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“I don’t know.” I turned back, grabbing a rag. “But I know guys just like him—filthy rich womanizers. Probably thinks the women out here will throw themselves at his feet because he’s got a big name and an even bigger bank account. That they’ll drool over his every word and hop into his bed at the snap of his twiggy little fingers. Like he’s some big-shot celebrity or something. Allan Blaire has an ego the size of a redwood. I doubt the apple falls far from the tree.”
“A redwood’s a big tree then?” the man cut in again, the corners of his mouth twitching.
I snorted. “Only the biggest. He probably thinks he doesn’t need to answer to anyone because he works forDaddy. Just tells people what to do, and they do it. Doesn’t value anything or anyone other than his money.”
“Don’t you think you’re a little harsh?” Jenny countered. “You’ve never even met the guy.”
“If you’d done the research I did, you would’ve come to the same conclusion. Trust me.”
The man grunted. “You must have been quite busy with Google. Probably doesn’t leave much time for a social life.”
I scoffed, checking the contents of the opened bottles. “I had to google him. I had to make sure I was right. And I was. This guy’s just not a good fit for Monarch. He’s going to ruin everything. As for a social life, I’m swearing off men. Maybe for good.”
“Perhaps you should meet him first. Hear him out. Maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” he prompted.
“Yeah,” Jenny agreed, taking the empty seat next to him. I hadn’t realized I’d absentmindedly moved closer toward him.
My head popped up. “Are you siding with him? You know as well as I do that if they build another huge-ass hotel like all the others in their portfolio, it’ll ruin the vibe around here. But don’t worry. If I have my way, things won’t work out, and he’ll be running back to New York with his tail between his legs.”
“So, what do you do, besides google people you’ve never met before and then verbally slaughter them?” he asked.
He had backed me into a corner. “Well, I—” I fumbled, trying to form an answer.
“Actually, Siena is a chef.” Jenny stepped to my rescue. “She’s going to open her own restaurant.”
“Ah.” He seemed impressed, which helped ease the frustration I felt. “So, you cook?”
“No.” I felt the breath snatched out of my lungs.What the hell was Jenny doing?She looked between us. “I should say, Siena doesn’t just cook. Shecreates. Masterpieces, I might add.” She winked at me. If her smartass grin could speak, it would have said,This is what best friends are for. Number one wing-woman right here. You can thank me later.
“What kind of masterpieces?” He inched forward, intrigued.
“C’mon, Jen. Don’t exaggerate,” I begged. This was embarrassing, even though I was secretly enjoying every second of it.I am a hell of a chef. And this dude is hot as hell.Maybe I should let herdo her thing, see what happens. I laughed inwardly at her attempt to play matchmaker and help me get over my slump. To get over Tim.
“You do.” Jenny brushed me off. “She’s an excellent chef. And baker, I might add. She makes brownies that’ll make your toes curl.” She laughed flirtatiously. “At least they do mine.” She wiggled her feet in demonstration.
“Hmm,” he said, glancing from Jenny’s feet to my reddened cheeks. He looked like the guy from the new cop show on TV. I rolled through the alphabet, trying to conjure his name.
“She can makeanything. Brownies. Cookies. Cupcakes. I meanan-y-thing.”
“Sounds like quite the talent.”
“Not only that, but she makes her own pasta.” Jenny leaned forward like a conspirator sharing a dirty little secret. “All homemade, from scratch. And oh my god, she makes the most amazing sauces you’ve ever tasted.”
I laughed. Here she was pitching my culinary skills to a total stranger. Where was she when I needed her in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago? Next, she was going to invite him over for a taste test.
“What else can she do?” His words seemed innocent enough, but there was a hint of flirtation in his question. Jenny looked from him to me, and I could tell she was pleading for me to flirt right back.Uh-uh. No way. Swearing off men, remember?I silently reminded her with my telepathic skills.
“I can do almost anything,” I said matter-of-factly, not falling into her trap. “I’ve honed my skills both at home and in the kitchen as a chef. Now, I guess”—I threw my hands up—“I’m finally ready to run my own place.”
“What I meant was, what do you do besides cook?” He swallowed his final sip of wine. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his mouth.
Do. Not. Answer. Him!my brain ordered me.
“So, a restaurant, huh?” he asked when I ignored his question.
“Yeah.” Why did I sound breathless? He appeared genuinely interested, although I couldn’t figure out why he cared. “I guess I just got tired of doing what someone else told me to do every day of my life. Working for someone else in their place. Doing whatevertheydemanded. Never having any real say-so, you know?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, looking into his empty glass.
