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He was doing it again, that thing where he spoke and he looked and her body ignited, setting the women’s movement back fifty years. His voice took a shivery road trip down her spine and back again. She tried to think of something to say, but her usual sass was out on a smoke break in the alley.
He tilted his head. “I understand this is a family business, but you may want to consider casting a wider net. Nepotism usually results in an inferior product.”
At last, her voice returned from its sabbatical. “We don’t hire people because they’re family.” Well, except for Angela. And, um, maybe Gina. Both were unemployable. Damn it. “We hire people because they’re good at their job. If you’d stop flirting with them and let them do that job, things might go a lot smoother.”
He moved in, taking up a stance a hair’s breadth from her body. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in any of your waitresses,” he said, his voice a silky caress. “I’m more than willing to aim higher. Maybe even as high as the hostess.”
I’m the manager, you clod. Heart still slamming, she plastered on a bored smile. “Oh, please don’t raise your standards for me, Kilroy. Just like I won’t be lowering my standards to a fame-hungry mega whore like you.”
Bingo. A flash of something flared in his eyes. Nothing so mundane as disappointment, more likely the annoyance that accompanies a bruised ego. Men like Jack Kilroy weren’t used to being told they weren’t good enough, especially by a member of the hoi polloi.
“So you believe everything you read online? Pity, you might have enjoyed a visit to the lower depths.” With a theatrical turn, he strode to the end of the bar and took a seat.
Well, she sure showed him, but why didn’t she feel better about it? Instead of the rush of empowerment she expected, she was left feeling like a nitwit. A turned on nitwit. Who needed contraception when they had a mouth as big as hers?
Tad held up the keys to his Harley with a jiggle. “Poor Lili. Looks like you won’t be feeling anything hot and hard between your legs anytime soon.”
Seven
Jack leaned his elbows on the bar and steepled his fingers. He had reached a point where it was easier to take the hits than disabuse people of their precious preconceptions. Hack. Sellout. Whore. Since Ashley’s post-break-up media blitzkrieg, he refused to read anything written about him, but tuning out an in-your-face insult like that required a different level of fortitude.
The less time he spent in his restaurants, the more he found himself on the receiving end of the snide, the smug, and the outright scornful. There was nothing he’d prefer than to be working the line at his New York kitchen, Thyme on 47th, instead of traipsing all over the country like a glorified carnival barker. Damn, he was tired. An unsettlingly, soul-deep tired that had little to do with his road warrior status. Keeping Jack Kilroy front and center had turned into the biggest challenge of his life and for not the first time in the last six months, he questioned whether he was up for it any longer.
But the new show would be different. Less travel, studio-based, and a chance to take his brand to the next level. He didn’t want to recommend a particular skillet, he wanted his name on the box. He didn’t want one cookbook, he wanted twenty with translations in thirty languages.
Mostly, he wanted to show people how to make a restaurant-quality meal for a quarter of the price.
Preferably with Jack Kilroy-branded cookware.
Like any enterprise that required a public face and hard work, there were pitfalls. Lack of privacy for one. Blood-suckers who made a living off gleefully reporting his mistakes and grabbing compromising pictures of him. Or the people he loved. His sister’s face, scared and hunted, flashed before him. It was bad enough he continued to fail her every damn day, he couldn’t even treat her to an unmolested dinner in public. What a cliché he had become. The brilliantly successful professional who couldn’t negotiate the thorny path of his personal life. The notorious celebrity afraid to trust any woman who piqued his interest.
And we’re back. That Cara’s sister held him in such low esteem should have been enough to dismiss her as just another member of his know-it-all public, fond of regurgitating the crap spewed out by every lurid tabloid outlet. Why then was his body zinging and every nerve on fire?
He had forgotten that feeling, that excitement when something new was starting. A new recipe. A new restaurant. A new woman. It galvanized him, helping him overcome the fatigue. Then he remembered his agent’s admonishments and his bones ached weary again.
Do not engage the local talent.
He risked a glance in Lili’s direction. If only the local talent weren’t so damn engaging.
The bartender tossed a coaster down and asked him what he needed. Some peace and quiet and a six-month holiday to sort out his life. Not that there was a chance in hell of getting it. He had five episodes to complete and a contract for his new show to negotiate. He had his Chicago restaurant to open and seven others to oversee so the quality wouldn’t slip. At the ripe
old age of thirty-three, everything he touched was golden, a far cry from that fourteen-year old Brixton street thug, who had been headed for the gutter, prison, or worse. Cooking had saved him and set him on the right path. Now he felt…he wasn’t sure what he felt.
Oh, yeah, tired.
He looked into the deep blue eyes of the bartender, an older Italian guy, who could probably intuitively tell a troubled soul when he saw one. At least, Jack hoped so.
In a heavy accent, the bartender offered, “How about some grappa?”
Jack gestured his surrender. “Lay it on me. Show me what I've been missing.”
Twenty minutes later, he'd tried three different varieties of the pungent grape brandy and was feeling that comforting burn in the pit of his stomach. The bartender had explained how grappa was made and how the varieties differed from each other. It was quite the education. With that warm Italian-inflected English washing over him, Jack watched, entranced, as he expertly poured cocktails and manned the bar. He should poach this guy away when he opened his new restaurant.
Lili’s scent, hot woman and floral, but more specifically vanilla with shades of hibiscus, reached him before she did and he felt that pleasurable prickle again. Grappa, like all alcohol, a great leveler, summoned his magnanimous streak and he opened his mouth to apologize. He couldn't actually remember what he was supposed to apologize for, but there had to be something. With a woman like this, there was always something.
“Your appetizers have arrived and there's no way on earth we’re serving them over here.” She turned to leave.
“Hey, wait,” he said, his hand brushing her arm.
