It’s been almost eleven years since the day I got thrown in juvie before I was tried as an adult and locked away for four years and seven months over my crimes. That was the day that changed it all for me.
I haven’t been in the life since I got put in cuffs. But sometimes I still have nightmares that I never got out.
Any kitchen job in any corner of the country is better than where I’ve been—and worse, where I was headed. Nothing could get me back into the life that killed my father, that took almost five years from me before I was even able to legally buy a drink.
If I can’t win over the owner of Heights Bites with this dish… I’ll keep heading west, see what else is out there. This isn’t the only place that’s hiring. I’ve got enough cash saved up to float myself for long enough to find something that sticks. Enough street smarts, and enough muscle to stay safe while I do.
But it might not suck if things worked out here.
The gardener watches on, eyes low, fixed on the plate I just garnished.
Shit, maybe food is my way in with her.
Her stomach grumbles, complaining loudly for the whole kitchen to hear. Is that part of why she fainted?
Maybe it’s the Italian in me, maybe it’s the chef, but I don’t let the people around me go hungry, especially not gorgeous women.
She clasps a forearm to her stomach and those telling cheeks color with splotches of red.
“Don’t worry,bella. I’ll have a mouthful for you in just a sec.”
Whipping out my phone, I get the camera open with my preferred settings, frame the shot, and take a few from different angles to send to the owner.
Maybe I didn’t need them to show up to the interview anyway. I can show them I know my way around a kitchen—their kitchen—and that my skills are exactly what they’ve been looking for.
Once I’m satisfied with the pictures, I track down some silverware and cut into the chicken. Yep, she’s still moist. Amante’s got a way with meat.
I load up a forkful, making sure to get a bite of veg and plenty of sauce on there, then I hold it out to the gardener, hand beneath the fork to catch any drips, and wait for her to open her mouth.
Her eyes narrow above her thin nose and she’s doing that angry scowl thing again that might be getting me half hard.
If I wasn’t worried that she might not be fully recovered from her little fainting spell earlier, I’d take the chance to push some more of her buttons right now. Get riled up all over again, admire how responsive she is, and wonder how far that could go.
But I’m being considerate. My mother andnonnaraised a gentleman.
“Open up,” I tell her, fork to her mouth.
“You’re not feeding me,” she grumbles, reaching a hand up for the fork.
My hand covers the whole handle, so when she tries to rip it out of my hand, well, there just isn’t really room. That doesn’t stop this feisty girl, and some of the creamy white sauce flings all over her bare chest as she wrestles the fork from my hand.
“Oh no,” I moan. “My sauce got all over your tits.”
Her brown eyes go wide, she starts to give me sass, and then the flavors hit her tongue in harmony. I see it happen.
Those irises melt, pupils blow out just a bit, and I watch the serenade of savory dance across her palate, it’s written all over her face.
Hey, that could be another restaurant name. Savory Serenade. I’ll tell her when she isn’t looking at me like she wants to murder me.
It’s a look I’ve seen too many times in my life, but never by someone as intriguing as her. Never has it been blended with such heat, such passion. Usually it’s by a guy with face tattoos hiding a shiv in his palm.
But the raw kind of desire that sings to me like hers does is a rare treat. Pair it with glittering murder eyes and I’m down bad.
Not sure I believe in the one, but I think she might be the next one.
Damn, now I kinda wanna get this job for real. Sticking around this hokey town and getting under her skin—in more ways than one—sounds like just what the doctor ordered.
She chews for what feels like ages, and I can’t take it anymore. “So?” I ask her, brows waggling. “How’s my meat?”
