Page 11 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Three

Night One

“B ehind!” Theo, Marco’s sous, called out as he carried a steaming hot pan from the stove to the prep station.

Marco glanced at the list of tickets in front him, nodding absently as he absorbed the sounds of the busy kitchen around him. Everything was working like clockwork, an hour into dinner service.

He could take a minute to duck back to the pastry kitchen and make sure everything was all set. It was Andrew’s first night, and even though he was clearly eminently capable, it would be the right thing to do to check on him.

If it was anyone else, Marco would’ve done it without thinking.

But Andrew was not anyone else, and he was afraid of what he’d feel if he went back there. Attraction, without a doubt, and the insistent, dizzying pull to give in to it.

When he’d texted Marcella, annoyed that she had still suggested Andrew, she’d replied obliquely, saying that, Everyone grows up, even you Marco.

He’d intended to confront her about it, but when she’d shown up to do her nightly tour of the front of the house, he’d been busy, prepping for family dinner, and hadn’t had a second to spare.

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 in his pastry 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 eat him instead.

“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 him hope it 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.”

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 been trying to 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, sweet or savory.

“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 from Andrew .

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.

Marco revised his earlier thought. Dario had just as much of an iron hand as Luca, he was just less obvious about it.

“Did you try the cheesecake?” Marco was trying to be subtle about it, but he wanted to talk to someone about how good it had been because he was still thinking about it, the flavor of it still lingering on his tongue.

“No?” Dario looked concerned. “Was there something wrong with it?”

“The opposite.”

“It’s always good.” Dario straightened another glass. Pulled out his phone and made a note—probably to remind the bussers that when they were re-setting the tables to make sure their lines were straight.

“This was better, somehow. The same, and also different, and also more the same.”

Dario looked up at him, and Marco was suddenly and painfully aware that he was ranting.

“Is this going to be another Izzy? Or James? Or Meredith? Or?—”

“Enough,” Marco said stiffly. He didn’t need to hear a recitation of his love affairs—or in Izzy’s case, one-sided love affairs . “James and Meredith happened over fifteen years ago, and Izzy was . . .well, it wasn’t like that.”

“I’m just asking. I thought Marcella talked to you.” Dario’s tone was mild. Unaccusatory.

Marco lowered his voice. “Marcella did . Marcella also recommended I hire her old friend Andrew knowing what he looks like?—”

“What does he look like?” Concern blossomed in Dario’s gaze.

“Well, you’ve seen him now, and you know what he used to look like, and Marcella still recommended him, all while lecturing me on how fucking irresistible I apparently am. Maybe she should’ve thought about that before . . .before . . .” Marco shut his mouth because even he could tell he’d said too much.

“And we call Gabe the emotional one,” Dario teased.

“I’m not emotional about this,” Marco straight-up lied.

He was still thinking about —still tasting— that goddamn cheesecake. Food always made him emotional, and that cheesecake had made him feel it all .

“So he grew up hot. Marco, you are thirty-seven and a great chef who runs this restaurant brilliantly. Don’t tell me that a guy you knew in high school showing up hot is able to derail you like this.”

Marco knew what his little brother was doing, and yet he stood up straight and played right into his hands anyway. “No, no, no . Of course not. I’m only interested in the cheesecake.”

“Right,” Dario said. The asshole was smiling now.

It was official. First Marcella and now Dario. His whole family had it out for him.

“I’ll just . . .go ask him about it,” Marco said.

“Maybe you should,” Dario agreed.

But Marco didn’t. When he returned to the kitchen, it was clean and almost dark for the night. He saw a light still on in the back pastry kitchen and assumed Andrew and Daniel were finishing up for the night, too.

Andrew had said he was just out of a bad breakup.

Maybe he wouldn’t be affected by Marco’s Moretti-ness, intended or otherwise.

But Marco was affected by his Andrew-ness.

So he stayed away.