Page 9 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter One

A pomegranate flew through the air, trailing seeds as it arced across the kitchen.

Marco Moretti ducked with plenty of time to spare, but then grimaced as half a dozen plums pelted him next, each of them hitting him on his white chef’s coat with a soft squish, leaving behind tracks of pale orange pulp.

“You’re an asshole!” Izzy shrieked, launching another attack with a handful of grapes. These hit a lot harder than the plums. Maybe because of the way they resembled small bullets, or because Marco had gotten closer, to try to prevent additional weaponized fruit.

“I’m sorry,” Marco said, between clenched teeth. Maybe he was an asshole. Maybe he deserved death by fruit bowl.

But he’d certainly never made Izzy any promises, and he’d thought they were on the same page. The page where she worked for him, they were friendly, and that was it. But when she’d announced she’d taken the pastry job at his restaurant because she’d assumed he came with the compensation package, he’d needed to set her straight.

“I can’t fucking believe you! You flirted with me! We had a drink! Twice!” Izzy was panting now, hands deep in one of the bins of fruit. He hoped to God she didn’t find a pineapple or melon or coconut in there. He might not survive that.

His sister Marcella would tell him that he’d deserve it.

Well, a little , anyway. When he’d been young and stupid, he’d had precisely two relationships with employees, and he’d long since learned it was 1) a terrible idea and 2) wrong on a fundamental level. But his reputation had only grown, despite every attempt he made to change it.

“I was being nice!” Marco didn’t usually get pissed off. That was his eldest brother Luca. Marco had a temper, but it was buried deep, under layers of other emotions.

He hadn’t meant to do this. He’d thought he and Izzy were becoming friends. And if she touched him more than his other friends, casually, on the back and on the neck, well, that was just her way, right?

It turned out her friendliness had not been because it was her way. She’d shown up at Nonna’s with expectations and Marco, unaware and trying to be a friend and a good boss, had only exacerbated them, not tempered them.

After family dinner tonight, when he came by the back pastry kitchen to check Izzy’s progress with the special order cake, she’d sidled right up to him, kissed him firmly, and told him, “It’s time.”

Marco had been bewildered. Then incredulous. And then annoyed.

Thus, why he was currently defending himself like a fruit ninja.

“Nice would’ve been not leading me on,” Izzy barked, thankfully crossing her arms over her chest. “Making me like you.”

Marco winced. He didn’t want to explain to Izzy, who seemed like a nice enough girl, that she wouldn’t be the first or the last to get sucked in by his inadvertent Moretti-ness.

The whole family possessed it—good looks and some amount of charm were sprinkled generously through their family tree—though Marco was the only one this kept happening to.

Gabe, his younger brother, would tell him that the Moretti genes used him instead of Marco wielding them . But Marco had never been interested in that.

He just wanted to put his head down and enjoy the work that brought him so much joy—owning this restaurant in his grandmother’s name, one of the three that the family ran.

“I didn’t mean to,” Marco said, holding out his hands in mute surrender. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated for a single second. “Could we get back to the cake?—”

“Fuck your cake and fuck you . I quit,” Izzy said vehemently and ripped off her apron, using it as one last bit of ammunition, hitting him square in the chest with it.

He caught the balled-up fabric and sighed as she stomped off.

“Chef?”

Marco turned towards the hesitant voice in the doorway.

It was Daniel, Izzy’s young sous. He was wringing his hands, looking distressed.

Marco tried to marshal his expression into something gentler, less thunderous.

“Yes, Daniel?”

“Did Izzy leave?” Daniel was quiet and very young and had only been around a month or two longer than Izzy, who Marco had just lost in the sixth month of her employment here at Nonna’s.

He needed to stop losing pastry chefs.

Especially to this .

“Yes, she’s gone. I need you to?—”

Daniel’s back straightened. “I got it, Chef. The special cake for tonight, I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll see if I can send one of the assistants in to help you during service.” Marco stopped at the doorway, next to Daniel. Normally, he’d have put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him with a touch that he’d take care of him, but maybe that was where things had gone so wrong with Izzy—and what felt like so many men and women before her.

Why he could never convince any of them that he wasn’t interested.

So he didn’t. Marco kept his hands to himself, just gave Daniel a reassuring nod and walked off to take care of filling Izzy’s job, hopefully sooner rather than later. Daniel might be able to pinch hit, but he didn’t have the experience.

Marcella was in the front of the house, reviewing the night’s reservations with one of the hostesses. Bea was younger even than Daniel, and Marco realized, as he shoved his hand through his unruly curly dark hair and waited for Marcella to finish her thought, he was beginning to feel old.

Marcella looked over in his direction finally. “What happened to you?” she asked, eyeing the stains on his white coat. “And what was that yelling I heard?”

“Izzy quit.”

“You make a pass at her?”

Marco shot his twin sister a glare. “I did not. And you know I did not.”

“Ah, so she quit because you didn’t make a pass at her,” Marcella said knowingly.

Marco sighed. “Doesn’t anybody just want to work ?”

But Marcella only laughed—the calm, certain laugh of someone who was happily married with two kids. “We just need to find someone who’s completely uninterested in you.”

“Or, maybe, someone who’s got the requisite skills and experience.”

Marcella shot him an amused look. “You’ve got a reputation, brother mine.”

“I do not ,” Marco said, though she was probably more right than he wanted to admit. Maybe he had cut a swath through Napa during his youth—but Morettis loved hard and often, and nobody could blame them, or him , for that. But he’d never really touched anyone at the restaurant—not since he was in his early twenties and that had seemed like a great idea.

But those blowups made Izzy’s rage-quit today seem minor in comparison, so he’d learned to keep his hands off anyone he worked with, years ago. Even if he was tempted.

Maybe he should have led with that.

Or maybe Izzy’s heart eyes would’ve guaranteed he’d have ended up with a girlfriend he didn’t really want and still no pastry chef.

“I didn’t say you’d earned it necessarily, but it’s there all the same,” Marcella said gently, leaning against the wood-paneled entryway. “You’re not cold, like Luca was. You’re available. You’re passionate about what you do and your family and you’re good-looking?—”

Marco opened his mouth to interrupt her.

But Marcella was too quick. Or knew him too well. “Do not even argue with me about this. You’re a catch. Thirty-seven and unmarried.”

“I’m not the problem,” Marco said sulkily. “And what am I supposed to do? I can’t just become different.”

“No, I know, darling,” Marcella said, patting him affectionately. “We just need to find someone immune.” She hesitated. “Did you hear that Andrew is back in town?”

“Andrew?” The name sounded familiar, but Marco couldn’t place it off the top of his head.

“Andrew. My best friend from high school,” Marcella said, looking amused. “He went to Paris, to pastry school. Remember now?”

“Oh. Yes.” He’d been tall and skinny and had always followed Marcella around like a gangly duckling.

“Well, he’s back in town. He’s thinking about opening his own bakery, but he hasn’t found a location yet. I bet you could convince him to work for you for a bit, train Daniel up.” Her voice dropped. “That kid is wildly in love with Bea, who barely notices he exists, so he wouldn’t be interested in you. Win-win.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you convince Andrew to work for me and train Daniel? He’s your friend.”

“And your friend, too.” Marcella shot him a chiding look. “Surely you remember that.”

It had been almost twenty years, but now that Marco was thinking about him, he had a lot of memories with Andrew. Mostly revolving around food or Marcella.

Had he gotten distracted and sort of forgotten about the guy since he’d left and gone to France? Yes, he had—but then he’d been fairly busy himself, graduating from the Culinary Institute of America in Napa and then starting and running this higher-end evolution of his family’s restaurant brand.

“Sure,” Marco said, because agreeing with Marcella was usually easier than arguing with her.

“Go talk to him,” Marcella said. “And be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Marco grumbled. He was at least nicer than their older brother Luca.

“Actually maybe . . .maybe don’t be too nice,” Marcella said, wincing. “You don’t want the guy to fall in love with you.”

“Don’t worry,” Marco said. “That’s not going to happen.”

But that was because Marco was already determined to be more careful this time around. More aware, anyway. The Andrew he remembered had not once pinged anywhere on his attraction meter. And he found a lot of people attractive—or at least he used to. It should be easy enough to keep his distance.

This time, Marco would make sure he didn’t get too friendly or invite Andrew for a drink. He’d keep their lines clear: he was the boss and Andrew was an employee.

If Marcella’s plan worked out—and it was Marcella, which meant it probably would—today’s pomegranate would be the very last he had to duck.