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“Hmmm. I’m not so sure.”
My eyes fly open. “Are you kidding? I would marry that stuff, that’s how much I love it.”
They laugh and head back to work.
Good lord. What have I gotten myself into?
The food’s amazing. The guys are amazing.
But if I had to choose one over the other, I might opt for the food.
Kidding.
I continue eating and drinking until I have a stomachache, the guys plying me with dishes like celery root ‘scallops,’ which are not actually scallops, and a vegan ‘foie gras,’ which of course is not foie gras, either.
Did they really prepare this stuff just for me? I mean, it’s not like they threw some broccoli in the steamer and called it a day like most people do when feeding vegetarians. These dishes are complicated. Clearly, time and effort went into them. A lot.
If they’re thinking the way to this woman’s heart is through her stomach, they are right.
The question is, why? Hell, we’ve had our businesses next door to each other for two years and barely exchanged a word except for Owen, who buys things for his supposed mother’s cat.
He must think I’m an idiot. Dude, just admit you have a cat.
But it’s when the guys bring me dessert, a chai molten-chocolate cake with vegan whipped cream on the side, that I lose my mind. I don’t care what their ulterior motives are, if they even have any. I’m going to enjoy this moment—food that’s out of this world, and the attention of three beautiful men, and worry about what they might be up to some other damn time.
22
OWEN
“I’m thinking you like that.”
I point my chin in the direction of the plate currently in front of Livvy.
She stops wolfing down her dessert for a moment, a smudge of chocolate on her upper lip. Which I have no intention of telling her about.
I prefer to imagine wiping it off with the corner of my napkin, and then, if anything’s left…
Down, boy.
With the restaurant mostly empty after a successful dinner service, the other guys pull up chairs to the table where our lovely guest has been camping out all night.
She ignores my tease and finishes the last of her cake, then stares at the plate with genuine sadness now that it’s gone. The only thing left is to pick up the dish and start licking it. But even in her state of dessert heaven, she seems to know this would be inappropriate, at least in public.
She smiles. “I don’t even… you guys. That cake was… fucking awesome.” She finally brings a napkin to her lips and dabs away the spot of chocolate.
Dammit.
Enzo runs his finger through what’s left. “Livvy, I think you missed a dab of whipped cream,” he teases, waving his finger around in front of her face.
She puts her hands up. “Hey, cut that out.”
But Enzo wipes the dab of it on her nose, which she looks at with crossed eyes.
“I’m sure I’m a sight,” she says in a squeaky voice.
Most women I know would lose their shit if someone put food on their face. She scoops the dab of whipped cream off her nose and plops it into her mouth.
Damn. I wanted to do that.
