Page 17 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

“Nothing, it’s just…” He stops, and I can sense a hint of that arrogance Marty was referring to earlier amidst his whole passion spiel.

“What? You think you’re above that now since you are a contender for a prestigious award and you’re on TV every now and again?

We are here to improve your image. What better way to do that than to show off your skills in the type of setting that started it all for you.

It will bring a level of relatability back to your brand.

People want to root for someone they feel they can relate to. ”

When I don’t receive the enthusiastic response I was hoping for, I decide to switch up tactics.

“Oh, come on, I’ll be your camera woman.” I bat my eyelashes at him flirtatiously, and it’s working. He's coming around to the idea. “It’ll be fun.”

He smiles at me and forfeits, lifting his hands.

I clap in victory. “Perfect. I’ll tease it on your socials, and we can decide on a date to stream later on.”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But I’m only doing this for you.” That feels like a loaded statement, one that I don’t have the energy for right now. We’ve successfully shifted the conversation from addressing the past, into work and I need to keep it there. It’s safer that way.

“Whatever, I’ll take it. Also, while we are on the topic of appearances. Please, for the love of all that is holy, save the gray sweatpants for at home.”

His demeanor softens, and a deep grin expands his chiseled face, as he attempts to rub his scruffy cheeks with his hand, as if that could conceal how he’s smiling ear to ear.

“What?” I ask.

Tino leans back in his chair, manspreading like I saw him do on the TV segment the night before. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want me wearing gray sweatpants, you sure like to talk about it a lot.”

“Oh, give me a break. I’m simply advising you not to wear them on television again because having the outline of your junk out and about will only bring unwanted attention,” I respond. But then it hits me.

What does he mean I like talking about it a lot?

The only person I talked to about it was Sarina at her apartment, and then I texted her after I left Hummingbirds.

Right?

“Excuse me.” I smile, panicking internally but refusing to show it on the outside. I reach for my phone and go to mine and Sarina’s text thread, and I’m horrified to see that there are no text messages about his sweatpants like I know there should be.

I can feel the heat of his stare on me while I navigate out of mine and Sarina’s text thread and click on Santino’s name. Sure enough, all the messages I thought I was sending Sarina are there.

Me: Went for drinks with my brother and Santino was there…

Me: …still in the damn sweatpants and they look even sluttier (and lickable) in person

Me: Also… I’m pretty sure he got a little too excited to see me, so our size theory seems accurate

Shoot me.

Someone put me out of my fucking misery now and take me out…now!

Fuck my life.

Just play it cool, Lorena. Put your phone down, lean into that resting bitch face you’ve been cursed with.

Keep it cold and casual. Just redirect the conversation to sound like business, instead of how you are obsessed with what his dick looks like in the sweatpants that you can’t stop talking about.

“Sorry about that, I just had to check something.” Since apparently I didn’t last night, when I texted Santino and not Sarina, who I will be changing her contact to Ri, her nickname, so there is no more tipsy “S” name confusion.

“Anyway, like I was saying. Toting your junk around in sweatpants just isn’t a good look. ”

“Lorena,” he drags my name smugly, chastising me. “If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like you don’t want people seeing me in them.”

“This has nothing to do with me. This has everything to do with appearances.”

“Whatever you say, but just so you know, there’s no need to be embarrassed.” He’s clearly referring to the text messages I sent him that I refuse to directly address. “At least I know you don’t hate me.”

“Santino. I mean it.”

“Fine, no sweatpants… on TV appearances, that is. I can’t make any promises that I won’t show up to work a day or two in them, or while we’re lounging around Tomás’ place, since I now know you’re such a fan,” he says with a wink.

Despite this being slightly mortifying, I lean into the familiarity that I missed between us. The playfulness when we aren’t sending each other mixed signals or bickering.

“Asshole,” I mutter.

Tino clicks his tongue. “Tsk, tsk, Ms. Ramos. Are you sure calling your boss an asshole on your first day is a good idea?”

“Considering that you need me a lot more than I need you, and our working arrangement is unconventional at best. I’ll call you an asshole when I see fit,” I joke.

“I could think of worse things you could call me.” He rises from his chair and spins around. “How about what I’m wearing now? Does this pass the test?”

“Yes, that’ll do. Simple. Classic.”

Though I can still make out the outline of what he’s packing, I refuse to bring that up…again. It’s insane how good he makes a simple black t-shirt cuffed up at the sleeves to display his tattoos, paired with black jeans and a black folded apron to boot, look.

“Good.”

“Okay, now that we have that all settled, I’m going to work on the calendar and cleaning up your socials.”

He takes the plate from the desk.

“Thank you, I could’ve done that.”

“Oh, come on, Lo, I’m a gentleman, part of cooking for someone is the cleanup.”

“Is that a rule they teach in culinary school?” The words slip out like word vomit. I know how sensitive of a topic Tino not being able to attend culinary school is for him. But before I can say anything, he thankfully goes over it.

“No, it’s what my dad taught me.” It’s impossible to miss the sadness and resentment in Tino’s voice as he mentions his dad.

I know at one point they were close, but then things took a turn for the worst after Tino’s mom died.

His dad became a different person, so much so that I’ve heard Tino on more than one occasion say that he’s good as dead to him.

Still, I know that before there were bad times, there were good ones that he clings on to.

“It’s what he would do before he…you know, became the way he is, he used to love to cook for her, and when he did, he refused to let her lift a finger.

He said the best part of a meal is not only eating the food but the part that comes after.

Once you’ve had time to process all the flavors and just enjoy being. ”

“Well, thank you. Everything you make is always delicious.”

“Of course. It’s my pleasure.”

We stare at each other for only a second, but it feels longer and somehow more intimate, and neither of us know what to do with that.

Truthfully, I’m already exhausted from the rollercoaster ride being around him feels like.

It’s exhausting — and exhilarating — going from angry, to intrigued, to all the emotions with him in such a short amount of time.

“Anyway, I’m going to stop by Hummingbirds for a little bit,” Tino states as he approaches the doorway.

I glance at the clock. Did this man not listen to a word I was just saying about his image and getting work done? “Umm, I hope you’re not drinking this early. We have work to do.”

He chuckles to himself. “If you knew what I used to take while in the kitchen, a pre-noon beer would be the least of your worries. But no, don’t worry.

Dante helps me with the liquor distribution for the restaurant.

Plus, there are some specific liquors I want to pair with the meal I’m making when the judge from comes in for their tasting, that I need to go over with him.

Appearances, remember?” he mocks my pep talk from before.

I give him my blessing to go off to Hummingbirds, since it’s business related, and also remind him to give Tomás a call. He texted me earlier saying he was trying to get ahold of Tino about something pertaining to a potential second location to expand the business.

As I watch him leave, hating how he even walks sexy, my phone vibrates with a text.

It’s Owen, Current Fuck-Real Estate Guy, asking where we’re meeting for our date that I stupidly agreed to.

I text him saying the first bar that pops into my head, Dante’s place, Hummingbirds.

But as I respond, I feel a shift in my mood.

There’s an undeniable layer of guilt, compounded with this odd gut feeling that I shouldn’t meet up with him, even if I have every intention of making this the last time.

I know I told Santino that he needs to stop worrying about what I do, but there’s a part of me that likes him giving me that level of attention.

It lets me know he cares, even if it’s from a distance, and can’t be anything more than that.