Page 12 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

Now that that’s all settled, I get up from the bench and walk the half block to Tino’s restaurant.

As I approach the entrance, I can’t help but admire the detail and ornateness of the sign with the restaurant’s name, Cielo + Cibo, that is attached to two chains on a wrought iron hanger, protruding past the building’s brick exterior.

Tomás, as well as our friend Gabriella, who is the mother of Tino and Dante’s niece, Luci, have both told me how beautiful the restaurant is.

I’ve taken their word for it since he opened the restaurant while I was already living in Miami.

But they truly weren’t kidding. The exterior alone is stunning.

A true SoHo gem. Cornered on a busy intersection, it stands out with this perfect mix of modern and rustic.

Even the name, Cielo + Cibo, a mix of both his heritages, cielo meaning sky or heaven in Spanish, and cibo translating to food in Italian, just adds the perfect touch to it.

Without even stepping inside yet, the place already feels like Tino.

As I walk through the frosted glass pane door, the interior is nothing short of breathtaking.

It’s stunning, picturesque even, with a modern design that screams fine dining, yet there’s such a cozy attention to detail I wasn’t expecting.

Plants hang from the exposed pipe ceiling, adding an earthy warmth to the neutral color scheme found in the table linens and natural stained wood tables, making it feel so homey inside.

A stark contrast to the noises that are already coming from the other side of the large glass partition that offers a glimpse into the exposed kitchen.

It’s only nine in the morning, the restaurant doesn’t open until five o’clock, yet the kitchen staff are all busy sorting and prepping what looks to be freshly delivered ingredients.

I also can’t help but notice every table has a vase with a fresh bouquet of flowers along with a fancy jarred candle placed next to each floral arrangement.

The vibrant fuchsia hibiscus flowers bring a smile to my face.

The hibiscus flower has always been my favorite.

Both for its beauty and for its ties to my Puerto Rican culture.

Though my love for flowers has faded over the years.

No matter how beautiful they look, I can’t help but to associate them with death.

An odd comparison, sure, but the sheer number of flowers that were gifted to us when my father passed, has become engrained in my mind.

Plus, they never last long. All that beauty is short lived.

Just another reminder of how fragile life truly is.

I walk past the partially exposed kitchen, trying my hardest not to look at Tino in his element.

From what I can see with the sliver of my vision I have on him, he’s deep in business mode, animatedly going over some sort of instructions with his staff that requires him to wave the rolling pin in his hand in the air as he speaks.

A man dressed in a suit, busy on his phone, waves me over to where he’s standing at the back of the restaurant just past the two doors that lead into the kitchen.

I’m assuming from the exasperated look on his face that he must be Marty, Tino’s agent, who Tomás mentioned via text would likely be here when I arrived to keep me up to date on all things to do – and fix … professionally – with Tino.

“Ms. Ramos, I presume?” the man calls out.

I wait until I’m directly in front of him to extend my hand out to shake. “Yes, but Lorena is fine. You must be Marty, Tino’s agent?”

He shakes my hand, and the agitation I sensed as I was walking increases through his tense hold. “Unfortunately,” he confirms as he leads the way into the office.

The cozy and serene vibe of the restaurant quite literally dies the moment my heels click their way through the office’s threshold. My gaze settles on the mountain of papers piled high on both desks. Assessing the mess in front of me, I try to search for what to say, but Marty beats me to it.

“As you can tell, Santino’s managers both quit.”

My brows lift, trying to process. “Both as in…”

“Restaurant and media.” Marty seems as surprised as I am hearing this. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” My fucking brother conveniently left that tidbit out when he played business matchmaker.

“Okay, so they both quit,” I repeat out loud, internally trying to devise a game plan.

A drawn-out sigh lets me know that Marty has more to add. “Indeed, they did and hmm, let’s see, who else? Ahh, yes, two of the line cooks, as well as the Chef de Cuisine. I’m sure there are others I’m missing.”

I take a deep breath in. I knew that Tino needed help. I just didn’t realize that whatever is going on with him has bled from his public perception into the literal bread and butter of his business.

“Can I ask why?”

“You’ll soon see for yourself, given that you’re his new media liaison.”

“You mean his publicist.” I politely correct him.

“Whatever you want to call it, but he needs more than a publicist. He needs an all over business makeover.”

I look around the mess we’re standing in, and circle back to my initial question. “Why did they all quit?”

“Santino is a brilliant chef, but, like most chefs with his level of talent, it often gets to their head. Then toss in the fame he’s acquired because of it, and this is what we’re left with. A fucking mess.”

“So, you’re saying his arrogance got him to this point?” I ask.

I need to know what I’m getting into here, so I can help him…and then be done with this, and him, for good.

“No.” The shift in Marty is as surprising as what he says next. “His passion.”

Okay… that is definitely not the answer I was expecting.

“Let me get this straight, he had all these people quit because he’s passionate ?”

“Yes. You see, a passionate person and a passionate chef, are two completely different things. A person who is passionate about something usually can separate themselves from their passion. Viewing it as an outlet of some sort that creates joy. But a passionate chef? Well, that’s a perfect storm of passion that collides with ego and purpose, blurring the lines between their craft and themself.

This is because what fuels them to create, drives them to perform to a level of perfection that conflicts with what all true chefs are: artists.

Obsessive, perfection-seeking artists with an edible canvas.

This restaurant, and the legacy he’s building, is like his baby.

And just as a parent would become overbearing and protective of their own when someone else steps in and tries to help with what they’ve created, that’s how working for Santino is.

Cooking isn’t just something he does. It’s who he is.

And working with someone as passionate and invested as he is can be very difficult. Trust me.”

How do I even respond to that?

Everything Marty is describing sounds so intense and intimidating. And if I’m being honest with myself, there’s a level of allure within the challenge that awaits me…in more ways than one.

I suck in a deep breath, since I, unlike the others who quit, don’t have a choice. Tino may irritate me at times, but I have a soft spot for him. I want to see him succeed. Plus, if I quit, I’ll be letting down my brother, who I know is relying on me to help out his — our — friend.

“Seems I have my work cut out for me then.”

“Yeah, you do,” Marty says, without hesitation.

“If you don’t mind me asking, when did Tino start, you know…”

“Acting up?” Marty gets right to it.

I nod.

“When he came back from Miami a couple months ago. I don’t know what the fuck happened that prompted what he did. But he hasn’t been the same since. He’s grumpier than usual. And distracted, so fucking distracted.”

That timeline doesn’t surprise me. I knew if Tino saw me with one of his professional rivals he would feel some sort of way.

It seems silly to think about chefs being rivals, but when you combine the competitive nature of not only the restaurant scene in the city, but the literal competitions Tino is in, plus the whole artists spiel Marty said, it makes sense.

Marty moves to the doorway and before he leaves, he turns to tell me one final thought.

“I know all this looks and seems overwhelming. And I’m not going to lie, it is, but the business itself is thriving.

We just have to make sure our boy doesn’t storm off any more sets.

Or punch anyone… or slash any more tires when he’s pissed off at an industry colleague.

” Marty is out of breath and shaking his head after he speaks.

I try to maintain a stoic front, but I had no idea he did that.

I guess it explains the text message I received from Chef DeStefano requesting that I keep my ‘boyfriend’ on a leash with a knife emoji that he sent after what happened in the club.

I was too mortified to respond, but now that I’m learning more of the state Tino has been in, a lot more is adding up.

It's like he’s punishing himself, purposely self-sabotaging.

“Don’t worry, he’s in good hands with me.” A hesitant smile stretches on Marty’s face as he marinates on what I just said. Looking me up and down, head to toe, not in a derogatory way, but in a pitiful, I-hope-you-really-do-have-this sort of way.

“At least he hasn’t gone back to doing all the heavy stuff he used to, or that would’ve been a wrap.”

Hearing that makes me proud of Tino for quitting the drugs that I know from Tomás he used to dabble in. But it also sad that at one point he let life and the late-night hours he used to keep, working his way up in the business, cause him to turn to hard drugs and partying.

“You have my number should you need it, but I’ll let you get to it.” Marty leaves and just as I’m about to sit down at one of the two large and messy desks, Tino catches my eye through the open office doorway, facing a portion of the exposed kitchen.

I remain frozen, watching him get lost in his element as he interacts with his staff, demonstrating whatever it is to them.

Marty’s words ring true in my memory as I see Tino shaking a cast iron pan in hand, up and off the stove, moving it back and forth with a level of passion and attention that most people don’t even give to their lovers, let alone their food.

As if that isn’t mesmerizing enough to witness, the way that everyone is looking at him, with a level of unspoken respect and awe, only adds to the allure. As it simultaneously threatens the walls that I’ve been forced to put up towards him.

Needing to get my mind off the distraction that is Tino, I busy myself for the next hour and a half in his office.

First, condensing the piles of paperwork, before I do one of my favorite things…

making lists. I write down all the things I need to discuss with Tino, so I have an idea of where to start with him first.

I’m zoned into my list when Tomás calls me. Putting him on speaker, I answer and continue what I’m doing.

“You rang?” I greet him.

“How’s it going?” The eagerness in his voice is unmistakable.

I look around the mess I’m submerged in. “It’s…. going.”

“Good or bad?”

“I’ll let you know when I talk to Tino. I haven’t had a chance yet. I was catching up with his agent, and once he left, I’ve been trying to make heads or tails of Tino’s office.”

“It’s a mess, right?”

“You knew?”

“Of course I did, but if I told you that he needs you to act as temporary manager and publicist, you would’ve said no.”

“That’s not true.”

“Lorena…”

“Fine, I would’ve said no, but I still would’ve done it.”

“Atta girl, anything for Tino, right?”

“Whatever. I better be getting paid extra for this.”

“Done.”

“That easy?” I ask, surprised.

“Yep. That easy. I asked him this morning what you should get paid, since I’ve been helping keep track of his finances, and he told me to pay you whatever you wanted.”

“You do his finances, and you’re his attorney?”

“When you are friends who are like family, you do what you can. I’ve always been a number person, so it made sense.”

“Well, with the amount of work I have to do, he’s going to regret telling you that.”

“Not when it comes to you. But I have to get back to work. I'll talk to you later.”

“Later.” I hang up just as the buzzer sounds from the main entrance.

I barely make it halfway to answer it, when a pounding sounds at the door. “I’m coming!” I shout, scurrying my heels over to the entrance of the restaurant.

Once I open the door, I see it’s a delivery person with a stack of boxes piled onto a hand truck.

After I’m handed a clipboard to sign off on, the boxes are stacked behind me.

I go to grab one not realizing how damn heavy it is.

Bending at the knee, in my heels, my fingers begin to curl to get a better grip on it, but a sea of veins catches my attention, as Tino’s presence startles me.

His palm spreads over top the box, applying just enough pressure that it prevents me from lifting it.

“Jesus Christ, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

Stuck in an awkward half-bent position and fully expecting him to remove his hand and get out of my way, I bend my knees lower, bracing myself to lift, but he doesn’t move.

Hesitant eyes scan the package, as he moves his hand over to cover the label.

“Tino, seriously, I got it.”

“Let me,” he insists.

“Fine, have at it.” I let go of the box, and stand upright, relieved, because those boxes are heavy.

Tino moves quickly back and forth from the front entrance to the back storage closet just outside his office, stacking the boxes.

I follow behind him when I see he’s on the last box. “Care to tell me what these are? I figure since I’ve been made aware today that I’ll be your manager, publicist, basically at your professional beck and call, I might as well keep track of deliveries.”

“No need,” he snaps. “I have a whole system when it comes to the food and supply orders for the restaurant. He lowers his jaw to the box he just set down. “This stuff too.”

With that, he heads back into the kitchen, reaching for an apron and tying it around his waist, jumping right back into chef mode.

I linger outside of the kitchen’s threshold, watching as Tino walks over to his staff, instructing them.

A ‘yes, chef’ is spoken in unison in response to Tino.

Being an avid watcher of cooking shows, I’m no stranger to the term. However, witnessing it being said to him with such a level of respect, especially as he looks up at me for a split second and our gazes connect, feels different.

And for a moment, I wonder how hot it would be for me to be the one to say those two simple words to him, ‘yes, chef’, but in a much different, much dirtier context.