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It’s three in the morning, she almost screamed. Clearly, the blow to his skull had impacted his short-term memory. On cue, he rubbed his head then gripped the side of the countertop with such knuckle-whitening intensity that she worried he might pass out.
“I'm the restaurant's manager, actually, and I wasn't expecting you. If I'd known Le Kilroy would be gracing us with his exalted presence, I would have rolled out the red carpet we keep on hand for foreign dignitaries.”
She sashayed over to the ice cabinet and glanced back in time to catch him, his gaze fixed to her butt like he was in some sort of trance. Oh, brother, not even a whack to the head could throw this guy off his game. With a couple of twists, she crafted an ice pack with a napkin, and handed it to him.
“How's your head?”
“Fine. How's your—?” He motioned in the direction of her rear with one hand while gingerly applying the ice pack with the other.
“Fine,” she snapped back.
“I'll say,” he said, adding a smirk for good measure. Oh, for crying out loud.
“Is that your usual M.O.? I can’t believe you have so much success with the ladies.” The gossip mags devoted pages to his revolving door dating style. Only Hollywood fembots and models need apply.
For her insolence, she got a blade of a look, one of those condescending ones they teach in English private schools, which for some ridiculous reason they called public schools.
“I’ve had no complaints.”
She folded her arms in an effort to project a modicum of gravitas, which was mighty difficult considering what she was wearing. It didn’t help that every breath took effort in her sweat-bonded costume.
“So, care to explain?”
“What? Why I’ve had no complaints?”
“I mean, what you're doing in my family's restaurant at this ungodly hour.”
“Oh, up to no good. Underhanded misdoings. Waiting for a superhero to take me down.”
Okay, ten points for cute. She battled a smile. Lost the fight. Palms up, she indicated he should continue and it had better be good.
“I'm doing prep and inventory for the show. Didn’t Cara tell you?”
Of course she hadn't told her. That's why she was asking, dunderhead.
“I haven’t checked my messages,” she lied, trying to cover that she had and her sister hadn’t deigned to fill her in. “I was busy all evening.”
“Saving cats from trees and leaping tall buildings in a single bound, I suppose.”
“Wrong superhero, dummy,” she said, still ticked off that Cara had left her out of the loop. “You haven’t explained why you’re doing this prep and inventory here.” It seemed pointless to remind him of the lateness of the hour.
“Because this is where we’ll be taping the show. Jack Kilroy is going to put your little restaurant on the map.”
Two
Good thing Laurent had stepped out because if he’d caught Jack referring to himself in the third person, he’d laugh his derrière off. That shit needed to stop. It was worth it, though, just to get this reaction. Wonder Woman’s mouth fell open, giving her the appearance of an oxygen-deprived goldfish.
“Here? Why would you want to tape your stupid show here?”
Jack let the comment slide, though the snarky dig about his success with women had been irksome enough. Rather hypocritical too considering all that hip-swaying and lady leering in his general direction.
“Believe me, it's not by choice. This place is far too small and some of the equipment is much too...vintage for what I need.”
Contrary to his comment about the size and age of the kitchen, Jack felt a fondness bordering on nostalgia. The nearest stainless steel counter was scuffed and cloudy with wear, the brushed patina a testament to the restaurant's many successful years. He loved these old places. There was something innately comforting about using countertops that had seen so much action.
Returning his gaze to Cara's sister, he speculated on how enjoyable it might be to hoist her up on the counter and start a little action right here and now. That costume she was poured into had cinched her waist and boosted her breasts like some comic-book feat of structural engineering, creating an hourglass figure the likes of which one usually didn't see outside of a sixties-style burlesque show. A well-packaged, fine-figured woman with an arse so sweet he was already setting aside fantasy time for later. His head throbbed, but the lovely sight before him was the perfect salve.
As intended, his ‘too small’ and ‘vintage’ comments set her off on another round of fervent indignation. The wild hand gestures, the hastily sought-for jibes, the churning eyes. Beautiful eyes, too, in a shade of blue not unlike curaçao liqueur, and with a humorous glint that had him trying not to smile at her even though he was incredibly pissed off at what she’d done. A woman—a very attractive woman—in an agitated state got him every time.
