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By the time he had, she was gone. On purpose, he was convinced.

But none of that changed the problem at hand: Andrew, currently working inhispastry kitchen.

They were about an hour into service, which meant he’d be starting desserts shortly, if he hadn’t already.

Marco took a deep breath, straightened his white coat, and headed to do his duty.

Except that when he walked in, Andrew’s back was to him, his caramel-brown hair covered in a blue bandana, his broad shoulders perfectly framed in white, a matching blue apron tied around a trim waist, and it didn’t feel like a duty at all.

Daniel was staring at him. Probably because he was staring at Andrew.

“Uh, hey there,” Marco stammered. “Everything going okay?”

Andrew turned. He’d been whipping cream in a bowl, by hand. His coat sleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned, muscled forearms that were clearly capable of whipping cream by hand.

“Everything’s fine, Chef,” Daniel said. He glanced over at Andrew, and it was clear that even though Andrew had been on the premises for eight hours, he was already competing with Bea for Daniel’s adoration. A different kind of adoration, almost certainly. But still. Marco shouldn’t have been envious that Daniel could stare at him with that worshipful expression, but he felt an undeniable pulse of jealousy.

“More than fine,” Andrew agreed easily. “We’ve sent out some plates already.”

“There’s some . . .uh . . .older generation that likes to eat early.” According to Marcella, he was a charmer and a heartbreaker without even trying, but he just felt awkward and out of his depth now.

“Right,” Andrew said, nodding easily.

“Much earlier than I’m sure you’re used to. In uh . . .Paris. Or Barcelona.”

“It’s fine. I’m adapting.” Andrew tilted his head towards the prep counter. “Would you like to try anything?”

It was a normal suggestion. Marco should have even been the one to suggest it, to make sure that every single dish exiting his kitchen was as flawless as the Nonna’s reputation.

If they’d been in his regular kitchen, he’d already be cutting a narrow slice of the cheesecake, asking to taste a bite of the tiramisu. Checking the cannoli filling to make sure it lived up to every bit of his Nonna’s famous recipe.

Instead, he’d been staring at Andrew like he wanted to eathiminstead.

“Sure, yes, of course.” Marco watched as Andrew nodded at Daniel, who efficiently prepared him a plate with small tastes of every one of their desserts. Handed him a fork.

It shouldn’t have felt erotic to slide a forkful of cheesecake into his mouth in front of Andrew, but it did.

The flush on Andrew’s cheeks made Marco wonder if it wasn’t just him.

Made himhopeit wasn’t just him.

Marco dragged his attention back to the dessert.

It was exactly as he hoped. Silky and creamy, the crust nutty and perfectly browned. But with the faintest hint of something else. Something unexpected and undeniably delicious.

For a single beat and then two, he and Andrew stared at each other.

Every chef put a slightly different variation on recipes. It was inevitable. But when the cheesecake, always delicious, tasted that much better, Marco wanted to ask why.

He should’ve asked why.

This was his kitchen. His responsibility. One he took seriously.

“It’s different,” he said mildly.

“I know,” Daniel burst out, his voice full of excitement. “Andrew had me?—”

Marco held up a hand. “I don’t need to know, but it’s good. It’s . . .it’s nice.”