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But he did want to know. He wanted to pin Andrew to that counter with his body, trapping him, until he was mush under his hands and his mouth and Andrew was not only willing to reveal all his secrets, he was desperate to do it.

“Thought it might be,” Andrew said, his words the much milder version of the confidence written plainly across his handsome face.

“And the rest, it’s good too,” Marco said, once he’d tried everything. Everything else was the same. Perfectly and expertly executed, yes, but the flavors the same.

“Daniel has been great showing me the ropes of how things are done here,” Andrew volunteered, giving Daniel a nod of approval.

Daniel fucking glowed.

Probably the way Marco would glow, if he allowed himself to.

It was a good sign, how well Daniel had taken to Andrew, and even better that Andrew understood how important it was that Daniel felt valued and respected in this kitchen.

It was exactly what Marco himself would’ve said.

That should have made him feel better, made him feel certain he could return to the big kitchen and put any worries of desserts out of his head. But it didn’t.

Andrew resumed whipping his cream, his grip firm on the whisk, the muscles of his forearms flexing enticingly.

There was no reason for Marco to stay, except that he didn’t want to leave.

Like Andrew was reading Marco’s mind, he asked, “Do your pastry chefs ever help out with the family meal?”

During their initial tour this morning, Marco had gone over the schedule for the family meal all the staff shared in the late afternoon, and how every one of his line cooks had a day of the week.

“Uh, Izzy didn’t want to, so I . . .uh . . .” Marco hesitated. This was probably why she’d thought he was right on board with her growing feelings, because she’d complained about it, and he’d conceded, without much argument. He’d beentryingto be flexible, trying to prevent unnecessary drama, but he could see how she’d taken it a different way entirely.

“I don’t have a problem taking a day,” Andrew said. “Unless you’re concerned I can’t cook.”

It was ludicrous. The man had spent the last twenty years in Michelin starred kitchens. He was probably a better cook than Marco was, sweetorsavory.

“No, no, you’re . . .uh . . .yes,” Marco stammered.

When he’d asked Marcella about Andrew’s credentials, she’d simply snorted and told Marco to google him.

But Marco didn’t want to find out about Andrew from the computer. He wanted to find out about Andrew fromAndrew.

Stupid.

Still, even without Marco being intimately familiar with his resume, it was clear he knew his way around the kitchen.

“Good,” Andrew said with a firm nod and went back to his whipped cream.

Daniel was busy plating a ticket that had just printed out and there was really no earthly reason for him to stay.

So, Marco left.

Wishing the whole time that he’d found an excuse to linger.

Three hours later, he emerged from the nearly clean kitchens to the main dining room to find Dario doing a run through inspection.

“Hey, little brother,” Marco said, patting him on the back. Dario he could touch, freely, without concerns, and it felt good to do that, again. To not worry about watching himself every minute of every day.

“I saw you brought in Andrew for the pastry job,” Dario said absently, straightening a gleaming glass on the table, already re-set for tomorrow’s service. “How’s he working out?”

“Beautifully, but then you probably already know that.” Dario knew everything. He didn’t run the business with Luca’s iron hand, but that was probably better for everyone—including Luca.

“I had Natalia send a cannoli to the office, so I could make sure,” Dario agreed, referring to his wife.