Page 43 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

LORENA

W ell it looks like Tino is a no show…again.

I don’t know what’s going on with him, and my brother seems to be no help either. All he said was that Tino is off ‘handling things’ . Whatever the hell that means.

Tino hasn’t been around for days. Instead of meeting me like we planned, he’s been off somewhere with his brother, without so much as a text message. Not that I’m one to talk. I’ve done the same to him, but I feel like we started to get somewhere, and now this has me second guessing that.

I suppose this is my karma, for how I ran off after our first hook-up. But fuck, this sucks, and now it’s bleeding into a work opportunity creating yet another mess that I have to contend with.

I’m so angry with him, I swear it’s going to take everything in me not to wrap my bare hands around his neck when I see him.

He better have a real good excuse as to why he not only left me high and dry…

Nope, that’s a lie. I was very high and extremely wet, throbbing actually, waiting for him, and he never came into my room like we planned.

He didn’t text.

Nothing.

He just never showed.

I’ve not only been left to deal with the restaurant alone, but also now that days have passed, I had to get to Rhinebeck, where the reunion special is being filmed, by myself in an Uber, in the hopes that he’ll show up. Who knows since he hasn’t returned any of my texts or calls.

A few minutes pass by when Tino finally appears.

I don’t bother looking up from my phone when he waltzes into the room, too casual for my liking.

I opt to busy myself with the blank screen, pretending that doing a whole lot of nothing is more important than acknowledging his presence after he stood me up.

I’m mad at him, but I can’t lead on that I am. Not when he’s getting mic’d up and has a slew of people around him, scurrying to get him ready for the competition.

Home Chef Cook-Off is what put Tino on the map.

Chef Aaron Caiazzo who created the show, stumbled across Tino’s at-home cooking vlog one day, and approached him to compete.

And of course, Tino’s charisma and charm won over the hearts and attention of millions of viewers.

The reunion special is important to remind people of Tino’s softer side.

The side that I see from him. Winning wouldn’t hurt either.

Still busying myself on my phone, I can’t help but to tune into the murmuring happening a few feet away from where I stand. Two of the network staff are doing a shit job at disguising the fact that they’re clearly talking about Tino.

Back to actually working it is. Walking closer to where Tino is sitting, looking like he’s trying to convince himself not to punch something or someone, I’m able to hear what the two are now saying.

“Did you hear he almost punched someone at his restaurant recently? Some girl had to hold him back.”

“No, I didn’t, but I’m not surprised. You heard how he’s gotten with chefs before when he’s competing. And then there was that whole thing with Luca.”

“He’s lucky he’s knows how to work the room.”

“You’re telling me.”

As Tino sees me approaching, he spins in his chair facing the mirror, and as if on cue, the room clears out, leaving just the two of us.

Tino leans forward, bending his elbows on the vanity, but with the mirror in front of him, there’s no ignoring the look on his face. Somber. Regretful.

The more I stare at his reflection, the remorse that has deflated his naturally charming features has escalated to a level that makes it impossible to stay angry with him.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs, long-winded and heavy, transferring the weight of whatever is on his mind to me.

“For?”

“I don’t even know anymore. I’ve lost count.” A vague, yet honest, answer. One that pulls at my heartstrings more than it should.

I take a seat at the vanity next to him, first glancing at the clock to see how much time we have, then back to Tino.

My heart skips a beat as I do. Tino is no longer slumped over on the vanity, he’s now leaning back in his chair, legs spread wide, with his left hand outstretched and an open palm reaching towards me, waiting for my hand.

I can’t do this.

Not here.

And certainly not now.

I sit upright, ignoring his advance, and in the process, I feel horrible for doing so, because the glimmer of hope that was just present throughout his eyes has vanished once again, retreating back to a somberness.

“Filming starts soon,” I say, reminding him.

He nods, seemingly uninterested with my work-related small talk.

I can sense this is going to be like pulling teeth.

And as much as I want to know why he didn’t show the other night, or contact me, I have to push that all aside.

It’s almost time for him to start filming, and with how wound up he is right now, if I don’t find a way to calm him down, things are going to go badly. I know it.

Taking a deep breath, I lean into my role as not only Tino’s publicist but his friend. “Want to tell me what has you so worked up?”

He doesn’t answer my question, and the silence that follows creates unease within me.

I become conflicted. I want to yell at him to snap out of it and get his head in the game.

I also want to scream at him, shake him, for leaving me hanging.

But above all that, I want, and need, to make sure he’s okay.

For as long as I’ve known Tino, he’s always struggled with anxiety and whatever has him feeling moody is also making him anxious. All the signs are there.

Tense jaw, leg bouncing up and down at a rapid pace, his fist clenching so hard that his knuckles are turning white. All things I’ve seen happen when Tino is struggling with his anxiety.

Not sure what to say to help ease the storm brewing inside of him, I notice the script resting on the vanity. I lean over to grab it, and Tino not so subtly skates his eyes over to my ass lifted mid-air above the chair, and my face heats from the attention.

A dryness lodges itself in my throat, causing me to cough through it to speak.

“Does it have something to do with the script?” Though I doubt that has anything to do with it.

From what I gathered, the script for these cooking competitions is more of a suggested guideline to how to respond in the up-close interviews.

He’s here to cook, with a time constraint and ingredients he won’t know of, that part wouldn’t be on the script because it would take away from the challenge.

When he once again doesn’t answer, testing my patience in the process, I begin to skim through the packet. Nothing stands out. It’s simply a run of the mill overview of how the reunion special is going to go for the next two days.

The door squeals open before I can ask him anything else, and one of the producers appears. “We need Chef Amato out on the main set in less than twenty minutes.”

“Got it.” I respond for the two of us, since Tino’s mouth remains shut with his jaw clenched tight.

The producer closes the door, leaving us alone, and I decide to switch up tactics…

or I was about to before Tino finally breaks his silence with an onslaught of words being spewed left, right, and center.

It’s difficult to latch onto one thing he’s saying before another thing pours out of him.

He’s talking so much and so fast that I almost feel dizzy.

Laced within his words is anger. A lot of it.

From the sounds of it, anger he’s repressed for years.

“I hate him so fucking much.” He snatches the script out of my hand, tossing it back over to the vanity, but he misses, and the clip holding it together falls off causing the papers to scatter.

On instinct I lean to pick them up, but I’m stopped by his foot hovering over one of the countless papers littering the floor.

“Leave it,” he commands. His tone catches me off guard. It’s stern yet shaky. Flustered yet sad. All at once. “I’ll pick it up after. I can’t focus on any of that shit right now.” Tino’s foot falls to the ground, and he’s back to bouncing his leg up and down, going a mile a minute.

I go to touch his leg, hoping that it’ll ease his nerves, though as I do, he grabs my hand instead, locking it in his.

“I hate him, Lo,” he repeats, voice cracking as he says it over and over. Spiraling.

“Who?” I ask, needing to break the bubble he’s propelled himself into.

It works, and the spiral he’s on begins to slow.

A few more times he murmurs, ‘I hate him’ but each time he says it, the anger starts to dissipate, as does the volume.

This continues until he whispers it one last time, before returning to his silent state.

Tightening his grip on my palm, his rough calluses scratch against my smooth skin, and the friction travels through me.

I suppress it. Swallowing the feeling down, so I can help him.

With the clock ticking, I begin to advise him on how he should compose himself while filming today.

I go on, giving him a crash course in my specialty, compartmentalizing 101, but it’s all going over his head.

The more I tell him to fake a smile, and lean into his usual charming self, he seems more and more lost. He isn’t absorbing any of what I’m saying.

Desperation takes hold of me. And it’s in that desperation that my body takes the lead. I rise from the chair and glide my way over to the door… locking it.

We just need a few more minutes, that’s all. Just so I can talk to him and calm him down. That’s it.

Talking.

Me and Tino.

Alone.

In a locked dressing room.

There’s no way it will turn into anything other than that.

Right?

I clear my throat, sucking in a deep breath, still facing the closed and locked door.

I turn around, expecting him to still be seated where I left him, but he’s no longer sitting. Somehow, while I was battling with myself, trying to figure out how to handle this — how to do my job — I didn’t hear him get up.