Page 12 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Four

Night Two

M arco slept like shit.

Tossing and turning, thinking about that cheesecake, parsing every flavor he could remember, and when he did finally fall asleep, blue eyes and golden-brown scruff haunted his dreams. Taunting him with the recipe. Taunting him by stripping down to nothing. To just tanned skin and muscles and a hot smile that promised everything Marco craved.

Marco had taken a cold shower after the alarm blared, and he’d resolutely not touched his hard cock, because he knew if he did, he’d think about Andrew, and that was the last thing he needed.

He walked to work in a bad mood, even though it was a gorgeous summer morning. Scowling at the sky because it was the same shade of blue as Andrew’s eyes didn’t change a goddamn thing, either.

Marco shoved open the back door, walking into the changing room, and of course, he was there.

Sitting on the bench in front of the locker Dario had assigned him, those blue eyes gazing up at Marco as he stopped short in the doorway.

Had Andrew been waiting for him?

“Hey,” Andrew said.

You are thirty-seven years old and a great chef who runs this restaurant brilliantly.

“The cheesecake,” Marco said, before he could snatch the words back. “What did you do to it?”

Sorry, Dario, I tried.

“You told me not to change the menu.” He was teasing again, the corner of his beautiful mouth upturned in amusement.

“Yes,” Marco said brusquely. He was annoyed. But not at Andrew. At himself. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and paced. Back and forth. Feeling like he was losing himself. If Andrew looked even a fraction less interested or concerned, maybe he could deal.

But no. He couldn’t deal. He wasn’t dealing.

“Are you alright?” Andrew sounded concerned.

No, he was not alright. Maybe Marcella was right. He was a Moretti, the blood running true in his veins. He wanted to fall in love. He wanted to wallow in the emotion, even as he tried to resist its inexorable allure.

“No,” Marco said. “What did you do to the cheesecake?”

Andrew raised a light brown eyebrow. Marco wanted to lick it. Wanted to lick him all over. “That’s what this is about? The cheesecake?”

No. And yes.

Marco nodded.

“You could’ve just asked .”

And I could’ve just left you alone.

“I’m asking now.”

“Candied orange and nutmeg,” Andrew said.

“But there wasn’t any—” Marco stopped abruptly. “It was the exact same texture. If you’d put candied orange in, I would’ve known.”

“Would you have?” That eyebrow rose again.

“This one of your fancy Paris tricks?” Marco asked gruffly. He’d come even closer than he’d realized, and he was only a foot away from Andrew now, those blue eyes gazing up at him. He didn’t seem bothered—he seemed . . .well, interested .

And he didn’t seem nearly as torn about it as Marco was.

Andrew smiled. “You also went to culinary school. I checked.”

“You checking up on me?”

He stood then, pulling himself up to his whole height. He was still an inch or two shorter than Marco. Short enough Marco would have to lean down to kiss him. “Maybe. But it’s a trick you taught me, actually.”

Marco swallowed hard. “I did?”

“I’m sure you don’t remember—we were in high school, and I was over at your house. You were making marinara, and you showed me how to smash and paste the garlic so nobody would ever get a big chunk of it.”

Actually, Marco did remember that now. He’d stood behind Andrew, guiding his hands on the knife, making sure he’d gotten the motion of it.

“Seemed appropriate to use that trick now,” Andrew said wryly. “Glad you liked it though. Assuming you liked it . . .”

“I loved it,” Marco admitted. At the time, he’d been more interested in imparting the process than in the man himself. But those tables had turned.

Still, Andrew remembered that day.

Remembered well enough that he’d dug that trick out yesterday, to use in his beloved Nonna’s recipe.

“You recognized me in the coffee shop,” Marco said.

Andrew tilted his head. “You haven’t changed much, Marco. Not in any way that actually matters. I’d have recognized you anywhere.” He patted him on the shoulder, and his touch burned. “Still the same handsome, irresistible Marco Moretti.”

Marco opened his mouth and then shut it again. “Marcella’s been telling you stories.”

“About you leaving a swath of broken hearts behind you? A little, maybe. But then, you were doing that in high school, too. Imagine my surprise when I come back home and you’re still single.” Andrew looked amused by this.

Marco wasn’t amused by this. He wasn’t someone’s gossip entertainment.

“Haven’t met the right person yet.”

“If Marcella’s to be believed, you’ve met lots of right people,” Andrew teased. He looked right now like he wanted to be one of them.

It would be so easy to tuck him in, under his arm, and kiss him.

He’d probably let Marco.

But Marco didn’t want to be like this. He didn’t want to be at the mercy of his own desire. What really stopped him, though, was what Andrew had said before. The words that had been turning over in his head, right alongside the undefinable flavor in the cheesecake.

Bad breakup. Lost my job.

It suddenly occurred to Marco those were connected.

“You dated your boss, before. The bad breakup.” He said it, shocked, before he could snatch the statement— not even a goddamn question, Marco— back.

Andrew tilted his head. “You looked me up.”

“No.” I wanted you to tell me. “I guessed.”

“Yes,” Andrew said precisely. Carefully. But with no additional details.

Marco wanted to demand why he was here right now, then? Swaying in front of him, like he was a half-second and the remains of his judgment away from leaning in, pressing his body against Marco’s. Taking what they were both tempted by.

But he didn’t.

He moved away, instead.

“Makes sense, now,” Marco said.

He could be the reasonable, intelligent one.

You’re thirty-seven years old and a great chef who runs this restaurant brilliantly.

“Yes,” Andrew repeated.

“Well, keep it up.” Marco cleared his throat. “The cheesecake, I mean.”

“Of course, what else could you mean?” Andrew said and skirted around him, shooting Marco one last knowing look out of those blue eyes as he exited the locker room.

Andrew had said Marco was irresistible, but he was wrong. So fucking wrong.

Marco let out the breath he’d been holding.

Scrubbed a hand over his face. Tried to clear his mind, but it didn’t want to be cleared.

It wanted to chase after Andrew and tell him he’d never fuck with him and then break up with him and then discard him, like his ex.

But that way lies insanity and possibly flying pomegranates.

So he didn’t.

Not until much, much later.

They were halfway through the night, when Jose, who handled the grill, offhandedly mentioned a comment about hoping there’d be some of the new limoncello dessert left, so he could try it.

“Oh yeah, Daniel mentioned it to me,” Elijah added. “Sounded fucking delicious.”

Marco’s hand froze on the plate he was pulling down from the stack.

“Chef? Chef? I got this prime rib,” Jose said, from behind him.

“Yeah, plate it,” Marco said and wiped his hands on the towel hanging from his apron. “One sec.”

It was not hard to ask Natalia, Dario’s wife who managed the front of the house when Marcella wasn’t around, for a copy of the dessert menu. She shot him a weird look but brought it, sliding it across the pass-through.

Sure enough, there it was. Printed in black and white.

Limoncello Dream , it said.

This was his restaurant and he’d told Andrew that the menu didn’t change. He’d been here for what . . .two fucking nights and he was already screwing around?

That was not going to stand. Not if Marco had anything to say about it.

He stomped off towards the pastry kitchen.

Andrew was whipping cream again.

“For God’s sake,” Marco burst out.

Andrew looked up from his bowl. “What is it?” he asked.

Marco prowled closer, gesturing towards the bowl. “How much fucking whipped cream do you go through?”

Behind him, Daniel said tremulously, “A lot, Chef, especially with the new dessert?—”

Andrew interrupted him. “Thank you, Daniel. Go take your break.”

“But—”

“Now,” Andrew said, his tone brooking no arguments. No doubt he’d seen the fire in Marco’s eyes.

“What the fuck is this new dessert?” Marco tossed the printed card on the prep counter. “I told you. No menu changes.”

“Marcella approved it. What do you think I did to get it printed?”

Marco threw his arms up. “I don’t know! Enticed Dario, who’s practically a zero on the Kinsey scale?—”

“And who’s married,” Andrew said steadily.

But Marco hated this calm act. He wanted Andrew to get worked up, like him. Like he’d been worked up, since the moment he’d turned in the Coffee Beanery and seen how well Andrew had grown up.

“I made myself so fucking clear,” Marco growled.

Andrew set the whisk into the bowl. He’d rolled up the sleeves on his chef’s coat again, and God , Marco wanted to weep at how gorgeous his muscled forearms were.

He’d seen how many pairs of forearms in his life, and these were going to make him lose his composure and even his mind?

Apparently .

“You did,” Andrew agreed.

“Then why ?”

Andrew just shrugged. Still unconcerned about Marco’s temper. “Thought I might demonstrate again that nifty little trick. You liked it in the cheesecake.”

“That was a cheesecake on our menu ,” Marco retorted.

“You don’t even want to try it before you throw a shit fit?” Andrew asked.

Marco told himself it didn’t matter how good it tasted. It was the principle of the thing.

What was he doing? Was Andrew intentionally trying to chip away at his self-control one dessert at a time? Did he enjoy reducing Marco to a boiling mess of sugar and emotion?

Maybe it was better if Marco didn’t know the answer to either of those questions.

“Fine,” Marco ground out.

He watched as Andrew prepared the dessert with expert precision. It had some kind of cookie base, topped with a cloud of pale yellow cream and then more of that whipped cream, a single sprig of thyme and a dusting of baked crumbs resting on top of all that fluff.

It looked like nothing.

But then Andrew handed him the plate and he took his first bite, and he swore in the back of his throat.

Barely resisted gobbling up another bite—or ten.

He hated how good it was. Perfect in every way. Like a flawless Italian summer.

He hated the glowing certainty in Andrew’s eyes that he’d love it.

Resisting the urge to demolish the entire plateful, he set it down with a deliberate click on the counter. “What are you doing?” he asked, this time out loud.

The knowing look in those eyes said it all. Andrew knew exactly what he was doing. But he pretended innocence, simply shrugging easily. “Being your pastry chef. Training Daniel to be one. He’s got promise. You were right.”

Marco wanted to smear the lemon cloud across Andrew’s mouth and then devour him.

It didn’t matter that this was his kitchen. It didn’t matter that Andrew was his employee.

Marco breathed out and then breathed back in. Trying to rein himself in.

“It’s a good dessert,” Andrew continued, carefully, like he finally comprehended how far he’d pushed Marco. “I’d like to keep it on the menu. It’s been popular. It would be a good special for the summer.”

“What’s that?” Marco barked. He wasn’t a barker. He didn’t normally give two shits about the hierarchy of the kitchen. That had always been Luca.

But now, for the first time, he had a glimmer of understanding of why his elder brother had said fuck it to everything and had run off to the wilds of South Carolina, to follow love.

“It’s a good dessert, Chef ,” Andrew murmured, and Marco swallowed hard.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked again.

“Because I want to,” Andrew said, and it made no fucking sense and Marco couldn’t understand it, but he could only accept it must be true. “You’re probably used to doing the charming, aren’t you?”

“According to Marcella, yes.”

Andrew turned away, like it was easy, and picked up his whisk again. “We good?” he asked. Like none of this had even happened. Like this was just another night of service.

Marco didn’t want to be “good.”

He wanted to slide the bowl and the whipped cream and every single other fucking thing on the counter to the floor, lift Andrew up and kiss him.

Even more now, than before.

Because he’d faced Marco’s fire, invited it, even, and didn’t seem all that bothered by it.

The guy was hot. That was a certifiable fact. But that , that backbone of steel, was even hotter.

Nuclear hot. Plunging-into-a-volcano hot. Marco-tearing-off-all-their-clothes hot.

“Yeah,” Marco said. “We’re good.”

He turned and walked away.