Page 13 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Five

Night Three

S ix years ago, Marcella had started dragging him to the yoga class she was taking after the birth of her second child. Marco didn’t go often, but he’d found he enjoyed the hour of peace carved out of his normally hectic days.

He went to yoga this morning. Practiced his deep breathing.

Hoped that after, when he arrived at the restaurant, that hard-won peace might follow him. Might stick with him even after he was faced with Andrew and his annoying irresistibility.

Today was the day Marco regularly met with Dario and Marcella—and often Luca, calling in from South Carolina.

The purpose was theoretically to discuss the operations of the Moretti empire, though normally it devolved into a bitch slash gossip session.

It only took Marcella four minutes to bring up Andrew.

“We hired a new pastry chef.” She shot a knowing glance in Marco’s direction. “Or rather Marco hired a new pastry chef.”

“Yeah?” Luca sounded distracted.

“You remember Andrew from high school? My friend who went to Europe for pastry school?”

“Yeah,” Luca said. “He’s back in Napa, right?”

Marco couldn’t help the frustrated noise he made.

“Someone sounds annoyed,” Marcella teased.

“I’m not—” Marco stopped. “He’s just pushing me.”

“Maybe you need to be pushed,” Dario suggested.

Marco rolled his eyes.

“You have gotten stuck in a bit of a rut, haven’t you?” Luca said.

Marco rolled his eyes harder. “And you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Luca laughed. “I’d know all about that, which is why I’m telling you, Marco. It’s good this guy is shaking you up.”

“But don’t shake him up,” Marcella warned.

Marco barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes a third time. “Thank you, Marcella,” he retorted sarcastically. “I’m attempting to restrain my natural Moretti-ness.”

“What?” Luca asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, apparently I can’t help that everyone falls in love with me.”

Luca laughed again. “Somehow I never had that problem. Except when it counted.”

“Or maybe I’m trying to avoid any more pomegranates,” Marco muttered.

“The last pastry chef that quit was madly in love with him,” Marcella said.

“She was not,” Marco protested. “She was just?—”

“Madly in love with you?” Marcella suggested archly.

“This is a pointless conversation,” Marco said firmly. “Andrew’s here. He’s doing great. I do wish he’d stop changing the menu without my permission, but he’s training Daniel and I think in a month or so he’ll be set to take over.”

“That intern?” Luca asked.

“He’s more than an intern,” Marco retorted.

“But he’s young.” Marco could hear the frown on Luca’s face.

“But learning,” Dario added supportively. “I agree with Marco’s assessment. If Andrew keeps training him, he’ll be ready, as long as Marco’s okay continuing to oversee him.”

“The question isn’t will Marco supervise Daniel, the question is will Marco keep his hands off Andrew?” Marcella joked.

“Marco is trying,” Marco said between clenched teeth.

Thankfully, Luca changed the subject, bringing up the new quarterly figures from the distribution company that sold their line of sauces and antipasto spreads.

After the meeting, Marco avoided heading back to the pastry kitchen. And not because Marcella and Luca had given him shit. Nope. He didn’t have a reason to go back there, so he just wouldn’t.

Instead, he spent the early afternoon working with his sous, Theo, on the new monthly special, repeating and perfecting it until they were both happy, and by the time he lifted his head, checking on the rest of the kitchen, he realized it was almost four.

Time for family dinner.

“Who’s—”

But before Marco could get the rest of his question out, Jose said, “Oh, hey, new guy cooked.”

“Paella,” Elijah said excitedly. “He said he learned the recipe when he was in Barcelona.”

And sure enough, there was an enormous pan of it, sitting right in the middle of the table, and a big bowl of salad currently being passed around, someone exclaiming about the shredded Manchego “he” had grated on top.

Marco didn’t need to ask who “he” was.

“He” was standing at the head of the table, smiling and answering questions about the meal he’d just cooked.

But when someone asked directly about Barcelona and the work he’d done there, Marco could sense a shift in him.

“Owned a restaurant there, with my partner,” Andrew said, not looking like he wanted to discuss it. “Ex-partner, I guess. He bought me out, and I came back to Napa.”

Everyone looked rabidly interested, and like they were about to demand answers about Andrew coming home. Why he’d needed to leave in the first place.

But before they could—honestly, both his employees and restaurant employees everywhere were more into gossip than a whole gaggle of old hens—Marco interrupted.

“This looks amazing,” he said, patting Andrew on the back, and ignoring the ripple of sensation that washed through him at the undeniable firmness and the warmth of his skin under the white coat. “Thanks for making family dinner for us.”

“I wanted to do it,” Andrew said, shooting him a look that Marco couldn’t help but interpret as pure relief.

He hadn’t wanted to discuss why he’d left Barcelona.

Marco had assumed it wasn’t a particularly good story, and he hadn’t even known that Andrew was part-owner. Now it looked even worse.

He spent the meal making sure nobody else asked Andrew about the end of his time in Barcelona—and enjoying the hell out of the food he’d prepared for Marco’s employees. The chicken and shrimp paired with the spicy sausage were tender and delicious, and the rice was flawlessly cooked. Fluffy and perfect.

Andrew was an incredible chef, that much was clear. Much too talented to be bothering with the Nonna’s desserts.

He could be doing anything he wanted to be doing. Maybe he’d stick around St. Helena and open his bakery, or he’d go on to something bigger and brighter, but whichever he did, Marco was certain that he’d be brilliant at it.

The thought shouldn’t have made him so melancholy, but it did.

Maybe because he was now convinced that the “ex-partner” had massively fucked up in some way, and now Marco wanted to fly to Barcelona and punch him for hurting Andrew. Or maybe systematically destroy his business.

It was a very Luca-like thing to want to do, and Marco didn’t quite understand it, not until much later, after service was over.

Elijah and Jose were bickering good-naturedly as they cleaned the grill, and after checking their work absently, because he trusted them, Marco ignored his good judgment and wandered back into the pastry kitchen.

Andrew was cleaning up alone. He glanced up, seeing Marco walk in.

“Everything go okay tonight?” That was the minimal excuse Marco had prepared to come back here.

After all, he was still the head chef of this restaurant.

Dario’s words from the other day echoed through Marco. A good, and necessary, reminder of why he should be able to keep his hands to himself.

Nevermind the reminder from earlier. Andrew’s old partner had betrayed him in some way. Romantically? Professionally? Marco didn’t know the details, but he didn’t have to know the details.

It was enough to know that it had happened. Marco would never betray Andrew that way, and if that meant tackling this inconvenient attraction head-on, then he’d do it.

“Yeah. Went fine. Sold out of the special.” There was a glimmer of a smile on Andrew’s mouth as he said it, but it was fleeting as he went back to wiping down the counters meticulously.

“Heard you nearly ran out of cheesecake too,” Marco said.

Andrew gestured towards the fridge. “There’s still one piece left. You want it?”

It wasn’t cheesecake that Marco wanted, but maybe tasting more of Andrew in his mouth would help him stick to his promises.

“Yeah. I would, actually.”

Andrew smiled wider at that. Leaned down to grab it, but Marco gestured him away. “I got it,” he said. Grabbed the plate from the fridge and picked up a spoon from a crock of them sitting on the counter.

After his first bite, Marco was no longer convinced this creamy delicious goodness would keep him on the straight and narrow, because it was even better. Tonight, Andrew had garnished it with a sliver of candied orange peel, twisting impossibly and elegantly across the surface, and drizzled a hint of the darkest chocolate around the edge of the plate.

It was even better this way. Impossibly, ridiculously better.

Marco groaned as he took a second bite.

“Good?”

He realized a second too late he shouldn’t be making these sounds here—and that it had been far too long since he’d made them in relation to anything but food.

Because Andrew was gazing at him, those gorgeous blue eyes pinned to him, and Marco knew, maybe because he was a Moretti, or maybe because he was a man, that if he walked over and kissed him, Andrew wouldn’t push him away.

“It’s incredible.” Marco set the plate on the countertop. “You shouldn’t be here, working for me.”

“Why not? Because I push you? Because we’re?—”

Marco interrupted him before he could say, because we’re attracted to each other, because frankly it was hard enough keeping his hands off without knowing for sure it was mutual. And if he did know it was mutual . . . well .

“Because you’re really fucking talented,” Marco said instead. “And my dessert menu isn’t anything special. You said it yourself.”

“Maybe so. But there’s Daniel. He does need training. Because he’s going to be good. Perfect for you.”

Marco realized then that Andrew had heard the whole ugly story about Izzy and the pomegranate. “I don’t—I wouldn’t?—”

“You don’t need to excuse yourself to me.” Andrew chuckled under his breath. “Daniel’s young and impressionable, and I know you wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t with Izzy, and she wasn’t young or impressionable,” Marco said, gripping the edge of the counter and trying to resist the pull to divulge the whole story. Though frankly, there wasn’t much to tell.

“You wouldn’t overstep,” Andrew said with confident certainty.

Sounding a little, though, like he wanted Marco to, with him.

Because like Izzy, Andrew was neither young nor impressionable either. He was the same age, and not only had he been working in restaurants for twenty years, same as Marco had, he’d had everything fall apart on him.

“Not like your ex?” Marco asked quietly.

A flash of hurt crossed over Andrew’s features. He turned away, to rinse out his sponge. “Caught him getting a blowjob from our very young intern, late one night, in his office.”

Marco let out a breath. It was even worse than he’d expected.

“We broke up, of course,” Andrew continued, and there was a very well-earned bitterness in his tone. “I continued to work there. It was my dream. Had been our dream, of course, but I thought, I’m not going to give it up just because Francois couldn’t keep it in his pants.” He sighed. “But it got too hard. My eyes were opened. He did a lot of things I suddenly couldn’t stomach. Threw his weight around—or didn’t, sometimes. And I couldn’t take it any longer. So I left.”

“What are you doing here, now?” Marco had to ask it, even as he took a step closer. Drawn by the mingled sadness and hope in Andrew’s eyes. “What are we doing?”

Andrew shouldn’t want to get involved with another chef ever again. Not one he worked for. Even temporarily. But here he was, flirting with Marco. Not pretending that their attraction was nothing.

“Damned if I know,” Andrew said wryly. “I asked you to meet me for coffee thinking, I’d tell you . . .I don’t know, not no , but something . Not yes. I even had this crazy thought of asking you out, instead, but then you looked like that at me, and I just kept saying yes.”

“Kept negotiating in your favor, you mean,” Marco teased roughly.

He was five seconds away from leaning in and kissing him. Andrew didn’t look like he’d hate it. The opposite, in fact.

“Hey, I did do that, at least,” Andrew pointed out.

“You did.”

Andrew reached out, palm first, pressing it to Marco’s thundering heart. Didn’t touch him anywhere else, but it didn’t matter, because he felt it everywhere .

“And I should have left well enough alone, I know that. But I couldn’t, and you just kept looking at me like that, and I did want you to stop. But I didn’t want you to, even more.”

“You’re driving me insane,” Marco said softly. Aware he was only a few seconds away from just sheer begging. Kiss me. Ask me out the way you were going to. Anything. Just give me a shred. A crumb.

But Andrew didn’t. He didn’t pull away either.

Not until there was a sudden gasp behind them, and of course, that was when Daniel returned to the pastry kitchen, his arms full of clean dishes.

Dumping cold, hard truth all over Marco. What the fuck are we doing?

Marco cleared his throat, pulling back. “Uh, excellent work here tonight. Best yet. Very pleased.”

He wasn’t very proud of it, but he turned and he left. Abruptly. Without looking once in Andrew’s direction.