And as Leo and I loved sharing one woman, we were just the guys to help her let loose.
Two
HARPER
I should’ve known.
It was bound to happen.
Another disruption.
And when I turned, I realized there wasn’t one, but two of them. Two gorgeous disruptions.
One, a ruggedly handsome, broad-shouldered wall of a man. The next, a beautiful, square-jawed, expertly dressed Adonis who’d probably mastered the art of melting women’s panties and causing ovaries to explode with just one look.
Mine were certainly perking right up at the sight of them.
Two sinful distractions, and at the most incon
venient time, given that tonight’s catering gig was so crucial to the survival of my business. This engagement party, while only serving appetizers and finger foods, was just the first with this client, and it had to go perfectly. I’d also been booked for a seven-course dinner party for the rehearsal dinner, which was scheduled for roughly nine weeks from now. And directly after that, the wedding. It would be the biggest event of my career. Three hundred guests, and I was responsible for preparing everything from the appetizers to the seven-course meal to the bonbonnieres. It was a big job with the revenues to keep my business afloat for a long time. And the word-of-mouth opportunities to come from it? To say this client was important was an understatement.
But Murphy’s Law happened.
Shit hit the fan, and both my catering site coordinators called in sick on the same day, just hours before tonight’s event was to begin. I’d barely pulled it off, but as I had no other choice, I made it work. Like usual. Every event had to happen, had to be perfect. It was my job, my neck, my livelihood on the line.
Of the three remaining wait staff, I’d stationed one at the bar, made the second responsible for the cold menu items and desserts, and the third handled the hot dishes. That left me and me alone to do the behind-the-scenes preparation in the kitchen.
Which was why I was stuck in the back here. I was practically chained to my prep station instead of being free to check on the state of the event, and maybe spend time as I usually did at the cold desserts table. In this business, that was the sweet spot. Pun not intended.
At most events, all it took to drum up new business clients were a few conversations with guests lingering near the petit fours. It happened so often that I expected it, and sometimes I could spot the person in the crowd who’d turn out to champion my goodies on any given night. That was why I wore the dress and stilettos instead of an apron and my work clogs. I only made the sale when I dressed to impress.
Invariably, some wealthy socialite or an older man would approach the table for a plate of seconds or thirds. They’d notice me replenishing the trays and would comment on the addictive taste or unique texture of one of my treats. Then they’d ask about a recipe or mention an upcoming event they were hosting and would love to have their guests rave about the food.
Then I was in.
I had them hooked.
My dishes were the best to hit the Manhattan event circuit in years, or so I was told. I’d come to believe it because I knew that, at a bare minimum, my menu was unique, and I’d worked my ass off to gain that notoriety. And to think it had all started with my grandmother’s olive bread recipe. Though I’d gotten several recipes from her, it was the one thing she’d actually taught me on my only visit to meet her many summers ago before I hit my teens. She and my mother weren’t close, so I was grateful for the one visit, because that was when I discovered my love for cooking and baking.
My parents were working class people. A mechanic and a school teacher. They worked hard, did their best, but hadn’t had enough money to send me to college. No college meant no fancy degree. My culinary education came from working in kitchens to pay the bills after I finished high school. As a self-taught food professional, every one of my recipes was my own creation. Even those from my grandmother had been tweaked. I dreamed them up, started from scratch and refined them in my own little catering side gigs. I worked hard. Each scar and burn on my hands was proof that I busted my ass. It took years of trial and error to perfect each item, just as it did to build this business. To get where I was today.
So yes, I could see a potential customer from across the room, and once I did, before the night was up, I’d close them. You could say that word-of-mouth was my marketing strategy. From their tasting to my schmoozing.
Except tonight, I was stuck in the kitchen. No one was out front championing my creations.
And now, I wasn’t alone.
These sexy as sin strangers loomed, stealing my focus, two gorgeous obstacles to throw me off my game because, while I needed to arrange the next tray of bacon wrapped shrimp, I was making small talk. Undressing them with my eyes
God, they were gorgeous.
They both stood in the middle of my domain—definitely not theirs—injecting new energy into the space, affecting my livelihood in the sexiest, most tempting way possible.
Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Or the apple. I wasn’t sure which because I’d stopped attending Sunday school when I was eight. All I knew was they walked in, and I lost my ability to think straight. It was a wonder I could even speak my name when Dane introduced himself, when he’d held my hand in his. Fuck yes, that touch. Firm grip, big hand. Dominating. I had to wonder what he could do with those hands.
Even when the big, brawny one headed down the hallway to get to the driveway, I’d almost swallowed my tongue. Complete opposites, the two of them. One all crisp businessman with a quick smile and easy charm, the other tugged at the tie about his neck like a puppy on a new leash. Rugged. Unrefined.
Yeah, opposites. Yet I found them both so damned appealing. Crazy, really. I didn’t have time to check out one guy, let alone two, but I owed it to women everywhere to at least flirt.