Chapter 3
THREE
WILDER
My reflex kicks in, no stranger to life or death situations, and I dive to the floor to catch the gardener. Thankful for my size (as I often am), because it means my fingers make it under her skull before it cracks against the industrial tile flooring.
Cradling her head of messy cocoa and chestnut curls, it hits me that her hair’s got as much spirit as the rest of her. Wild, out of control, and full of life, they suit her.
Her eyes blink, hazy and confused, staring up into mine.
I slip my other arm under her knees and lift her as she regains consciousness.
Carrying her to the expo station, I place her gently on the stainless steel surface and position her so she’s sitting there, resting with her upper back against the top shelf of the window.
Keeping one hand on her, I side-step so I can turn the last gas burner off and return to her fully. Steadying her from where her bare knees bend over the edge of the counter, my hands brace her as she wakes fully.
“You diabetic?” I ask her. “Glycemic?”
Her mouth pulls in a cute little scowl, but seems she only has energy to shake her head softly a couple times.
“You faint often?”
Another shake of the head.
“First time,” she whispers.
“Been a while since I was someone’s first.” I smirk at her, trying to bring that fire back into her eyes. I don’t like how cool and pallid her face is right now. Barely talked to the woman for fifteen minutes in all, and I can already tell she’s fiery as hell. This isn’t her natural state.
When she looks stable enough, I grab the cup of water she’d placed down while standing and watching me and offer it to her. Something inside me calms when she takes a slow sip.
“You got someone I can call to come get you? Partner, family?”
Her eyes flutter shut for a second, opening slower than I’d like, but when they do, they look better. More of a clear, chocolate brown now and less muddled.
“I’m fine,” she says, and there goes my smirk again.
My eyes rove her, all that luscious body has to offer beneath the overalls and tank top.
“I can see that,” I tell her, and damn if her cheeks don’t pinken just a bit.
“So it was just the heat then?” I ask her, leaving her for just a minute to whip up a drink that’s kept me alive in hot kitchens since prison.
I keep talking while I go. “They say the heat in the south is a motherfucker, but I don’t think anyone warned me about the humidity. It’s like breathing through a straw.”
Apple cider vinegar, some honey, a little bit of salt, and some ice water all go into the deli cup. Lucky for me, the kitchen is fully stocked already, at least in the dry goods section.
The walk-ins don’t have much fresh food yet, but plenty of boxes that won’t perish for months. Chicken tenders, fries, mostly premade stuff that tested my gag reflex when I was digging around for what I could make.
When that bomb of an email hit my phone, I had to think quick on my feet.
That’s a skill that’s not new to me either.
It was a necessity in the life I grew up in, where every wrong decision could cost you your life.
Reacting slow in lockup wasn’t an option either.
Hell, even working in restaurants, in this cushy life I have now, you still gotta think on your feet and act fast.
Apparently I was meant for a life under pressure. Forged in fire, that’s me.
So I came up with a plan to prove to the owner they wanna hire me, even if they didn’t show and give me a chance. Poked around in their walk-ins and dry goods and did my thing. It’s not my best dish but working with what I could find here, I’m not mad about how it turned out.
It’s better than fucking chicken fingers, that’s for sure. Any stronzo can drop a deep fryer and start a timer. But Aurora said they wanted a chef, and this white wine and shallot chicken dish will show them I’m the man for the job. I just wish they could taste it.
If only what I’m making for the gardener tasted as good. I stir the concoction together with a straw and hand it to her, offering it with a nod of my chin.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Drink it and find out.”
To my surprise, she does. She nearly splutters at the taste of the first sip, but her eyes widen and she takes another anyway.
“It’s an acquired taste,” I tell her. “But cooking over an open flame in summer in New York is brutal. This kept me hydrated through a lot of rough days.”
I hold myself back from making the obvious “if you can’t stand the heat…” joke because I don’t want her to get out of my kitchen. Something about her watching me, egging me on, it fueled me. Made me want to prove myself to her, and draw her closer, all at once.
Not sure why I care so much what this random woman thinks of me. Maybe because I like a challenge, and the girl’s a spitfire. I’d love the challenge of breaking her, like a wild bronco. Taking her from rearing to purring under my touch.
Gotta take a half a step back from her so she doesn’t notice the way that thought got me a little too excited.
She takes a breath after a few long gulps. “It’s gross, but somehow I also like it?” Her deep, throaty voice is a turn-on all on its own.
“You probably need the electrolytes,” I tell her, resisting the urge to put a hand to her face again now that she’s conscious. There’s no need for me to run my fingers through her hair, and I clench my fist to stop them from reaching out and exploring her the way they’re dying to.
“If you’re good, I’m gonna keep plating my dish,” I tell her. “Think I can still salvage it.”
She makes a murmur that sounds like agreement, but her eyes are pretty sharp now, so I don’t feel guilty turning my back on her to grab the final pan and pour the sauce over the chicken and haricot verts on the plate.
Damn, Amante. Not bad. The sauce didn’t even break in all that excitement.
Grabbing a handful of the fresh herbs I’d chopped while cooking (parsley—Italian, obviously), I sprinkle some on top for garnish and smile at the creation.
That smile promptly slips and falls from my face, landing on the floor harder than the gardener did when I realize that the owner isn’t here to see or try my food. To see what I can do. To give me a chance at the closest thing I’ve had to my dream job, here in this new life that I desperately need.
It’s been almost eleven years since the day I got thrown in juvie before I was tried as an adult and locked away for four years and seven months over my crimes. That was the day that changed it all for me.
I haven’t been in the life since I got put in cuffs. But sometimes I still have nightmares that I never got out.
Any kitchen job in any corner of the country is better than where I’ve been—and worse, where I was headed. Nothing could get me back into the life that killed my father, that took almost five years from me before I was even able to legally buy a drink.
If I can’t win over the owner of Heights Bites with this dish…
I’ll keep heading west, see what else is out there.
This isn’t the only place that’s hiring.
I’ve got enough cash saved up to float myself for long enough to find something that sticks.
Enough street smarts, and enough muscle to stay safe while I do.
But it might not suck if things worked out here.
The gardener watches on, eyes low, fixed on the plate I just garnished.
Shit, maybe food is my way in with her.
Her stomach grumbles, complaining loudly for the whole kitchen to hear. Is that part of why she fainted?
Maybe it’s the Italian in me, maybe it’s the chef, but I don’t let the people around me go hungry, especially not gorgeous women.
She clasps a forearm to her stomach and those telling cheeks color with splotches of red.
“Don’t worry, bella. I’ll have a mouthful for you in just a sec.”
Whipping out my phone, I get the camera open with my preferred settings, frame the shot, and take a few from different angles to send to the owner.
Maybe I didn’t need them to show up to the interview anyway. I can show them I know my way around a kitchen—their kitchen—and that my skills are exactly what they’ve been looking for.
Once I’m satisfied with the pictures, I track down some silverware and cut into the chicken. Yep, she’s still moist. Amante’s got a way with meat.
I load up a forkful, making sure to get a bite of veg and plenty of sauce on there, then I hold it out to the gardener, hand beneath the fork to catch any drips, and wait for her to open her mouth.
Her eyes narrow above her thin nose and she’s doing that angry scowl thing again that might be getting me half hard.
If I wasn’t worried that she might not be fully recovered from her little fainting spell earlier, I’d take the chance to push some more of her buttons right now. Get riled up all over again, admire how responsive she is, and wonder how far that could go.
But I’m being considerate. My mother and nonna raised a gentleman.
“Open up,” I tell her, fork to her mouth.
“You’re not feeding me,” she grumbles, reaching a hand up for the fork.
My hand covers the whole handle, so when she tries to rip it out of my hand, well, there just isn’t really room. That doesn’t stop this feisty girl, and some of the creamy white sauce flings all over her bare chest as she wrestles the fork from my hand.
“Oh no,” I moan. “My sauce got all over your tits.”
Her brown eyes go wide, she starts to give me sass, and then the flavors hit her tongue in harmony. I see it happen.
Those irises melt, pupils blow out just a bit, and I watch the serenade of savory dance across her palate, it’s written all over her face.
Hey, that could be another restaurant name. Savory Serenade. I’ll tell her when she isn’t looking at me like she wants to murder me.
It’s a look I’ve seen too many times in my life, but never by someone as intriguing as her. Never has it been blended with such heat, such passion. Usually it’s by a guy with face tattoos hiding a shiv in his palm.
But the raw kind of desire that sings to me like hers does is a rare treat. Pair it with glittering murder eyes and I’m down bad.
Not sure I believe in the one, but I think she might be the next one.
Damn, now I kinda wanna get this job for real. Sticking around this hokey town and getting under her skin—in more ways than one—sounds like just what the doctor ordered.
She chews for what feels like ages, and I can’t take it anymore. “So?” I ask her, brows waggling. “How’s my meat?”
“Why do you say shit like that?”
“Like what?”
“Somehow everything you say sounds like you’re talking about your dick.”
“Oh, bella. If it was my cock between your lips, I wouldn’t have to ask how it was for you. My hand would be on the back of your head, making sure you got it all, and I know you’d enjoy it.”
Those eyes turn molten, and I swear I see flames spark to life in her pupils. Something inside me hums in response.
“You are so full of yourself.” The words are hissed, a seething whisper.
This beautiful woman lets her passion take hold of her so freely. It’s fucking gorgeous. No concern for bullshit societal standards or holding herself back to appear polite. It’s delicious. Intoxicating. I need more of her.
“I’d rather you were full of me,” I tell her with a wink, putting another forkful to her lips.
As angry as her face gets, the corner of my eye doesn’t miss out on the way her thighs strain, the way she shifts where she sits, readjusting.
She can act like she hates me all she wants, I know this attraction I’m feeling isn’t one-sided.
I’m a persistent bastard. Life hasn’t been easy so far, but turns out, nothing worthwhile is.
If she’s gonna play hard to get, I’m gonna play twice as hard to win her over.
She refuses the bite, so I shrug, putting it in my own mouth instead, and I can’t help the groan that rumbles down my throat and through my chest when I taste my handiwork.
Damn. That’s not half bad. My nonna would be proud.
Creamy. Savory. Salty. Moist. Some spice, some heat, a little fat in there, balanced out with some acidity.
It hits all the spots.
Wilder Amante always does.
“It’s not that good,” she spits out, trying not to watch me have a moment with the dish I just created for the figlio di puttana who didn’t even bother to show. I’d rather it go to her anyway.
“Take another bite and tell me that again.”
Making aggressive eye contact the entire time—my cock twitches, heavy against my thigh—she grabs the fork back and assembles another bite from what I’ve cut up.
Shoving it into her mouth, I hope she’s getting paid overtime with how hard she’s working to pretend her eyes aren’t about to roll back in her head from my flavors on her tongue.
“You can admit it,” I tell her. “You like the taste of me.”
Her nostrils flare, a large breath coming out of them, like I imagine a dragon’s would. She chews faster, swallowing, and my eyes track the motion. Who knew a throat bobbing could be so sexy?
“There is something so very wrong with you.” She jumps down from the expo, flustered, and swats away my hands that go out to catch her. “I should’ve known when I saw the Crocs. You’re a freak.”
“Only between the sheets,” I tell her with a wink. “Usually not anywhere else unless you ask real nice.”
This sound comes out of her, even though she tries to stop it, it’s like a scream got lodged in her throat, it’s almost a squeal at this point.
Cazzo, it’s fun getting this girl worked up. Wonder what it would be like to let her work all that pent-up tension out. To push her to the breaking point, letting that pressure build and build until the steam starts to come out, and the eventual release changes everything for her.
“You should go,” she says, lips thinned.
“I’ll worry about the kitchen,” I tell her. “Good luck with your flowers.”
She huffs before storming off, and damn if I don’t watch her go. Wide, shapely ass filling out those overalls, thick thighs, it all jiggles with every furious step she takes, and I can’t help myself from enjoying the view.
The front door doesn’t slam as she leaves, it’s got one of those stoppers on it so it closes gradually, and I bet that just made her even madder. The thought makes me smile, sends a little extra blood down to my cock, and I grin at the trail she left from the kitchen.
What a spicy surprise waiting for me in this quaint little town.
I take another bite of my dish, getting about half the chicken breast in my mouth in one go—making sure to get plenty of white wine and shallot sauce with it—and then I pull up the email I got from the owner, working on my own response.
Attaching the best of the photos I took, I take a deep breath, decide to add Aurora on the CC list as a Hail Mary, whisper a prayer I heard my nonna say a thousand times, and hit send.