1
Kit
I know the second he walks in that the man is trouble.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my almost forty years on this planet it’s to give trouble a wide berth. Especially when it’s six foot five, heavily tattooed, and muscle bound.
“Can I help you?” I ask from where I’m standing behind the bar. “We’re not open yet.”
He pulls off mirrored sunglasses and looks around, eyes probably still adjusting to the restaurant’s dark interior. When he finally focuses on me, it takes effort to maintain my relaxed stance.
This guy, whoever he is, has the hard, confident, utterly aloof presence of a predator. I can’t imagine for the life of me what’s brought him to my fancy little gastro-diner on the outskirts of town.
“Looking for Kitty Esteban.” He watches me, clearly aware that he’s found her. “Your brother sent me.”
Immediately, my tension ratchets up. “My brother?”
“Frank. Asked me to swing by and check in on you.”
“Check inon me?” Great. Just wonderful. This is what I get for updating my brother on my life. Which, granted, has been more than a little complicated recently. Even from prison, Franco’s got to micromanage. As if I haven’t done just fine out here without him. Hell, I’m the one running a restaurant—albeit with great difficulty just now. He’s the one who’s been behind bars for the past decade and a half. “Tell him I’m good. Thanks.” I go back to the produce order.
Ignoring me entirely, the man hooks his glasses into the neck of his T-shirt and moves smoothly between tables toward the bar. “Saw a sign outside. You need a cook?”
With a sigh, I shut the computer and look up. “Yeah. You don’t happen to be a chef in need of work, do you?” I mime looking at a watch. “Available like, today?”
He stops right across from me, setting one heavily tattooed hand on the shiny wood counter and, for a few seconds, everything else recedes and all I see is him. He’s massive. Bigger than my original impression suggested, with his arms and chest and flat stomach perfectly displayed in the kind of plain white T-shirt probably bought in packs of five. The kind of T-shirt that looks like trash on some people and on others—like this guy—is more appealing than a tux.
Short dark hair and a thick, sinewy neck frame the kind of face I don’t usually bother examining too closely.Do Not Engage, this face says loud and clear. There’s too much challenge in his eyes. His jaw’s too stubborn.
This is the face of a pain in the ass.
And I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime.
“Sure,” he says, laying both thick forearms on the bar, putting him on a level with me. Or closer, at least. He’d have to sumo squat to get down to my height. “I can cook.”
I can’t keep the surprise off my face. “You serious?”
“My dad had a diner growing up. Started cooking before I could read. Then I did time in a few restaurant kitchens after I got out. As long as I’m not creating the menu from scratch, I can probably handle it.” Thick shoulders lift in a shrug. “Until my next contract.” I stare briefly at the big hand he offers. “Jake Brand. Friend of Frank’s. From back in the day.”
I slide my palm against his, entirely unsurprised at how rough and dry and cool his is as it engulfs mine. Suddenly, things slot in place. “By back in the day, you mean prison.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You just get out?”
“Got out twelve years ago.”
“What have you been doing since then?”
“I’m a welder. I work on offshore platforms. All over the place.”
I make a face. “And you want to cookhere?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Frank said your cook pulled a runner, stole from you.” He looks at the mess of my bar. It’s covered in piles of papers and delivery boxes I haven’t had time to unpack since Keith took off leaving me in the lurch—and five hundred bucks poorer. “I’m here to help. At least until it’s time for me to go.”
“I need a cook, though. Not a welder. And I need one stat. Books are full for tonight and Frida can’t handle a weekend night on her own.”
“I’ve got a contract starting overseas in six weeks.”
