A little before two, Aiden was walking in the back door. He would have been here earlier, but got sidetracked by his mother and her complaints that his cannoli still weren’t up to the Moretti standards.
After she left, he threw out the filling and made another batch of ricotta and was going to let it sit overnight to see if that made a difference or not. Probably not, but he was willing to try anything at this point.
By the time he was finished cleaning his kitchen, then sterilizing it the same way as the kitchen at Fierce, he showered and ran out the door hours later than he planned.
Nic would have started at ten thirty this morning. Gotten there to prep her station, see what was on the menu for the day, and be ready to go when the pub started serving at eleven.
He knew her hours since he still set everyone’s schedule every two weeks. Crazy, he knew that, but he couldn’t seem to let go of the reins enough to hand that over to the manager in the pub kitchen or the restaurant kitchen.
Maybe someday. If anyone in his family ever accused him of not giving up control like they had Brody, then he would. For now, it seemed he was hiding all he did well. He wouldn’t risk them hiring staff behind his back like what happened to Brody in the spring.
That had been all their mother’s doing—filling the manager position in the bar without Brody’s knowledge. When Jolene Fierce gave an order, you followed and didn’t question.
It didn’t matter that she didn’t technically own Fierce anymore. It didn’t matter that she and his father had turned the daily operations over to the five of them.
All that mattered was she was his mom and he did what she said. Or he suffered the consequences of more than her chocolate-smeared fingerprints in his white kitchen.
He needed to play it cool today. He needed to keep his distance from Nic so no one would know he’d had her tight little rear on his kitchen countertop, her legs wrapped around his hips, and her hands in his hair. He couldn’t forget about her mouth devouring his either. No, that wasn’t something he’d forget anytime soon.
What he was trying to do was figure out a way to make it happen again. But it couldn’t be now, not here, and not with so many eyes around. It had to stay in the mental and hide the physical.
He dropped his keys in his office, booted up his computer and checked for any emails and correspondences that he had to address, frowning at one from the Food Network.
A guest spot as a judge? They wanted him? That didn’t make sense.
He read it again, then noticed one of the executives cc’d was someone who mentored him during his internship there.
To this day, he had no clue why he’d chosen that internship. He should have picked one in a restaurant. Should have been working alongside a Michelin star chef. Instead, he’d decided to try his hand at a television network.
Maybe secretly he had plans of going out on his own. Of having his own show. Of not coming back to work for the family business. But he’d never let anyone know that.
His stint at the Food Network killed all those thoughts.
It was probably good it happened the way it did. He wanted things his way, not having some production crew or figurehead tell him what would sell and what to make. What to learn to make to get more viewers. It’s not who he was.
Deep down, he needed to be able to have the freedom to create what came to him and he got that at Fierce. Building the family name into something that was sought after. And if the anonymous food reviewers of Michelin ever decided to rate restaurants in the city of Charlotte, he was going to make sure he made that list.
He’d sit on the email for now. They didn’t need an answer until Friday and he’d have to talk it over with his siblings at the next family meeting anyway.
Once everything was done in his office, he detoured to the pub kitchen. There were people setting up in the restaurant at this point, but his focus was on olive skin, a petite stature, small hands that had been gripping his hair, and lips that were greedily tasting his.
He headed in the opposite direction of all of that though, stopping at the plating station.
“How’s it going today, Stacy?” he asked.
“Going good as always. Been a busy Monday. Busier than most.”
“Really? What’s selling hot?”
“Would you be shocked to know that there have been a lot of cannoli that have gone out after meals today?”
He wasn’t shocked. “How many is a lot?”
“About half of the meals. We never get much dessert ordered in the pub, but putting them on as a combo one day last week got people talking.”
“Good to know,” he said, always thrilled when things worked out like that. “What else is selling hot?”
“Everything is about average at the moment. Nothing really standing out just yet. I’ve heard some good reviews on the chili and since it’s supposed to pour tomorrow, maybe that’d be a good combo,” she suggested.
The bar staff picked the combo for the day, not the kitchen staff, but maybe he’d swing in and see what Brody thought of it. Stacy always had good ideas and he really should start listening to his staff more when it came to things like that.
Rather than make his way through the kitchen, he popped in to see Brody, ran it by him and Aimee, and returned back. “Brody loved the idea, Stacy. Do you mind coming in a little earlier tomorrow and getting it going? I’d say make triple the amount and we’ll go from there. We should prepare since the weather might work in our favor.”
“I’d love to. Thanks for listening to me.”
“Always,” he said, then moved on. He stopped at every station, chatted for a few seconds, trying not to show favoritism to anyone. When he got to the frying station, he saw Nic battering fish and dropping it in, then doing the same with shrimp. It seemed she had her hands full, so he just watched for a second, nodded, and moved on.
There. Nothing suspicious at all.
***
Nic had been watching Aiden under her eyelashes for the past thirty minutes while he made his way around the kitchen talking to staff. He stopped for a minute or so with everyone, said a few words, and then moved on. Nothing different than any other day.
If she watched him more because she was remembering those big hands of his on her waist, gliding over her back, resting on her bare thighs, well, she wasn’t admitting that to anyone.
But when he made his way to her, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t even make eye contact with her. Just watched what she was doing, like he didn’t think she could handle frying some seafood, then nodded his head and moved away.
Maybe she got an “A” for cooking today, but he failed in her eyes as a potential boyfriend.
Then again, no one said anything about dating.
Wait, he did. He said he wanted something between them. He wanted to explore something with them. Guess his idea of exploring and hers weren’t the same.
She worked in silence the rest of her shift. When her replacement came in, she cleaned up and took her apron off, grabbed her purse and keys from the locker in the back, and walked the long way to the door—detouring toward the kitchen to catch sight of Aiden doing what Aiden did best. It was almost hypnotizing watching him work, and as much as she wanted to stay and admire, she forced her sore and tired feet to move.
It didn’t matter if she was ticked and…hurt. He was still impressive to watch. His eyes shifted up and rested on hers quickly, seemed to focus for a second, then went back to tossing shrimp in the pan.
When he was in his element, no one could hold a candle to him. Too bad she just got burned.
Several hours later, she heard her phone ring. She looked at the clock and saw it was close to eleven. When she picked up the phone to see who the caller was, she saw it was Aiden and just wanted to send it to voicemail.
She was positive her voice was hoarse. It had to be. She’d cried herself to sleep.
How stupid could she have been?
Why was she letting one kiss bother her this much?
Because he’d led her to believe it was more. Led her to believe that she was special. That maybe what they could have was special. Stupid and naive once again.
Just as her finger was going to press the silence button, she changed her mind. “What?” she said.
“Nic?”
His voice sounded questioning and she didn’t care that the Italian temper she very rarely showed was getting the best of her. He woke her up, he could feel her wrath.
“Yes,” she said impatiently.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“What do you think?”
He had the gall to laugh. “Well then, I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”
There wasn’t going to be a future, in her mind, but she’d tell him that in person. It’d be more satisfying that way. “What do you want?” she asked.
“To see how you’re doing. Are you sick? Your voice sounds off.”
She’d never admit she cried over him. That’d make her look weak. She’d been looked at as weak too much in her life. Not again. Never again. “You woke me up. Want me to clear my throat in your ear?”
There was silence on the other end. Good. Maybe he’d hang up now. “I’m sorry,” he said.
This time she paused. “For what?”
“I was trying not to draw attention to us today, but by the end of the night I got thinking I crossed too far over to the other side. That maybe it could have come off wrong in your eyes.”
“You think?” she said before she could stop herself. Darn it, she shouldn’t have answered the phone out of a deep sleep. Should have just let him leave a message.
“Yeah, and I’m obviously right. Can I pick you up for breakfast tomorrow and we can talk? Let me explain.”
“What’s there to explain? You just said it. Said you didn’t want to draw attention to us.” She didn’t want to soften but knew what he said made sense, even if she was hurt over it. That was her problem, not his.
“I’d rather talk in person. I’ll be at your house at eight. Be ready.”
The jerk hung up before she could tell him what she really thought of him.
The sad part was, she knew she’d be ready by seven thirty.