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I could hear the other man groan, but Sticks chuckled. “Consider him your slave for the rest of the day.”

“Where are you going?” Miller muttered to Sticks.

“Got admin stuff to do, or do you want to handle it?”

“If you mean deal with Griselda, no, thanks.”

I forgot Griselda was the club’s manager.

“That’s what I thought.” Sticks looked at me. “He’s all yours.”

Somehow, Miller and I worked around each other. I found out he was a former army veteran. He was thirty-two and grew up in Memphis. Single. Unlike Sticks, who was brawny, Miller should have been the one to be called Sticks. He had taken off his worn-out tee and had on a stringer tank top. And the only reason I knew what those skinny-strap tanks were called was because I’d heard Nico, my gym-rat brother, mention them often. Still, it looked out of place on Miller’s runner’s build.

He hopped off the countertop where he used it to clean the top shelves.

“All done,” he announced. He looked longingly at the pot of minestrone I was stirring. “You preparing a feast?”

“Since I found out there are six guys in the bunkhouse, I’m making sure I have enough.” Sandro and I hadn’t discussed what he expected from me yet, but I fully intended to cook for everyone on this property. Baked chicken and potatoes were in one oven, and rigatoni was in the other one. I was also making garlic bread.

“Do you want a bowl of this?” I asked. “It’s ready.”

“I could use a bowl.” His smile was almost shy and he couldn’t meet my eyes. A flush crawled up his neck. Maybe I could gain his sympathy. Sticks more or less pledged his loyalty to Sandro. But Mom always said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. If I were nice to Miller, maybe in a few days I could convince him to let me use his phone. But…ugh. I didn’t want to get him in trouble. So I nixed that devious idea.

There was no harm in gaining allies, though. Soup bowls sat stacked beside the stove, so I opened the lid of the pot, and stuck a tasting spoon in it.

“Since you’re the only one here, see what else it needs?”

I blew on the spoon and held it out.

“I’m not…uh…an expert…uh…in this.” His face was flaming by now. How could Miller work as a club bouncer if he got tongue-tied around me?

“Tell me if it needs salt.”

“What’s going on here?” a voice boomed.

The hand holding the spoon rattled and spilled the soup.

Annoyed, I turned to see Sandro striding into the kitchen. My tongue went dry at the leashed power I imagined straining under his well-tailored black suit. Raw aggression saturated the room. Sandro’s dark brown eyes were almost black. His wavy black hair was messier than usual, and an errant curl fell across his forehead adding to the wildness in his expression.

When I found my words, I said, “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m giving Miller a taste of my minestrone. I’m feeding your men.”

“I didn’t tell you to.”

I closed the lid, tossed the spoon in a dirty cup, and turned to my husband, hands flying to my hips. “Well, I’m going to do it whether you like it or not.”

My peripheral vision caught Miller slinking away, and that was when I saw Sticks, who was trying not to laugh.

Sandro’s glare narrowed at Miller’s retreating form. “Where are you going?”

“Outside,” Miller said.

“Not so fast. Let’s get one thing clear.”

Sandro started after Miller. I grabbed his arm. “Don’t you dare?—”

He switched his glare to me. “I’ll deal with you later.” Then he looked at Sticks. “Keep her here.”

Sandro shook my hand off him and went after Miller.