“I wish you’d let me sell it and go on the cruise Dolores keeps asking for.”
He coughs out a laugh. “Asking? More like demanding. Says if I don’t take her this year, we’re over.”
Dolores, Ricky’s long-time girlfriend, has been threatening that for at least five years, but Ricky, no matter what he claims, is no more interested in retiring than I am.
“Let me sell the gym. You can retire.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Behind us, the door slams open, hard.
“Fuckin’ kids,” Ricky mutters under his breath, before turning to yell. “Where are your fuckin’ manners, Jones?”
“Sorry, coach.”
“Yeah, well, get down and give me twenty.”
“Make it fifty,” I call out, just to fuck with the kid, who moans a complaint while dropping to the floor.
“On your knuckles!” says Ricky, starting to walk away.
“Call the agent, Ricky,” I tell him as I turn back to give the bag one more good thump. “Or I will.”
An hour later, showered and shaved, I pull up to Parlor and stare at the white-painted facade, wishing the pain in my knuckles would distract me from the ache in my balls.
My body’s not falling for it. Not last night, not this morning. Back at Ricky’s gym or up in my apartment, whether I’m pounding the bag, in bed, or in the shower, all I can think about is getting inside of Kit.
I head inside, say hello to Cora, who’s prepping the front of house, and catch Kit’s eye as I round the bar to the kitchen door.
“You good?” I ask.
She nods with one of those forced smiles she’s been wearing since I made my proposal.
Right away, I pull a bin of whole chickens from the walk-in and start prepping them for the Sunday roast Parlor is most famous for. It’s a brunch/British pub roast experience that appeals to all kinds of people. Kit puts soccer and rugby on the screens and puts on one of her perfectly selected playlists, and people line up for hours for a table.
I’ve got nothing but admiration for Kit and everything she’s built here, the way she’s made a brand for herself that’s more than just a fun place to hang out.
The door swings open and the sous-chef comes in, washes up and gets to work. Frida’s an older woman—late fifties, I’d guess, maybe older. She’s tall and tough and easy as hell to work with. Kit told me Frida took over the kitchen before I got here, but she’s got no interest in being in charge. “Wanna get the biscuits prepped?”
“On it,” she says. Concise, to the point.
We get into our usual groove pretty quick and have everything ready before the doors open. Throughout the shift, I do my best to ignore Kit’s occasional pass-throughs, although not noticing her is impossible when there’s so much of her. Curves and presence and competence. It’s so goddamn sexy.We’re a few minutes from the end of service when one final order comes in and I don’t have all the pasta I need. They’ve got apps, so I put water on and cut through the restaurant to the back hall and the extra dry storage closet I just built new shelves for.
Inside, I grab a couple big bags of pasta, turn, and run smack into Kit, who’s just quickly turned the corner.
Steadying her with my free hand, I come to a full stop and look down.
“I need straws,” she says, low and husky. Pure sex. Pure sin.
“Have at it.”
They’re on the shelf right beside her, but she doesn’t move to get them, just stands there, looking up at me, her chest rising and falling, quick and shallow.
I don’t have to shut my eyes right now to picture the way she’d look under me, her tits bouncing hard with every thrust.
“Need something else?”
She blinks up. “I… Would you… Can we talk?”
