Page 122 of Boss of the Year

“Oh, I think I know how to make you happy, babe,” Xavier teased before wrapping a big tattooed arm around Frankie anddelivering a kiss that wasn’t really appropriate for a room full of people.

Even so, their affection was just as familiar as the rest of the noise. After all, the Zola kids had been raised by two people deeply devoted to each other: our grandparents. It made sense that when we fell too, we loved hard and out loud.

By the time he was finished, Frankie had been significantly subdued. She threw up her hands. “I give up. Cook what you want. But don’t blame me when Sofia refuses to eat the black worms.”

“That’s my girl.” Xavier laughed just before smacking her butt, causing her to screech and skitter around the counter to sit with Lucy, who was also laughing just like her dad.

“Zia Marie!” Sofia scrambled to her feet and launched herself at me. “Mama said you were coming back for dinner. Are you staying forever? Can you teach me to make cookies like Nonna used to?”

“Hello, bug.” I scooped her into a hug. “I’m just visiting for now, but we can definitely make cookies. I miss Nonna’s amaretti too.”

“Brilliant!” Sofia’s attention shifted to Lucas, who was standing awkwardly near the elevator. “Are you Zia Marie’s boyfriend? You’re really tall. Not as tall as my daddy, but almost.”

“Sof.” Frankie’s voice carried a warning, though she was smiling. “What have we told you about interrogating guests?”

“That it’s rude but sometimes necessary for gathering intelligence,” Sofia replied solemnly, making Lucas cough to hide what sounded like laughter.

“She gets that from her father,” Frankie noted dryly as she shot a warning look at Xavier, who was laughing openly as he set a pot to boil on the stove. “Xavi, come meet Marie’s…employer.”

Xavier rounded the counter, and I was struck again by how imposing he was. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an arm full of tattoos that slipped out from the T-shirt and jeans he typically wore at home, he looked less like a duke and more like a street-fighter. Or at the very least, the bad boy chef he had been before gaining a title.

“Lucas Lyons,” he pronounced in an accent rooted as much in the streets of South London as in a posh private school. “Xavier Parker. We met last year at the Sinai gala, right?”

The way they sized each other up reminded me of two predators meeting on neutral ground—polite but wary. Frankie often described Xavier as a tiger, and Lucas prowled through life like a panther. Two big cats figuring out their territory.

Lucas nodded as he accepted a handshake. “That’s right. Did you end up investing in Huntwell’s last venture?”

“Nah. Wasn’t worth the trouble. Nathan’s all right, ’specially now that he’s with our Joni, but I wouldn’t trust his brother Carrick as far as I could throw him.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Frankie and I glanced at each other and hid smiles.

“I was just starting dinner.” Xavier motioned toward the kitchen. “Marie, you want to cook with me? I’m curious to see what them frogs in Paris actually taught you.”

“Xavi, didn’t you study in Paris too?” Frankie wiped banana off Lucy’s face and took her out of the highchair to join her sister on the carpet.

“Yeah, but in the end, you know I taught them a thing or two.”

I followed him into the kitchen, leaving Lucas with Frankie and the girls.

“So.” Xavier started pulling ingredients from the refrigerator without preamble. “That’s the bloke who made my sister-in-law show up crying on my doorstep, eh?”

“Frankie talks too much,” I muttered as I grabbed a spare apron off a rack.

“Ces talks exactly enough.” His eyes were sharp as they studied my face. “What is it with you Zola girls? First, I have to rescue Joni, now you. Who’s next, Kate or Lea?”

“You’re feeding me dinner. It’s hardly a rescue.”

“Why can’t any of you pick a man who doesn’t make you cry?”

“I seem to rememberyoumaking my sister cry for a very long time,” I reminded him as I tied the apron.

Xavier’s expression shuttered. “Yeah. Well. Not anymore. Not ever again.” He jerked his head toward Lucas. “I suppose the real question is whether he’s worth all the drama.”

Before I could answer, he was setting out ingredients for a familiar recipe.

“Bolognese?” I asked.