4
Killing time isn’t easy.
“Come in.”
Nick pushed open the door to his boss’s office. All he wanted to do was go back to his apartment and crash for the night. With the degree of exhaustion seeping from every inch of his body, he figured he would be able to steal a few more hours of sleep than his norm. He still hadn’t recovered from Ian’s visit the other night and the electricity that had traveled between them. The what-ifs filling his mind made it too tough to focus on much else.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. DeMatto?”
The older man gestured to the seat across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
The office was small, but his boss never seemed to mind. He once told him he needed just enough space for a small desk to keep his computer, a stack of papers, and a place to jot down notes. He didn’t even want to have more than a single seat worth of space in his office, claiming he preferred to socialize outside with the customers or ensure things ran smoothly in the kitchen.
Nick’s gaze swept across the frames hanging on each wall. He’d seen the same pictures, newspaper clippings of accolades, and awards and recognitions a million times before, but the nostalgia and history of the DeMatto family legacy always brought a wistful smile to his face. His boss’s love for family was evident in the vintage photographs dating back generations, and his passion for food shimmered from the gold seals of each certificate and plaque of recognition.
“I need to fly out this weekend. Unfortunately, it’s a business meeting I can’t reschedule.” Mr. DeMatto sat back in his chair and clasped his hands, setting them on his round stomach. “I need someone who can step in and oversee the catering event on Saturday in my absence. There’s no one else I trust to manage an event this size. Would you be available to step in on Saturday?”
Stay in the apartment all weekend sulking or be distracted with work? “I don’t have the catering uniform, sir. I can probably—”
“I don’t want you serving. I want you overseeing. Make sure everyone is on top of things. Circle the party and blend in, but focus on the staff and let them know if something needs to be addressed. The crew each has jobs. They just need a third party who can see what they can’t and alert them to what needs to be addressed.”
Nick nodded. He was familiar with the catering team. Mr. DeMatto contracted the crew for each event because of their seamless service. They were almost militant, attentive to every detail and invisible in the crowd. They barely spoke, offering only smiles, nods, and yes ma’ams and sirs to acknowledge special requests.
“What’s the dress code?”
“Black tie. I have a tailor waiting to hear back from me. He can squeeze you in if you can stop by for a fitting tomorrow.”
Nick nodded once in acknowledgment. There was no way he’d be able to get a tux on short notice and didn’t exactly have one in his closet he could wear for the night. In a past life, sure, he had several. Now, not so much.
“Thank you.” His boss wrote a quick message on a sticky note and handed it to him. “This is the address of the shop. You need to be there before noon so he has enough time for any necessary alterations.”
Nick took the note as he dug into his back pocket for his wallet. After reviewing the address, he folded the note and stuffed it away to avoid losing it. The place was a few blocks away from his apartment. He could easily be there with a ten-minute walk.
His boss handed him a folder. “Here’s the information for the event. There you have your pass, staff roster, phone numbers, food lists and quantities. Everything you’ll need. They already know someone will be stepping in for me, so introduce yourself so they know who to go to if something needs a decision.”
Nick nodded. “I appreciate the trust.”
Mr. DeMatto leaned forward, crossing his beefy arms on his desk. “Nick, you’re the strongest server I’ve employed since I took over fifteen years ago. And if I weren’t such a control freak, I’d probably have you managing the entire restaurant so I can finally take my wife to Cabo like she’s been hoping for.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “Thank you, sir.”
His boss waved his hand in the air, silencing him. “I know you oversee things, even when you aren’t trying. But that comes from this unusual sense of calm that surrounds you. You’re the steady one in the group, the one who always seems to be in control when everyone else is freaking out and dealing with an upset customer.”
He absently nodded. In a prior life, staying calm and in control was a requirement. He couldn’t shake the instinct regardless of how hard he tried to blend in.
Mr. DeMatto opened his desk drawer and withdrew a set of keys. “Here. Take my car. My wife’s picking me up in a few minutes and she’ll drive me to the airport tomorrow. You’ll need a reliable way to get to and from the event early. It also helps to have a way to drive back to the restaurant quickly should something come up in a pinch.”
Nick reached over the desk and took the car keys. He brushed his thumb against the chrome emblem of the luxury key fob. He hadn’t driven a car in two years and missed it. He had a driver’s license as part of his reset package of paperwork and IDs, but he hadn’t had the need for a car since work was simply a ten-minute walking commute. People often complained about the Miami traffic, choosing to ride the Metrorail or bus instead. It hadn’t been any different from the usual city traffic he had encountered on a daily basis while back in Chicago. Sure, he had bitched and moaned about it when he had been stuck in it years ago, but now that he no longer had that, he missed it and wouldn’t deny the excitement that spiked in his stomach at the thought of sitting behind the wheel again.
“I’m flying back in Monday night. Feel free to hold down the fort until I return.” His boss gave him a knowing smile.
Nick chuckled. Self-preservation forced him to limit his relationships and visibility, both personal and work-related. He respected the man and was forever grateful for the chance his boss had taken on him two years before. Claiming he was content in his role as server, he had declined a promotion a year ago when Mr. DeMatto had wanted him to manage the waitstaff. In truth, he couldn’t run the risk. He had to be ready to run at a moment’s notice and the thought of leaving his boss in a lurch struck him harder than he cared to admit.
At that time, he thought the discussion had ended there since his boss hadn’t insisted, until he received his next paycheck and saw the bump up in pay. His boss had shrugged off his concern. “You run the team anyways. You don’t want the title, that’s fine, but you’re getting paid for the work.”
There had been a silent understanding between them since then. Mr. DeMatto had given up trying to convince him to take the formal lead, but Nick would willingly step in when needed.
“Is that your way of telling me to finally use the key you gave me six months ago?”
Mr. DeMatto chuckled. “I’ve been waiting for you to use that key since I gave it to you.”
Nick ducked his head and hid a smile, trying to keep his emotions in check. This man barely knew a thing about him, yet he trusted him with both his staff and the keys to his business. And the weekend event and his car. Nick blew out a steadying breath, steeling himself. He glanced up at his boss’s smiling face. “Who’s running the team here Saturday night while I’m at the catering event?”
“The general.” His wife. A wicked grin spread across his boss’s face. Everyone feared his wife. Nick often thought even Mr. DeMatto feared her at times. The woman had a gift for saying far more with a steady glare than she could with a reprimanding tone. “But I will need you to handle the Sunday and Monday opening.”
Nick nodded. A short-term commitment he could do. And working the weekend was a far better plan than sitting in his apartment and dwelling on his missed chance with Ian.
“No problem.”
Mr. DeMatto nodded. “Good. Then it’s settled.” He extended his hand over the table, a habit the man had as a way to firm a commitment, regardless of the complexities of the arrangement. “You’re the undercover boss for Saturday night and all of Sunday and Monday. Does that work for you?” he asked with a smile.
Nick laughed. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
His boss glanced at his watch and shot up from his seat. “Shit. The general is probably outside already. Can’t keep her waiting.” He chuckled as he shut down his computer and locked up his drawers.
Mrs. DeMatto definitely had the man under her thumb, but he certainly didn’t seem to mind.
“If you need anything, feel free to call her while I’m away. But I suspect you won’t need any help.”
Nick nodded and stood, following Mr. DeMatto out of his office. He waited while his boss locked the front door and switched off the lights. They finally exited out the back door.
Nick fidgeted with the key fob in his hand as he stood by the luxury black car. He glanced over his shoulder at his boss. “Have a great trip,” he called out before the man settled into the passenger seat of his wife’s car. He waved goodbye and watched them drive away.
Opening the driver side door, he slid in, sighing with the comfort of the soft leather pressing against his back and the smell of new car filling his nose. He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, resting his fingers in the soft indentations specifically designed for a driver’s grip. This was a newer version of the same model he had owned before. He pressed the button to start the engine, smiling at the deep growl of the beast coming to life.
He missed his old life, but staying alive was a far better alternative.
═ ☼ ═
Patience sucks.
Killing time required far more skill than he had anticipated.
After swiping at the sweat on his brow, Killian delivered another blow to the punching bag, and then another, hoping to release some of his frustration. If that didn’t work, he’d tire himself out enough to capture the sleep which had eluded him for the last few days.
He lowered his body and raised his gloved hands to shield his face in a practiced boxer’s fighting stance, targeting another punch to the duct-tape wrapped, worn bag.
One punch, and then another.
He switched from left to right, repeating again in equal counts. During his sessions, he always dedicated the same amount of training time to both hemispheres, fighting his body’s natural instinct to have a dominant right or left side. He had refined his limb independence skills, conditioning every inch of his mind and body on how to master and isolate tasks. He could shoot with either hand with the same precision or throw knives without missing a target. And his ability to segment the tasks in his mind even allowed him to shoot with one hand while throwing a blade with his other. Coordination and skills that were just as important as being able to deliver a brutal blow with his fist.
He punched again and again, pushing the ache of his muscles out of his mind and forcing his body to ignore its limits.
Regardless of how hard he channeled his focus, he couldn’t ignore the mental reminder of the want in Nick’s eyes from the other night. There was no denying there was…something brewing between them. And he wished he could figure out exactly what it was. He wanted to kiss, lick, and bite every micro-millimeter of Nick’s body. Claim him. Brand him in some way so others would stay the hell away from the man.
Killian stilled mid-punch.
The realization rocked him to his core.
He had never felt this bone-shaking need to be with someone. But it consumed him—his mind and body—regardless of how hard he tried maintaining control. The more time he spent with Nick, the more he craved.
But it was far more than physical desire alone. He wanted to learn more about him, his childhood, his mannerisms and quirks. He wanted to know if Nick woke as cheerful in the mornings as he was during their conversations in the evenings with his visits. Every second of time was precious, every smile noted and memorized, and every mention or gesture that shifted Nick’s breathing was underscored on his mental list.
Killian wanted more. This was new territory. And formulating the best plan on how to move things along evaded him.
Especially with the fear he had seen in those pale green eyes.
He snarled at the bag and resumed his routine, delivering another blow, leaning his shoulder into the hit, ready to wage war and destroy whatever stood in the way of him being with Nick.
The burn in his muscles bordered on pain. He relaxed his stance and planted his gloved hands on his hips. His body heaved as he fought to take each breath. Shit. He had pushed himself too much. He screwed his eyes shut and focused on each forced breath.
I wish I could say yes.
He threw one last punch with unrestrained force, sending the bag swinging wide like a pendulum. “Fuck!” he yelled, his voice reverberating off the walls as he paced back and forth like a caged animal. Aside from the aching blue balls in his workout shorts, he couldn’t deny the pain growing in his chest.
The loss of control wore on his patience. His mind raced with every possible scenario or fear factor he could conjure in his mind. Nick was a man of control. Irate customers never fazed him, and he always stepped in to resolve whatever appeared as a potential crisis in the restaurant. It seemed as if nothing could rattle the man.
And yet, something stood between them like an iron barrier weighing a million tons. Killian’s brows stitched together as his mind scanned every possible situation.
He couldn’t control what was happening or how he felt, and he wouldn’t deny it elevated his frustration and grated on his last nerve.
I wish I could say yes.
Killian raised his hand and pulled on the wrist strap with his teeth, loosening one glove then the other. He pulled them off and threw them across the room with another yelled curse.
He was a problem solver. An eliminator, as some people called him in the business. Yet something or someone stood in his way, and he didn’t have a clue how to rid himself of the problem and resolve this situation.
The pain and fear in those green eyes summoned every protective instinct in Killian’s body. He closed his eyes and took a few controlled breaths, his jaw muscles clenching and twitching as he gritted his teeth.
Patience.
He had to compartmentalize the fury and focus on a solution. A rage-filled plan or one made in haste rarely balanced or ended well in his line of work. He couldn’t resolve a problem unless he had more intel. And for whatever reason, Nick wasn’t budging. But something had shifted in his pale green eyes, an indication his rock-solid resolve had wavered.
I wish I could say yes.
Killian slowly opened his eyes as his heartbeat returned to something closer to its normal rhythm. Well, relatively close to normal whenever a thought of Nick crossed his mind.
His patience was tested, but Killian would wait an eternity if he had to. His balls would likely shrivel up by that point, but he’d wait. He needed to bide his time. There was no way in hell he’d leave this life behind, this version of the world, knowing there was a tiny bit of a chance to be with a man like Nick.
He didn’t have a choice. Nick held all the cards in this game.
Patience. Sucks.