Wes almost reversed his steps right there. Three. Two. One. Right back out the door. But he gritted his teeth and kept moving forward.
“Even better,” said a tall, dark-eyed woman at her side. “He doesn’t just strip. He cooks for us!”
“Yum!” another of the group said, and Wes couldn’t tell if that was about him or his food.
“Hello, ladies.” Wes forced a charming smile and then unbuttoned his black chef’s coat as a little part of him died inside. “Who’s ready to get some hands-on lessons?”
All the women eagerly raised their hands, laughing as they made their way over to the long bar in the kitchen. His ingredients were neatly arranged, his mise en place set up by Suzie ahead of time, and the recipe cards were stacked in front of each chair at the bar along with colorful Jell-O shots and flutes of champagne.
Wes inhaled a deep breath as he took in the festive atmosphere, trying to center himself.
This was a party. Someone was getting married, and this was their fun night with their friends. Maybe the last fun night if this chick’s marriage went anything like Wes’s had. They didn’t need some grumpy-ass dude ruining their evening.
He tried to keep that in his head as he laid his chef’s coat over a chair and reached back to tug his T-shirt off.
The ladies made appreciative sounds and comments as the cool air hit his bare skin. Their reactions should’ve stroked his ego. If he’d been his younger self, he would’ve rolled around in that kind of attention, would’ve egged them on and played it up. If he’d been that guy, he would’ve sidled up to the bar with them and knocked down some of those shots, found a hot single woman in the bunch and charmed her into his bed for the night.
But right now, looking at all the pretty faces and roving gazes, he couldn’t find an ounce of interest in anything but the booze. Since his divorce, that part of him had died as well. All he saw when he looked at women now were trouble, drama, and disaster waiting to happen.
No, thanks.
One of the ladies leaned over and poured him a tall glass of champagne. “What’s your name, handsome?”
My name is Chef Wesley Garrett. I trained under renowned Chef Amelia St. John, and for a half a second, I owned the restaurant of my dreams and was going to be the next big thing in the city. “Roman.”
“Ooh, nice name. You speak Italian?”
“No. Spanish.” Because that was what his adoptive mother spoke and was the language of half his former kitchen staff. But he’d be damned if he was going to perform it like some circus trick. “I’m rusty, though.”
“That’s okay, darling,” said an older lady from the far end of the bar. “We didn’t hire you to talk.”
A few of them laughed, and the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. The light scent of the champagne drifted his way, and though he’d never been a champagne drinker, his throat became parched. He closed his eyes for a second, breathed through the urge, and focused on why he was here.
Money in the bank. Money in the bank.
He picked up a knife, pasted on
a smile, and grabbed a bowl of ground beef. “All right, who’s ready to handle some balls?”
chapter
THREE
The garlic scent wafting up from the bag of takeout made Rebecca’s stomach rumble as her heels clicked along the broken pavement. She shouldn’t have worked so late without eating something. Her bad knee was aching because she’d forgotten to tuck her flats in her bag today, but she tried to keep up the pace. Her limp would be visible tomorrow after pushing herself like this, but at least on a Saturday she wouldn’t have to hobble around the office. Plus, she only had a few more blocks before she got to her house, and she was so starved that she was strongly considering finding a bench and digging in.
She resisted the urge, knowing this part of Austin wasn’t bad but it was late and quiet, the businesses on the street closed for the evening. She’d taken a different path home than normal so she could swing by the restaurant, but now she missed the bustling street of bars and quirky shops she normally took on her way home. She switched the sack with the bottle of wine to her other hand and fished a piece of bread out of the takeout bag. She took a big bite, groaning at the buttery taste, but didn’t stop walking. The sooner she got home, the sooner the chicken marsala was all hers.
But as she crossed another street, she heard something behind her. Not footsteps exactly but something light and quick. She tensed and turned her head, ready to crash the bottle of wine over someone’s head, but instead, a scruffy black dog the size of a Lab but with fluffier hair stared back at her.
She let out a breath in relief but took a step back anyway in case the dog wasn’t friendly. “You scared me, pooch.”
The dog eyed her bread, and his tongue lolled out in a pant. If his expression could talk, it would say, How you doin’?
“Oh, no you don’t,” she warned. “This isn’t for you.”
He trotted closer, looking more goofy than aggressive, but she wasn’t going to trust that. He wasn’t wearing a collar, and though he wasn’t skinny, he looked like he’d been living the hard life for a while. He dipped his head and bumped the takeout bag.
“No,” she said, moving the bag away from him. “This is expensive Italian food. It’d probably make you sick.”