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1
Quinn
The only sign that someone else was in the room with me was the subtle scent of cigars. I used to wrinkle my nose at the smell. But that was before.
Now I’d come to look forward to his toasted almond and coffee scent. Craved it with an intensity that scared and excited me at the same time. I’d never been swept up in my feelings like this before.
But it seemed when it came to Liam, anything I was before didn’t matter.
His visits were few and far between. I never knew when he’d next break into my apartment and sit in my ratty old chair in the corner. He never touched me, never moved from his position.
Now, a sane person would think he was being creepy. But my sanity left the building a long time ago. And my body craved his nearness, had developed an unhealthy addiction to him. I’d never felt so drawn to another person.
From the first moment I saw him, I knew my life had changed. Some people walked into your life with a force that demanded attention and would linger long after they left. Liam was one of those people.
It was impossible not to take notice when he walked into a room in one of his black suits that cost more than my car. He always seemed one step away from knocking someone out. And probably was.
My eyes never opened, my ears straining to hear the slight swish of his clothes whenever he moved. Like I did every night he sat in my chair, I promised myself I’d go see a therapist. Right after getting a new lock for my front door. But for tonight, I ignored the little voice of reason that had been getting quieter and quieter over the last few weeks. Because she craved his visits as much as I did.
* * *
My restaurant was my pride and joy. Grazioso opened only five short months ago, but we’d steadily gained a reputation and were booked up every night. And to be able to pay the astronomical rent in San Francisco’s North Beach, I had to be.
My family owned a popular Italian restaurant in Ferguson, a small town about two hours north of Seattle. I could have taken the easy road and continued managing the already bustling restaurant. But I was desperate to forge my own path, and after a lot of negotiating, I was running my own restaurant in San Francisco.
My aunt, a plump Italian woman who made the bestbombolonigreeted me as soon as I set foot in the kitchen. “Tesoro, there you are.”
Unwrapping the layers I’d piled on to ward off the chill outside, I continued to my office. It was no more than a small supply closet at the other end of the large space, but I didn’t need much. “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t sleep well.”
Bustling into the tiny space that barely fit my desk and a small shelf, she hung up my jacket and scarf that I’d thrown on my office chair. I wouldn’t be sitting in it anytime soon.
“You work too much.” My aunt smoothed down my hair. “Did you think about going out with that good-looking young man who asked you yesterday,bellissima?”
She made a sweeping hand gesture that could mean anything from “you should go for it” to “I want a piece of that man myself” or even “I have indigestion.”
“ZiaAmara, you know I don’t have time to date.”
I also couldn’t stomach the idea of going out with anyone. Not until I kicked this obsession with Liam.
“Va bene. I’ll let it go for now. I know that look on your face, and I know you won’t hear what I have to say. But don’t think this is over.”
Of course it wasn’t. My aunt was persistent. And she would enjoy nothing more than to seeing me married off with a gaggle of children. I knew because she’d tried her best to set me up with anyone who showed interest. They didn’t even have to be Italian anymore—a sign she was getting desperate.
I grabbed my apron off my desk, where I’d flung it last night, then joined my aunt in the kitchen. “Did you find the biscotti? I forgot to message to let you know I’d made more and left them in the oven.”
“Already put them on plates.” Amara went back to preparing the panna cotta that would sell out within the first few hours of the dinner rush. “We’re almost out of tomatoes. I’ve already made the sauces for tonight, but we’ll need to order more for tomorrow.”
I made a note on my phone and tied my apron around my waist. It seemed to fit a bit snugger every time I put it on. I needed to start exercising more. Something I told myself about three times a day. Or after every indulgent meal—which was all of them.
I didn’t allow myself many pleasures, but good food was one of them. And Liam was the other one. But that was probably even unhealthier than the artery-clogging meals I favored.
The next few hours passed in a blur of cooking and chatting with patrons.
“Your sauce is too thin,” Vladimir, my Russian sous-chef, unhelpfully pointed out as he once again watched over my shoulder.
“Shut up. It’s fine.” It wasn’t. But I’d be damned if I’d admit it.
He smirked and pointed to the board sitting next to the stove. “So why didn’t you use all the tomatoes, then? And last I checked, we put oregano and basil in our sauce.”
