Between the hours of midnight and 5 a.m., the Delacroix kitchen was manned by a skeleton crew of two servers and one chef. The morning shift showed up 4:30 a.m. to handle the onslaught of room service. But a little after midnight on a Friday night the place was practically a ghost town.

I’d fallen into the habit of stopping by after a late workout and making a sandwich. Chef Mikey James didn’t care. We’d shoot the shit for a half hour until he got an emergency call about someone needing a Reuben on rye, a rare steak with a baked potato, or two scoops of ice cream. So, when I dragged Charlotte after midnight, he just eyed me.

“I got this.” I grabbed a few soft dish cloths from a bin, pulled a chair up next to an industrial sink, and instructed Charlotte to sit her ass down. Did I mention she argued with me about everything?

“Thanks for the offer on the sweets, but I should probably go home,” she said after exiting the elevator.

“Great idea,” I said, claiming her hand and tugging her with me in the opposite direction of the exit. “After I clean up the goo.”

“It’s organic and miracle inducing eye gel. But I’m not taking off my glasses. I look ridiculous. You’ll have to wipe around them.”

“There are rules about sliming a virtual stranger, and I’m here to enforce them.” I ran the cloth under cold water. “Lose the glasses. Now.”

“Bossypants,” she said, taking off her eyewear. “What’s your real name? Matt Baiter has a ring to it but somehow doesn’t suit you.”

“Hot Waiter does?”

Chef Mikey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll give you two some privacy.” He strolled out of the room.

“Name’s Joe,” I said. Looking at Charlotte, I realized her eyes were red and tearing. The green concoction might have been organic and “miracle inducing” as she’d been told, but she was allergic to something in its blend. “I’m taking you to Urgent Care.”

“No.” She pushed me away, grabbed her sunglasses, and stood up. “If it’s bent, not broken, I don’t see a doctor. I figure it out myself.”

I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then sit. I’m getting the stuff that doesn’t taste like sugar off your face.”

“It’s not just on me. It’s on your T-shirt and crotch. I mean pants.”

“I lied. It does taste like sugar. And I suspect you have a sweet tooth.”

“Oh, come on. Who doesn’t have a sweet tooth during the holidays?”

“Maybe you should taste and find out for yourself, Cupcake. If not, then it’s time to close your eyes.”

She squeezed them shut. I pressed the damp washcloth against her face and wiped away remnants of all things green and hurtful. “Better.”

“That’s another thing,” she said. “Why are you calling me Cupcake?”

And there she went with the determined chin again. Looking all fired up even though she wore slime, smelled like cucumbers and melon, and her hair was mashed down from that stupid orange hat that made her look adorable. “I nicknamed you Cupcake the second I saw you at the Biltenhouse wedding.”

Her eyes were closed but her lips squirmed as if words of protest were beating the crap out of each other up for the chance to pop out first. It made me want to lean in, place a hand behind her head, pull her to me, and claim that pouty mouth. My hand missed that beautiful breast it had met in a surprise encounter a week ago. I longed to touch it again.

I wanted to pull her shirt up, push her bra down, bend my mouth to her nipple, and circle my tongue around it, feeling it grow hard under my care. My cock throbbed against the confines of my pants and I willed it to calm the fuck down. What kind of weirdo gets a hard on while a woman’s having an allergic reaction?

I reminded my dick that we might get lucky tonight, but first there was a task to accomplish.

“We met when I ran into you,” she said. “And my dress wasn’t particularly frothy. I did not look like a cupcake.”

“I noticed you before I ran into you. I was at the bar picking up a bottle of pricy scotch when I first spotted you.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, furrowing her brows.

“You were leaning against the wall, your eyes as big as saucers. Like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. You looked sweet. Tempting. Tasty. Like a cupcake.”

“Oh,” she said. “You’re good with words. Are you a writer? An actor?”

I paused. “I’ve been acting for a while now. But unfortunately, still not technically an actor.”

“That’s okay.” She opened her eyes. “Everyone has their journey. Everyone finds their way.”

“Do they Charlotte? What’s yours?”

“I’m still working on that.” She glanced down.

I couldn’t help it. I leaned in and grazed my fingers across her cheek, I tugged off her hat and tossed it on the counter. She inhaled sharply.

“What are—”

“Shh.” I ran my fingers through her hair. Moist. Warm. Silky.

Her breath quickened and she shifted in her seat. What other parts of Charlotte were warm and silky? I slid one hand down her neck: skin soft, pulsing, alive. Something quickened in me, the hairs on my neck stood up. The blood pumped in my chest, and not just my dick for a change.

When her stomach growled loudly, startling us both, her eyes grew huge. “I didn’t eat tonight.”

“Aha. Good to know. Between that and the slime I thought the Alien was going to burst out of you.”

She giggled nervously.

I tucked a lock of errant hair behind her ear, ruffled her hair like she was a kid sister, and regrettably pulled away. It would have been a crime to do to a sister the things I wanted to do to Charlotte.

“I sound like a ravenous truck-driver who’s been on the road for too long,” she said.

“As long as you’re not as hairy as one.”

She laughed.

“You know, I make a mean omelet.”

“Would you make one for me?” she asked.

“Talk me into it.”

* * *

“Who taught you how to cook?” she asked, dishing a fork full of eggs and grilled vegetables sprinkled with melted goat cheese into that pretty mouth of hers.

I tried not to stare. “My dad.”

“When you were a teenager? A life-skills kind of thing?”

I shook my head. “I was nine. Dad was standing next to the stove in our Aerostream RV in some campground in yet another flat Midwestern state. I smelled onions frying in the pan. “When are we going to eat, Dad?” I asked. He said, ‘As soon as you cook for us.’”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, her fork pausing mid-air. “Did you?”

“Yup. A dozen eggs were sacrificed in the process. A kitchen fire was averted, but forty minutes later I served up burnt onions and scorched omelets. ‘Not bad for a first meal, Joe, but you can do better,’ he said. ‘If you do one thing well in life, learn how to cook. You’ll make friends, find jobs, maybe even impress a girl someday.’”

“You’re impressing me right now,” she said. “What did you do to the broccoli in these eggs?”

“Sautéed it in olive oil before I threw it into the mix.”

“What were you doing with your dad in an expensive RV? Vacationing?”

I shook my head. “Escaping.”

“From…”

“Responsibilities thrust upon him that he did not want.”

“But he wanted you,” she said. She stood up, turned the water on in the sink, and washed her plate.

“He did.”

“What about your mom?”

“That was Mom’s ‘lost year.’ They got married young, separated, and she left— needed to find herself. She showed up six months later wanting to get back with Dad, wanting our family whole again. Funny, I think the separation made them stronger. They figured it out. They’ve been together ever since.”

“Bent, not broken,” she said. “Do they visit you in Chicago? Here at your job?”

And, bam, it hit me that Charlotte didn’t know I was Joe Delacroix. Not aware of all that came with that name. That my hippie parents had chosen to spend my childhood in a series of plush RVs moving from state to state to maintain their freedom from this dynasty and all it represented. “They do,” I said. “But they don’t stay in town very long. They need to get back on the road. Travel places they feel free.”

In Charlotte’s pretty brown eyes I wasn’t heir to the Delacroix throne, a giant to be seduced, captured, and won. I was still Joe the Hot Waiter. Working at a hotel. Spilling expensive scotch on her gown. Wiping slime off her face. Cooking for her.

“They’re modern day gypsies,” she said. “That’s a magical way to grow up. The omelet was wonderful. Thank you.” She finished drying her plate and placed it on the counter.

“What about you?” I asked. “Tell me all about you. I detect a hint of a Wisconsin accent. Am I right?”

“Yeah. I’m a Cheesehead.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “It’s two a.m. Do you work tomorrow? Or should I say today? I’m taking all your time. I should probably go home.”

“Don’t,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“You…” I leaned in closer, our eyes locked, “… haven’t had dessert yet.”

“What do you have in mind?” She bit her lower lip.

It would be so easy to scoop her up and place her on the counter. I’d lean in and kiss those pouty lips, place a hand behind her head, pull her to me…

The phone on the kitchen wall rang. Chef Mikey walked around the corner and picked up. “Delacroix Room Service. Yes. Yes.” He keyed the order into an iPad. “Reading that back to you. A bottle of Perrier Jouet Champagne, two servings of pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream on the side, and Christmas sugar cookies. Suite 820. Room Service will be up in fifteen minutes. Thank you.”

“Who needs Champagne and sweets this late at night,” I asked. “Besides me?”

“Well, Hot Waiter, you’ll find out when you drop off their order.”

“But I’m not…” I looked at Charlotte. “My shift doesn’t start… my uniform is at home.”

“Dry cleaning delivered fresh ones. Be a pal and help me out, eh? Gary called in sick with the flu.”

“Chef Mikey your timing is shitty,” I said.

“You’re the best employee ever, Joe.” He bit back a smile.

* * *

“It’s okay,” Charlotte said, curbside outside the Delacroix lobby. She ducked her head and got into the back of the cab. “I get it. Duty calls. We’ll do dessert another time.”

“I had big plans, Cupcake.”

“We have to put in our time and work as hard as we can. Thanks for saving me from the dangerous eye mask.”

“You’re welcome.” I shut her door, scrawled my phone number on a hundred dollar bill, and handed it to the driver. “Text me when she’s safely home.”

“Will do.”

Charlotte rolled down the window. “Best. Omelet. Ever.”

I watched the cab pull away. “Fuck,” I said, racing after the car. “I don’t have your digits. Don’t know your last name!” But the driver had turned the corner on this chilly pre-Christmas night, and once again, I was sugared out of luck.