Her Chocolate His Bar: A Steamy Short Contemporary Romance

Prologue—Sonny

Ilooked around at the highly polished mahogany bar top, satisfied with the pristine sophistication of my establishment. It took me years to find just the right location, and Montclair, New Jersey, was simply ripe for this kind of place.

No, it wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d spent years helping entrepreneurs open bars up and down the east coast. Was pretty damn good at it, too. Especially when it came to marketing. But this place was special.

This one was mine.

The Whiskey Bar had its first soft opening a few months ago, and so far, so good. The reviews were amazing, and we were bringing in crowds all the way from New York City to our little Jersey town.

We featured premier whiskey, bourbon, scotch, with a special section for local artisan liquors.

Oh sure, we serve other stuff, beer, and spirits. But the whiskey? Now, that was the real star.

There was just something about it that spoke to a clientele with a refined palate. I wanted to reach that customer base.

People with good taste and money to spend, who wouldn’t scoff at a $35 glass of the good stuff.

Something was missing, though. I knew it and my staff knew it. But fuck me if I could figure out what.

“Yo, Sonny, the guy’s here to fix the ice machine,” Eddie, one of my bartenders, called from right outside my office.

Why the fucker couldn’t knock and come in, I had no idea.

“Great. You got this or you need me?” I replied.

“Nah, I’m good.”

I nodded and listened to him go, steepling my fingers as I thought more about the issue.

I’d just signed a contract with a very popular New Jersey whiskey distillery and was planning an entire marketing campaign around them.

Bitewas the name of the label. It was a damn good whiskey. Older, established, and the perfect foil for my own brand new upcoming whiskey label, WhiskeyNeat.

But none of that mattered if I couldn’t get the right crowds in.

I closed my eyes, shaking my head when a now familiar scent reached my nostrils.

Fuck.It must be late afternoon already.

That was usually when she started mixing her sinfully sweet confections. Sweet notes of sugar, cocoa powder, nuts, vanilla, and other goddamn mouthwatering temptations drifted through the air, permeating the brick and mortar that separated my bar from her shop.

I growled and rubbed my hand over my face.

Ever since she moved in, I’d had the hardest fucking time concentrating on work—and I meant that literally.

My dick twitched behind my pants, and I flicked the thing to get it to behave.

Last thing I wanted was for one of my staff to accuse me of something untoward because I couldn’t control my boner every freaking time I got a tantalizing whiff of what my new neighbor was whipping up next door.

Control yourself, Sonny.

I inhaled. More sweet cocoa goodness invaded my nostrils. My cock twitched in response.

Fuuuucccckkk me.

No, really. Would she?

It was the only thing on my mind ever since I first saw her delectable ass hauling a fifty-pound sack of sugar inside her small confectionary shop.

Of course, I helped her. Flashed her my best smile, too.

You know the one. Guaranteed to melt a pair of panties at 100 yards or more.

But Delani wasn’t like other women. She just smiled back at me sweetly, said thanks, then turned around to introduce me to her boyfriend.

That fucking asshat was on the phone, sitting in the corner while she did all the work.

Apparently, the woman was taken by some loser who didn’t deserve her. But that wasn’t my business.

Nope.

My business was getting The Whiskey Bar off the ground. As it was, I was bleeding money into advertising that simply wasn’t working.

What was I doing wrong? Why was it so easy for me to figure out what to do when it was someone else’s bar on the line? And what the fuck was she making today?

Holy hell.

My eyes crossed as the tempting fragrance of fine dark chocolate, sweet sugar cane, Tahitian vanilla, and something dark and subtle filled my office.

Yeah. I was a fucking chocolate connoisseur these days.

I closed my eyes and let it sink in, grimacing when I started to imagine Delani Whitman wearing that cute little red apron of hers—and nothing else—while she fed me one of her tasty little morsels.

Fuck. I was sick.

Delani was not for me. She had a man, and I had a bar.

Best remember that.

The phone rang, and I answered it on autopilot. Straightening in my very comfortable leather office chair when the caller provided her name.

“Hello, Mr. Delgado? This is Cynthia Blair of Blair Investment Group,”she said.

“Hello, Mrs. Blair. How are you?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“Very good, Sonny. Can I call you Sonny?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“And it’s Miss Blair. I’m single, silly. And you can call me Stephanie,” she replied.

Her voice held that familiar note of invitation I’d received with increasing regularity ever since my balls had dropped.

But this was not a pleasure call. And I just didn’t feel that way about Miss Blair, er, Stephanie.

I’d been waiting for Blair Investment Group to get back to me with their answer to my proposal.

See, I didn’t just serve whiskey. I made it. Getting off the ground was slow going, but I just needed the right backers to support my brand. After that, the sky was the limit.

“Apologies, Miss Blair. I’m sorry, make that, Stephanie,” I said with just the right amount of friendliness. Nothing she could possibly misconstrue. “So, what is your news?”

“It’s good, Sonny. Blair Group would like to come to a tasting at your bar on Valentine’s Day,”she said, and my heart stopped.

“A tasting?”

“Yes, all the brands do it these days. Expect us at around seven. Oh, and I can’t wait to see what pairings you offer, Sonny. Until then.”

“Yes. See you.”

Fuck.