Page 14 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

A scoff slips past her lips. “Tino, please, just tell me what’s in the damn boxes. Don’t make my job any more difficult than it already is.”

There’s an exasperation to her voice, one that tells a story of years’ worth of aggravation. One that I can’t help but to cater to, even if telling her what’s inside the boxes is the last thing I want to tell her.

Vulnerability consumes me, forcing me to slip into my Chef Santino Amato persona.

A bolder, less anxious and much more charismatic version of myself.

It’s the shield I use to push through when I don’t want to, and the last defense I have to distract from the storm clouds that clutter my brain daily.

“You sure you want to open that can of worms?”

“Umm yeah, I fear so,” she says with palpable sarcasm.

“Fine,” I breathe. “Candles.” I purposely keep my response short and simple, too nervous to divulge any more than that.

“Jesus Christ, Tino, all that build up and drama for candles?” She whips her head to the back towards the kitchen doors to look at the closet where I put the candles. As she does, her scent once again engulfs me. “That’s a lot of boxes. What, did you get a lifetime supply?”

“I like the scent. It comforts me, so I like to have them always in stock, that way the restaurant can always smell like…” I freeze, debating if I continue, or just leave it at that. “I mean, good.” I correct myself. “They’re from Judith Lynne.”

She seems impressed when the name of the candle shop registers with her.

“Judith Lynne? Isn’t that the place that makes custom scented candles?”

I swallow thickly. “Yes, it is.”

Please don’t ask about the scent. I’m still dealing with the internal embarrassment of what I did. All because I stumbled across her thong, in the bathroom we now share. If I have to get into what inspired the scent that’s become Cielo + Cibo’s signature, forget it. I’ll be done for.

“Interesting. You don’t strike me as a candle guy.”

“I guess I’m full of surprises.” I shrug as I move to the open shelving off to the side of the stove to get a plate.

She starts to rattle off things I should be paying attention to.

But my hearing is going in and out as it often does when I feel anxious.

Anytime I’m nervous, my body feels like it separates into two entities.

There’s my physical self and my mental self, and I know they should connect as one, but in the disconnect, it’s as though I’m watching myself from the outside like a movie.

Usually when I’m here in the kitchen or cooking it helps to center me, but with Lorena right here next to me, I’m feeling anything but centered.

I try to push through it as I walk back to the stove with the plate in hand.

It partially works, as I begin to grasp some of what she’s saying.

Words like ‘hot mess,’ ‘organizing,’ and ‘get your shit together’ filter through.

It’s not until she starts to talk about damage control and appearances, that she fully regains my attention.

I hate that this is part of my career.

I never wanted to be considered a celebrity or public figure.

All I’ve ever wanted to do is cook and make people happy with what I create.

I know I shouldn’t complain, there was a time before the internet and TV that chefs weren’t infused into the mainstream like they are now.

I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had come my way, but at the end of the day, I’m more of a recluse.

It’s a lot of pressure to constantly have people watching your every move.

“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”

“Yes,” I respond, walking to the freshly fried maduros I cooked before she came into the kitchen, grabbing them with a pair of tongs, and placing them to the side of the eggs I just prepared.

“Then why haven’t you stopped cooking or moving the entire time I’m speaking?”

“I think better when I cook.” Holding the plate in one hand, I grab a set of silverware and begin to walk out of the kitchen, waving Lorena on to follow me.

A smile stretches across my face hearing her heels click behind me. The grin grows wider the entirety of the thirty second walk to my office, even as she moans and groans to herself, clearly annoyed with me.

In my office, I place the plate with the eggs and sweet plantains on the desk she has clearly taken over.

“Great, let me guess, you do your best thinking not only when you cook but when you eat?”

Her question is so innocent, yet it takes my mind down the usual sordid routes it delves down when it comes to her.

I can’t answer that question honestly. I haven’t had a proper taste of her yet.

Though something tells me that if my tongue were ever to become acquainted with her pussy, I would be able to do my best brainstorming.

So much so I’d never leave the sanctuary that is stationed between those toned and supple thighs.

A flashback to the shower from last night blazes in my mind as I walk around the desk, pulling out the chair for her.

“No, but I hope you do.”

She stares at the plate, then at me, looking increasingly shocked.

“Lorena, sit,” I instruct her, and like a good girl, bratty and defiant as she is inclined to be, she listens. Placing the clipboard down, she makes her way closer to the chair.

As she sits, her movements feel like they’re happening in slow motion. The arch of her back as well as the swell of her hips become more pronounced, drawing my eyes to her perfect ass as she moves. It’s impossible to look away.

I tuck in her chair, and there’s no mistaking the blush spreading onto her beautiful warm, golden skin, once again.

“Thank you, I don’t know what to say.”

I take a seat across from her, leaning one arm on the back of the chair and the other pointing at the list placed between us on the desk.

“You sure about that? I think you have a lot you want to say to me.” A loaded statement, sure, but the flirtatious tone I have with her, thankfully has her smiling at me.

“You’re right. I certainly do. Though for now, I’ll settle for a thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Lo. And don’t look so surprised. I know it’s been a while, but you’re acting like this is the first time I’ve cooked for you.”

It’s not. Before things became strained between us, and long before she up and left New York to work with some clients she had in Miami, I would cook for her often.

It mainly started because her brother Tomás was and still is a horrid cook.

So when their mom was working late nights juggling her two jobs and Tomás was in charge of watching over himself and Lorena, he’d call me over to cook for them since I began cooking as a means of survival for my brothers and I.

A look of nostalgia dances across her face as she brings the fork to what I know to be her favorite breakfast. Two eggs over easy with maduros and a side of MayoKetchup.

Same as it’s always been. I used to make it for her any time I slept over their apartment.

Though the presentation and the precision of the egg yolks has improved greatly since then.

She takes a bite, and the moan of approval I get fills me with pride.

I sit staring at her. How could I not? This woman looks so beautiful, even as she’s abandoning the fork and is now using the plantain as a scooper for her eggs. And the satisfied noises she’s making are making this feel sexual.

“This is my favorite breakfast. My dad used to make it for me every day.”

The sentiment and nostalgia from before grows tenfold in her eyes.

“I know, I remember. Does it taste good?” I ask her, needing the approval only she can give me.

“So fucking good,” she hums.

A surge of blood travels to my groin at her response.

I shift in my seat, trying to discreetly adjust myself.

There’s nothing hotter than when you cook for someone you care deeply about and you get to witness their reaction as they eat what you made for them.

It’s borderline foreplay coming from Lorena.

Not that I let on to how her words just made me feel, as I quickly drum up a nonchalant and super casual reply.

“I’m glad, seeing as you were in such a hurry to leave before me this morning that you didn’t feed yourself.

But we’re going to change that.” Fuck, okay, that last part didn’t have the casual flair I was going for, and of course, it piques Lorena’s attention.

“Which part are we changing? The breakfast bit or the commuting?”

The emphasis she puts on ‘ we ’ is supposed to be snarky, but I love how that sounds coming from her.

We.

Us.

Lorena and Santino.

Fuck me. I love how that sounds and looks playing out in my head.

If only it were that easy. But alas, nothing worth having is ever as easy as it seems.

“Both. I figured since we both are living at your brother’s…

” I stop myself. There is no missing the wince that just crossed her face.

As if we both were just living in blissful ignorance, and my dumb ass had to go and remind us both of the very real barrier that exists between us.

Her over-protective brother. My best fucking friend.

Who has welcomed me and my brother into their family, as just that, family.

If he knew how I feel about her. “Anyway, since we’re both coming from the same place, I figured we can commute into work together.

That way I can make sure you’re fed before heading into work with something other than caffeine. ”

A grin curls her lips. “Is that what you want to do, make sure I’m fed?”

Yes. I want to shout from the goddamn rooftops. Among other things. “Can you blame me? That is my calling after all.”