Well Bred

Chapter 1

1

Kit

I know the second he walks in that the man is trouble.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my almost forty years on this planet it’s to give trouble a wide berth. Especially when it’s six foot five, heavily tattooed, and muscle bound.

“Can I help you?” I ask from where I’m standing behind the bar. “We’re not open yet.”

He pulls off mirrored sunglasses and looks around, eyes probably still adjusting to the restaurant’s dark interior. When he finally focuses on me, it takes effort to maintain my relaxed stance.

This guy, whoever he is, has the hard, confident, utterly aloof presence of a predator. I can’t imagine for the life of me what’s brought him to my fancy little gastro-diner on the outskirts of town.

“Looking for Kitty Esteban.” He watches me, clearly aware that he’s found her. “Your brother sent me.”

Immediately, my tension ratchets up. “My brother?”

“Frank. Asked me to swing by and check in on you.”

“ Check in on me?” Great. Just wonderful. This is what I get for updating my brother on my life. Which, granted, has been more than a little complicated recently. Even from prison, Franco’s got to micromanage. As if I haven’t done just fine out here without him. Hell, I’m the one running a restaurant—albeit with great difficulty just now. He’s the one who’s been behind bars for the past decade and a half. “Tell him I’m good. Thanks.” I go back to the produce order.

Ignoring me entirely, the man hooks his glasses into the neck of his T-shirt and moves smoothly between tables toward the bar. “Saw a sign outside. You need a cook?”

With a sigh, I shut the computer and look up. “Yeah. You don’t happen to be a chef in need of work, do you?” I mime looking at a watch. “Available like, today?”

He stops right across from me, setting one heavily tattooed hand on the shiny wood counter and, for a few seconds, everything else recedes and all I see is him. He’s massive. Bigger than my original impression suggested, with his arms and chest and flat stomach perfectly displayed in the kind of plain white T-shirt probably bought in packs of five. The kind of T-shirt that looks like trash on some people and on others—like this guy—is more appealing than a tux.

Short dark hair and a thick, sinewy neck frame the kind of face I don’t usually bother examining too closely. Do Not Engage , this face says loud and clear. There’s too much challenge in his eyes. His jaw’s too stubborn.

This is the face of a pain in the ass.

And I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime.

“Sure,” he says, laying both thick forearms on the bar, putting him on a level with me. Or closer, at least. He’d have to sumo squat to get down to my height. “I can cook.”

I can’t keep the surprise off my face. “You serious?”

“My dad had a diner growing up. Started cooking before I could read. Then I did time in a few restaurant kitchens after I got out. As long as I’m not creating the menu from scratch, I can probably handle it.” Thick shoulders lift in a shrug. “Until my next contract.” I stare briefly at the big hand he offers. “Jake Brand. Friend of Frank’s. From back in the day.”

I slide my palm against his, entirely unsurprised at how rough and dry and cool his is as it engulfs mine. Suddenly, things slot in place. “By back in the day, you mean prison.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You just get out?”

“Got out twelve years ago.”

“What have you been doing since then?”

“I’m a welder. I work on offshore platforms. All over the place.”

I make a face. “And you want to cook here ?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Frank said your cook pulled a runner, stole from you.” He looks at the mess of my bar. It’s covered in piles of papers and delivery boxes I haven’t had time to unpack since Keith took off leaving me in the lurch—and five hundred bucks poorer. “I’m here to help. At least until it’s time for me to go.”

“I need a cook, though. Not a welder. And I need one stat. Books are full for tonight and Frida can’t handle a weekend night on her own.”

“I’ve got a contract starting overseas in six weeks.”

“A contract.”

“North Sea Platform.”

“Welding.”

“Yep.”

“And you want to spend your down time cooking upscale diner food for a woman you’ve never met?”

“Frank helped me get through the worst time of my life. He mentioned the shit hit the fan around here and asked me to swing by and help. So here I am.”

The way Frank manages to get things done, even from within the state penitentiary, is impressive. And annoying.

“Is this like some prison blood debt or something?”

“No, ma’am.” His sudden half-smile is scarily beautiful. “It’s what you call friendship.”

I manage to keep myself from rolling my eyes at him, lest I insult the only option I currently have. “Are you a decent cook?”

“I am.”

“Care to show me?”

“If you show me your kitchen.”

There’s no reason on god’s green earth that should sound lascivious, but it does. Or maybe it’s my poor sex-starved libido, grabbing at straws.

Because I’m an adult—and probably ten years older than this guy—I ignore any and all innuendo, intentional or not, and lead him into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, I bite into the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever eaten. Ever.

The outside’s got just the right amount of crunch, the cheese oozes out and—most surprisingly—he’s served it with a little tomato, parsley, and shallot salad that tastes like sunshine in my mouth. It takes every bit of restraint I’ve got not to polish the whole thing off, moaning, as he looks on.

Instead, I set aside what’s left of it with great regret, and hire him on the spot.

He nods toward the plate. “You should finish that.”

“Let’s get your paperwork done first.”

“Rather not. I’m just here as a favor.”

“And I’d rather be insured when you’re in my kitchen,” I tell him, although more than that, I want to not owe this man more than I already will. “Besides, stopping by to check on me at my brother’s behest is one thing. Working for free is another.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well I do. I’ll pay you the going rate.”

I lead him to the office in back, where we get everything sorted, including tax forms that show his permanent address as being in a town just over the mountain.

“It’s a bit of a drive.”

“Don’t mind. Pretty nice after spending weeks out on the water.”

“Is that your address year-round?”

“Got a place there. Place out west and another on the gulf. I use ’em as base camps between jobs.”

I glance down at his hand, which is devoid of ornamentation. Unless you count all the ink. “Married?”

A head shake. “Not much of a family guy.”

“Fair enough,” I manage to say, although his words needle a part of me I’d rather ignore. “I appreciate your honesty.”

If only Clark had told me those words when we first got married, I wouldn’t be in this position right now: overworked, out of money, and desperate for a family of my own.

Or a child, at least.

Because my dear soon-to-be ex-husband insisted he wanted kids and spent the next ten years putting it off and putting it off, until he’d put it off so long that he somehow tripped into a twenty-year-old and knocked her up. She’s due any day now. So, I guess, he actually is a family man.

He just didn’t want a family with me.

Which is fine. Good riddance. I can do it by myself. Like I built up this restaurant by myself, while he was off knocking up girls half his age.

Thank goodness for IVF. And modern medicine. And living in a place where I can decide what to do with my own body and just how I intend to do it.

“Welcome to the team, Jake Brand.” I hand him a clean apron, which definitely won’t fit and make a mental note to order some XXLs. “And thank you. Truly. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The second that clear blue gaze hits mine, a shot of adrenaline races straight through my bloodstream.

Wow. Okay then.

Pure trouble.

That was my first impression and nothing thus far has changed it.

What kind of fool goes and hires a man who looks like this one?

A fool who needed a little breathing room. At least now I’ve got six weeks to find someone permanent.

I just hope this isn’t a decision I’ll come to regret.