Page 144 of Divine Temptations

“Excellent.”

The soup kitchen wasn’t much to look at — a squat brick building behind an old church, windows fogged from decades of grease and prayer. But when we walked in, the air hit like a furnace: hot, loud, and alive with the smell of onions, garlic, and steam. After unloading the boxes of produce, Sean hurried off, and Lucien stripped off his hoodie, hanging it by the door. The movement pulled his black T-shirt tight across his shoulders, and I told myself not to stare.

I failed.

He turned, catching me mid-sin, and smiled like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Don’t just stand there,” he said. “You’ll melt into the linoleum. Grab an apron.”

I found one hanging by the sink, and I slipped it on, fumbling with the ties. Lucien stepped up behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath brush the back of my neck.

“Here,” he murmured. His fingers found the apron strings, knotting them slowly at my waist. “You’ve got to pull it tighter. Don’t want it slipping off.”

My pulse hammered so hard it made my vision pulse. “Thanks,” I said, my voice barely there.

“Anytime.” His hands lingered on my waist, then disappeared.

The sound of pots clanging filled the room, and I turned to see a blur of floral print and profanity coming through the swinging door.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the woman said, tossing a towel over her shoulder. “Lucien Perez, you finally dragged your fine ass back into my kitchen.”

Lucien grinned. “Morning, Mama Jo.”

She was maybe seventy, short and round, hair tucked under a net that had given up the fight years ago. Her lipstick was flaming orange, and she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me.

“And who’s this pretty thing?”

Before I could answer, Lucien did. “A volunteer. Name’s Jimmy.”

“Volunteer, huh?” Her eyes swept over me as if she were trying to figure out what church I’d escaped from. “You sure you’re in the right place, sugar? This is the Devil’s Kitchen. We don’t bless the food here—we just make it sinfully good.”

Lucien chuckled. “Be nice, Jo.”

She snorted. “Nice doesn’t feed people.” She thrust a mixing bowl into my hands. “Mashed potatoes. Elbow grease only. I catch you using that electric mixer, I’ll break your wrist and feed it to the raccoons.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said automatically.

Lucien’s mouth twitched like he was holding back a laugh. He turned toward the stove, where something bubbled and hissed. “Don’t mind her,” he said over his shoulder. “She’s all bark.”

“And a little bite,” Mama Jo added. “Don’t go promising things you can’t deliver, Perez.”

Lucien looked back at her, one eyebrow arched. “You saying I don’t deliver?”

“Not to me, honey,” she fired back, “but I see the way you be looking at this boy.”

My hands froze over the bowl. Lucien laughed, and in a deeper voice he replied, “You see too much.”

“I see everything,” she said, grabbing a spoon and stirring the soup like she had no more to say on the matter. “Now, both of you stop flirting and make yourselves useful. I got dozens of hungry stomachs coming through that door soon.”

Lucien leaned into me. “You heard the boss.”

I started mashing. The potatoes were steaming, and sweat trickled down my neck. The kitchen was hot—too hot—and Lucien being this close didn’t help. His shoulder brushed mine as he reached for a tray of roasted carrots, and I’d swear I felt electricity.

“Good,” he murmured. “Keep pounding it. Don’t stop until it’s smooth.”

The words hit deeper than they should have. I glanced up, and he was watching me—eyes dark, unreadable.

I swallowed hard. “Like this?”