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Ten minutes later, he parked his rental outside a nondescript building on Fulton Market, the West Loop street that played host to many of Chicago's finest dining establishments, art galleries, and high-end lofts. He’d made sure the car’s air conditioning was on full blast because apparently, it wasn’t sufficient that he couldn’t have her, he needed to torture himself with the sight of those beautiful, erect nipples.
His jeans were not loose enough for this.
Her face lifted as they approached the entrance to the building. “Is this your new place?”
He smiled back, feeling unaccountably proud at her enthusiasm. “Yep. I've got six weeks to get it into shape, but I can do it.” The crew was working on the electrics today and every ripped-up wall was awash in a spaghetti wiring explosion. Lili stepped forward and he body-checked her back into the foyer.
“Best not to go any further. It's easy to step on something you shouldn't and get hurt.”
Smaller than his usual restaurant footprint, the space’s eighty-year old ornate tin ceiling and the warm firehouse brick lent it an intimacy not usually found in a Jack Kilroy outpost. As she peered in, he spent a few minutes pointing out the planned locations of the kitchen and the dining room. It was still unformed but he itched to know what she thought.
“Nice, but what about the food?” Of course his girl would focus on the essentials.
“It'll be new American with country French influences. Lots of small plates, no entrees over fifteen dollars.”
“Will you have that chicken liver crostini dish?”
“With the fig marmalade? You liked that?” he asked, knowing damn well that she did but needing the boost only her validation could give.
“Hmm.” Her eyes glazed over.
He spoke at length about his ideas, upping the ante with each subsequent dish, and watched carefully for her reaction while trying to control his own. Each description produced a sexy hum of approval or a flash of her tongue that aroused him intolerably. Why did his food sound so much better with her breathy endorsement? Cooking for her, then taking her while he tasted his flavors on her lips was about as good a date as he could imagine.
He snapped back to reality. His real life where dating this woman was no longer an option.
Somewhere along the way, her expression had faded to solemn. “Why do you do it?”
“What? Cook incredible food?”
“TV. The celebrity industrial complex.” She stared at him with such intent that his body tightened like he was being grill-pressed against the wall. “You said you’d rather be cooking in your restaurant. That you miss it.”
The twinge in his belly acknowledged the truth of that. He did miss it but it wasn’t as if he could stop moving. Success addiction was about the sweetest feeling, almost as good as sex, and the way his sex life was panning out lately, it was his only reliable high.
“I do it because it’s never enough and I’m greedy.”
Her tongue darted and licked her lips. Pink, wet, making him hard. He stared, telegraphing exactly how greedy he was.
She didn’t back down, just hitched that skeptical eyebrow. “I thought you were going to say you owe it to the masses to share your genius.”
“That, too.” He shrugged and the moment passed, as they always do. “I’m also providing significant employment. Publishing, television, tabloids. Cara’s coming with me to NBN, you know.”
“Good to know one of the DeLucas will still be employed by year’s end.”
Alarm pinged him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.” She knuckled the corner of her eye and turned toward the exit. “We should go.”
Not so fast. He snugged her close and breathed her in while he still could. “Sweetheart, tell me.”
She didn’t speak, so he rubbed her back. Holding her felt comfortable and right, like the first bite of a warm bread pudding. They stayed like that for a few minutes until she murmured against his chest, “We're in trouble. DeLuca's is in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“My mother's medical bills left us pretty strapped. And you saw it on Saturday night. We’re not exactly raking it in.” She peeked up, her eyes shining. “But the show should help, right?”
The show might generate some interest but he doubted it would solve anything over the long term. Jack had enough experience to know that brief spurts of publicity were exactly that. Brief.
“What about Maximo?”
