticipation.
His kisses are the absolute best.
“We can’t,” she whispered, stepping back before that glorious mouth of his could land.
Cole paused before taking a step that would close the gap she’d put between them. “I hate that you’re right,” he admitted, letting his eyes linger with apparent regret on her mouth before turning and exiting the pantry, leaving the door ajar.
Jillian released a little breath and bit her bottom lip as she watched him walk away in his bow-legged swagger. She waited for her pulse to cease racing. Cole had that effect on her. With him near her or just in her line of vision, she lost control.
He had been hard to deny since the first time she’d laid eyes on him. Last January. When she’d been hired. For the next two months, they’d shared long looks that had hinted at their mutual interest. By March, they’d been in a deep, no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached fling. A year later, as a woman in touch with her sexuality and not looking for anything serious after two failed marriages in her youth, she was still enjoying her hot, passionate, secret affair with the rebel Cress son.
