Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen)

chapter Twenty




Lili’s eyelids were stuck together, but finally they cracked apart. A flick to the clock on her nightstand. Late again.

She searched for clean panties, but nothing was doing, not even the old-lady ones she usually shoved to the back of her underwear drawer. That’s what happened when you ignored laundry for three weeks. Wrenching on a crumpled tee and skirt, she bounded to the door and almost collapsed with pleasure.

Mouthwatering scents filled her apartment. Wow, that gorgeous Brit knew how to hit her where she lived. He’d gone all out this morning with not just her favorite lemon-ricotta pancakes, but also the apple-smoked bacon she’d picked up at Green City Market yesterday morning. Delish.

Rounding the corner, her breath caught as it did every time she found him standing at the stove. While there was nothing sexier than a man who knew his way around a kitchen, this was just ridiculous. Faded blue denim, slung dangerously low on his hips, skimming the floor around his bare feet. Back muscles rippling—not too much, but rippling all the same—while working the bacon. And just about the sexiest ass she’d ever seen on a man.

She would never get sick of the view.

Though he could only manage a couple of days in between tapings, the last two weeks had lived up to their billing. Mornings were spent like characters in a sixties New Wave French movie. Eating, making love, planning bank heists. Well, not the criminal conspiracy part, but it was just as thrilling and more than a little terrifying.

He wanted to hear all her stories, from anecdotes about her embarrassing relatives (a bottomless well) to her inspiration for her upcoming art projects (he thought sexualized vegetables had a certain je ne sais quoi). On his trips away, he called, smugly announcing he had won the Jack of All Trades challenges in New Orleans and Austin. Seemed only the Italians played dirty. And while the phone sex was off the charts, it couldn’t replace the man himself. Waking up with Jack sliding into her was the hottest alarm call a woman could want.

The singing still left something to be desired. The man had to have some fault. Now his voice cracked as he stretched for one of those notes that even a Bee Gee would have trouble reaching. Squashing a giggle, she grabbed her phone off the cracked granite countertop. Just the twentieth voice mail in the last two weeks from Shona Love, entertainment correspondent at the local news affiliate, but otherwise, nothing.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he said without turning around.

“I missed the meat delivery. Sal’s going to kill me.” The meat guy was the least of her problems. That honor went to her father if he found out about her tardiness.

“Sit, Lili. I already took care of it.”

“You did?” Last week he’d risen at six and lolled beside her, sleepy, bed-headed, and so damn sexy, while she inspected the meat and signed for it. Now she knew why.

Tears threatened and she blinked to force them back, conscious of how easily she’d fallen into relying on him for her comfort and well-being. Her startling need for him was bad enough; she didn’t have to turn into minestrone soup over it.

Covering her sudden wave of emotion, she snaked her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against the smooth planes of his back. At her fluttery breath, his body sighed back, and yet again she marveled at his reaction. The same every time, like he was surprised and would never tire of her touch. She wondered if that was true or even possible.

“I must have been good in a previous life.” Her throat felt raw and scratchy.

He turned and gathered her close. “Yeah, ’cause you’re certainly not good in this one.”

She breathed him in, absorbing the beat echoing like a drum beneath his skin. Fast and vital, like her own. He smoothed her hair helmet, a futile gesture given the time of day and the heat of the kitchen.

“You may not be aware of this, but I’ve accepted a few deliveries in my time. And it shouldn’t always be down to you. Tad should do more, your other cousins.” The unspoken, your father, hung in the air. Competition between Jack and Tony had picked up where it left off at the taping. When not trying to one-up each other with tales of who had eaten the most disgusting thing to date—Jack was leading with fried water bugs, a Thai delicacy—they continued to square off in the DeLuca kitchen, pushing each other to create as Jack waited for his Chicago kitchen to be finished and planned his new menu. And while they kept their interactions painfully civil, Lili sensed Jack itching to be her champion in everything, including her strained relationship with her father.

“Jack, it’s my job. It’s my family.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“And we’re not taking your money,” she added, knowing that was next. Jack had broached the idea of helping out financially, but Lili had instantly shut down that line of thinking. Accumulating more debt wasn’t the solution, and they both knew it, not while her father refused to make the wide-sweeping changes necessary. Neither did she want her rich and famous man bailing them out; her list of online soubriquets was insulting enough without adding “gold-digging whore” to the mix.

Thankfully, interest in Lilack—her girlhood dream to be one-half of a celebrity couple mash-up checked off the list!—had simmered down in the last couple of weeks, largely because they were being discreet. Not hiding, just not shouting it out to the hills. They’d hit a summer street festival in Old Town and attended a DeLuca family picnic at Grant Park for a free performance of Puccini’s Tosca, a favorite of her father’s. In between grumbles that it was two hours he would never have back, opera-hating Jack had kept her entertained with his own bawdy translations of the libretto.

Gently, he shoved her toward the table with, “Just let me take care of you. I want to.”

She wanted that, too, but wanting wasn’t going to make the fantasy into reality. Jack in her life for a couple of days a week was so much more than she could ever have wished for and she had to constantly remind herself that he was a loaner. Just a supernova fling. At this stage, checking her heart at the door was a downright impossibility, but she was trying to be cool about it. Any day, his network deal would be inked, beginning the countdown to the end of Lilack, but for now she just wanted to relish this unspoiled bubble of sex and comfort.

Gladly, she sat and relieved her jellied legs. A cup of coffee materialized, and Jack glided in by her side, distracting her with his monumental chest. He insisted on cooking breakfast shirtless even though he risked grease burns and singed chest hair. He said it was worth the sacrifice to keep her in a constant state of sexual red alert.

They dug into scrambled eggs with fragrantly wafting truffle shavings and expelled a soft “hmm” of unified satisfaction. Lili sipped her skim-muddied coffee. One and a half Splendas. Perfect.

“Jack, thanks for the delivery. For this.” For everything, she wanted to say. For coming into her life and making her realize that life is so much better when someone has your back, like he had hers.

He bestowed on her one of those Special K stares that was hot enough to burn calories. “Come here,” he said, his tone sexy-serious.

She’d given up protesting whenever he insisted she sit in his lap and just let herself enjoy how his body reacted to her weight. He liked how her butt spooned against his crotch and she liked how his breathing started to come in jagged jerks.

“Did you get a chance to look at the prospectus I brought back from Parsons?” he whispered against her neck after she’d settled in.

Reluctantly, her gaze veered to the glossy booklet on the counter near the sink. She had yet to decide if his act of picking it up on his last visit to New York was sweet or manipulative. Knowing Jack, probably both.

“Those brochures support the murder of trees,” she said, smiling. “You know there’s this thing called the Internet and it’s got all the information you could ever want on it.”

“The Internet. What’s that ever done for anyone?” Given her adventures over the last month, that was true to the last drop. He gave her waist a gentle squeeze. “Sometimes, holding something solid in your hand makes it seem more real. More within reach.”

Holding Jack didn’t make it seem more real and he was about as solid as they come. She had enough reality outside her apartment. Tracing the tattoo on his bicep with her finger allowed her a moment to gather her thoughts. “I’ve told you grad school is off the table for now. With the restaurant’s fortunes still up in the air, it’s not a good time.”

“I know you’re scared, sweetheart, but you’ve got to take that leap sometime. You’re using the restaurant as a crutch so you don’t have to make a decision.”

Am not. She examined her nails, but he called her on it by tilting her chin to face him. No avoidance stratagem was safe from his scrutiny.

“Dreams don’t come true by themselves, Lili. You’ve got to work at them. You think I wasn’t scared to go to Paris, to open my first restaurant, to jump into a new venture? You have to take what’s rightfully yours and the first step is acknowledging your needs.”

How had she ever thought Jack Kilroy was just a charming rogue with depths as shallow as shoreline pools? With that all-knowing gaze and terrifying confidence, he had a way of wrong-footing and challenging her that had her seriously wondering if she could keep up with him.

“Luckily, I have you on hand to fulfill all my needs,” she said, infusing her voice with a healthy dose of sultry. It was a cheap play, but she wasn’t above a little manipulation of her own. She was just getting accustomed to how much power she wielded over him.

He frowned in response. Damn. She squirmed in his lap. He hitched a querulous eyebrow. Double damn.

“Stop pushing, Jack.” She made to get up, but he held her fast in his sure grip, a place where she usually felt only safety. Now she felt pressure to perform, to live up to Jack’s expectations of balls-out passion. To say his faith in her potential touched her was an understatement, but she wasn’t ready to throttle up to Jack’s speed and grab the wheel. Mute with emotions she couldn’t name, her throat sealed up.

“Sweetheart, I don’t like when you go all quiet. I prefer it when you’re shouting at me and telling me what a dick I am. At least then I feel like we’re communicating. You spend far too much time inside your head.”

“No, I don’t,” she protested feebly.

“Yes, you do. And you’re not one for visitors. Talk to me.”

She wanted to be honest with him because his amazing forthrightness deserved that respect. Those eyes filled with a heaping spoonful of compassion and intelligence made it not exactly easy but a touch less difficult.

“Jack, these last few weeks have been some of the hardest and most humiliating of my life.”

His face fell. “Lili, love, I know it’s been rough for you and I’m not the easiest person—”

She stopped him with a touch of her fingers to his sensuous lips. “But they’ve also been the hottest and most exciting. I’m loving this time with you, but madre di Dio, could we just take it slow?”

“I’m not so good with slow,” he said. “Except where it counts.”

Yes, Jack knew how to take it slow when it suited him, and she gladly reaped the benefits of his consummately torturous skills between the sheets.

“We’re not finished with this conversation.” He hadn’t gotten his way, but he was being magnanimous about it. His lips curved up in that killer smile and all the tension uncoiled from his body, except for a lovely, gratifying pressure against her butt. Her reward for winning this round.

“So what’s on the menu for today?” she asked, relieved to have escaped a brewing argument.

“Milk-braised pork shoulder with garlic mashed potatoes,” he said, laying shivery kisses along her collarbone. “Spring peas with lardons and mint.” Kiss. “Portabella stuffed with apple chutney.” Kiss. Moan. That last one was her.

“Stop, you’re turning me on.”

He nuzzled her neck. “I know, you’re so easy. As my official taster, you must stop by later to give me your approval. What’ll you be up to?”

“Yoga class, sex, staff schedules, paperwork, sex, more paperwork…” She grinned. “I thought I’d take Jules shopping. Hit some of my favorite vintage stores.”

“I really appreciate you making the effort with her. She needs a friend right now.” His body drew taut once more. “Will Tad be sniffing around as usual?”

“He can’t help having a little crush. The Kilroy gene pool is irresistible.”

Her light tone made no impact on his dark expression. Whenever Jack visited Jules at Lili’s parents’ house, invariably he would find Tad had got there before him. He hated the idea that Jules might be confiding in a guy she barely knew instead of the brother who had her best interests at heart.

“Your cousin better not take advantage,” he said gruffly. “She’s vulnerable right now.”

Lili could see how off balance Jules was and was trying to get to know her, even so far as gifting her a couple of pregnancy books, but she barely glanced at the covers. Her lackadaisical attitude to the most momentous thing to ever happen to her worried Jack. The contrast between the siblings was startling. Jack was so open and emotional compared to his closed-off sister.

“Something, or someone, happened to her in London,” Jack went on, his frustration plain. “I’m not sure why she’s here if she won’t talk to me about it.”

“Give her time. She’ll get there.” Patience was the least of Jack’s virtues, and his propensity to think everything could be fixed, usually with sheer Kilroy will, had put his relationship with Jules into a curious holding pattern. Jules stubbornly resisted and refused to be specific about her needs; Jack got frustrated and pushed, and the cycle started all over again.

She nibbled on his ear to ease the strain in his rigid body. It was one of the areas she’d committed to memory as a Jack weak spot, and that, combined with a butt wriggle, got the response she required.

“Lili.” Low. Lusty. Then, “Evil woman.”

His hand slipped under her skirt and trailed a sensuous path up her inner thigh until it reached—oh, yes, that felt so good. She melted like butter in a hot pan.

“No underwear? This is how you planned to meet this morning’s delivery?”

She adjusted, ensuring more friction where she needed it. “Gotta pay those invoices any way we can.” Of course she was kidding, but Jack’s brow furrowed all the same. He still projected His Royal Broodiness whenever another man was mentioned, not that Sal, with his beer gut and eight grandchildren, even qualified as a man. Knuckle-dragging Jack turned her on to an unreasonable degree. Her head did not approve but everywhere else was fairly okay with the situation.

Speaking of knuckles, he slid one inside her sensitive, quivering flesh. “Time to schedule the next meat delivery.”

She burst out into a laugh. “That’s terrible, even for you.” But soon her amusement fell away as his eyes shifted to that smoky hunger she loved. Reaching behind her, he pushed the dishes out of the way and hoisted her onto the table in one fluid motion. Like she was a slip of a thing. His strength always unraveled her.

He stood, and with a stretch of his ropy-muscled arm opened a countertop cookie jar, the one with the blue iced snowflakes ringing the rim. She didn’t even keep treats in there because why create more dirty dishes when her cookie habit was strictly of the box-to-mouth variety? Bafflement boosted to pleasure when he pulled out a condom and slipped it on in a practiced motion. Such clever hands.

“My nonna’s cookie jar, Jack?”

“Great chefs are all about the preparation,” he murmured, right as he plunged into her and everything glittered.

God, she loved this table.

* * *

Jack’s mind buzzed with all he had to do. Finalize the decor on his new place. Finish interviews for the Chicago brigade. Complete negotiations on a multimillion-dollar network contract. Repair his frazzled relationship with his sister. And save DeLuca’s Ristorante without pissing off his girl.

Easy as un, deux, trois.

He had slotted neatly into Lili’s life, her long-distance lover who showed up to fill a need and take her mind off her problems. That wasn’t going to fly for much longer. She might want to keep things on a low simmer, but Jack was ready to plate and serve. The sooner he could get the monkey of her restaurant’s troubles off her back, the sooner she could start focusing on her own needs. And on them.

So this morning, when Jack entered the DeLuca restaurant kitchen and found Tony standing at the sink wearing a face like an overwound clock, he thought checking off the hardest thing on his to-do list would be a great way to start the day. Or second greatest because his mid-breakfast sexcapade with Lili was going to be tough to beat.

Tony glowered.

Dirty mind wipe, activate.

“Tony.”

“Jack.”

They clasped hands with manly firmness; then Tony slid several sticks of celery and a knife across the counter. Jack started chopping but could feel Tony’s scrutiny even as the older man’s hands made fast work of dicing an onion for what Jack assumed was soffritto, the Italian version of mirepoix. Three weeks in and he still felt like a horny teenager who was about to get the third degree from the overprotective father.

A problem for later. Today he just had to appeal to that other part of Tony’s personality. The vainglorious chef part.

“So, you probably know I have a cookbook.”

Tony looked up from chopping, eyes narrowed to slits as thin as the blade in his hand. “You have some good ideas, though you do not simmer your veal stock for long enough. It should be sixteen hours, not twelve.”

Okay. The prickle of pleasure Jack felt that Tony had actually read one of his recipes went some way to minimizing the underlying tone of Tony’s backhanded compliment. Sort of. “I have another one in the works and I wondered how you’d feel about a collaboration.”

The older man pursed his lips and resumed the whip-fast knifework. “And what would you possibly gain from that?”

“Doing it by myself, it gets stale. I think you’re a great chef and I’d like to work with you on this.”

Tony heaved an audible sigh like he’d been unaccountably insulted. “Do you think you can buy my blessing?”

“I’m not trying to buy your blessing, Tony,” Jack said, surprised at how quickly he had lost control of the room. Why did the man have to make it such hard work? “I thought you might be interested in sharing your recipes with a wider audience.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I would rather not encourage your connection to my family. I am fine with allowing you to use my kitchen in a professional capacity, and my wife enjoys the company of Julietta. She is a lovely girl. But that is where it ends.”

So much to enjoy in that little speech. Jules had already been christened with an Italian name. Bully for her. Neither could Jack fail to miss that undertone of pity for the sister who was saddled with a piece of bad news like Jack for a brother. But best of all was the jibe about not wishing to encourage Jack’s connection to Tony’s family. That one had score written all over it.

“I’m really grateful to you for taking my sister in while I travel. I intend to pay—”

Tony waved his knife magnanimously. Or maybe it was more of a threat. “Keep your money for the next time you get sued for that temper of yours. My daughter has a lot of responsibilities and all these distractions take her away from what’s important. The restaurant, her mother.”

“And her art?”

For his impertinence, Jack got a shoulder lift that might beat Laurent in a Continental shrug-off. “It is good for her to have a hobby, I suppose.”

“It’s more than a hobby, Tony. She’s very talented.”

“I do not need you to explain what my daughter is. I have known her all her life. You have known her for a few minutes.”

A fizz of annoyance arced through Jack. “You expect too much of her. She’s your daughter, not your servant. It’s not like you listen to her, anyway.”

Tony’s hand stilled in midchop. He placed the knife down carefully, as though concerned it might suddenly develop a will of its own.

“And you should mind your own business,” he said, his voice injected with steel. “Think about putting your own house in order before you start interfering in mine.”

Okay, he deserved that. No one knew more than Jack how much he had failed Jules, and a reminder from the DeLuca paterfamilias knocked the wind out of him. Tony picked up his knife and sliced through an onion so quickly that Jack felt a squirm of discomfort in his crotch.

“Do not cut the celery so thin,” he added without even looking up.

Keeping his knife in a kiss with the board, Jack shifted his chopping from mincing to coarse. Had he somehow wandered into Tony Soprano’s kitchen instead of Tony DeLuca’s? The kind of women he usually dated didn’t have wise-guy relatives who would break his legs or encase him in concrete if he didn’t treat their clanswoman right. He’d already suffered through this shit with Tad and Cara, and while he didn’t need this guy’s say-so to see Lili, it was rather early in the game to descend to rudeness about it.

“Tony, I understand I might not have been your first choice for Lili.”

Tony scoffed. “You understand, yet here we are after you agreed to stay away from her. This video business, the cruel things that are being said about her. None of this would have happened if you weren’t in my daughter’s life.”

Jack’s heart squeezed. Not usually this slow on the uptake, it should have occurred to him sooner that any father would suffer on his daughter’s behalf even when he was pissed at her. Alternating between injury and offense pretty much described his relationship with Jules, and if that video incident had happened to his sister, the f*cker responsible would have needed a very deep hole to hide in.

“Tony, I know you only want to protect her.”

“Someone has to.” He turned, about as agitated as Jack had ever seen him. “This isn’t the first time people have bullied and taunted her. Her schooldays were a nightmare, and this has brought it all up again. What are you doing to keep her from being hurt?”

Maybe not enough, but at least he was holding her and telling her every day she was amazing instead of acting like a bloody martinet.

“Tony, I love your daughter and I will stop at nothing to keep her safe.” It wasn’t a real answer to Tony’s demand for assurance, but as Jack heard the words coming out of his mouth, quiet and steady, he knew it was the only answer. First time he’d said it aloud, too, and it didn’t sound as odd on his lips as he would have expected. It sounded brilliant.

There had been so many times it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell Lili, usually while he was buried inside her, drowning in those shotgun blues, every part of his body so recklessly happy. She owned his heart, but until she was ready to open hers to him, he’d use his time wisely to curry favor with the people she cared about. Starting with the man before him.

Your move, Il Duce.

Tony raised his eyes to Jack’s. There might have been respect lurking there, but it could just as easily have been Tony musing on the best way to chop up Jack’s body. Several strained seconds ticked by before the maestro spoke again.

“The moment I saw Liliana’s mother, it was colpo di fulmine.” He looked down, focused on a knot on the chopping board. “Love at first sight.”

Jack swallowed. Loudly. Were they having a moment?

“Of course, I was only ten years old at the time.” Alrighty, then, so much for bonding. “And my daughter feels the same way about you?”

The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “No bloody clue.”

Tony smiled. The bastard actually smiled. “I see.”

Jack wasn’t sure what had happened here, but the relief at being able to express his feelings publicly made him giddy. Pity he’d wasted it on the one guy who thought Jack and Lili were the worst idea since New Coke.

His balls were still hiding somewhere up around hip level, but Jack no longer gave a toss. He was too busy trying to keep a foolish grin from conquering his face, but it slowly built and he turned away so Tony wouldn’t see. He wanted to shout how happy he was and tell his future father-in-law—he’d come to that stunning conclusion as well—that he envied Tony his life and his family, and he wanted to make something like that with Lili.

He settled for, “Celery.”

Tony grunted and handed the remaining stalks over.

* * *

Once it had been his favorite place in the whole world, and as Jack crashed through the doors of Thyme on 47th, he waited for the familiar magic to wash over him. Opening it ten years ago had signaled his arrival in New York, a kick to the establishment that said French food couldn’t be simultaneously high concept and accessible. Now the only thing stopping that elusive third Michelin star was his spotty presence over the past year, or so he liked to think. Chefs had their fair share of conspiracy theories.

Laurent sat at his usual table in the corner glued to his laptop, espresso cup at his wrist. Jack assumed he was planning a menu, and knowing his friend, it would be the winter menu. In the middle of July. Jack strode over, only to be practically sacked by a man who sprang like a mountain lion from behind the bar.

“Jack, it’s great to see you,” the stranger said in an Irish-lilted trill. He pumped Jack’s hand and held on. Tall and lean with dark brown, messy hair, Irish had the hungry look of an apprentice, though he had to be at least midtwenties.

“Have we met?”

“Ah, no, we haven’t.” He released Jack’s maligned hand and looked over at Laurent as if he might find support from that quarter. Jack caught Laurent’s smirk. No help there, rookie.

“I’m Shane. Shane Doyle. I just wanted to say hello.”

The new pâtissier. Laurent mentioned he’d hired him after the guy had sent his résumé once a month for the last year. Five years as a pastry chef in restaurants in Ireland and the UK. A stint at Lenôtre, the culinary school in Paris. Eighteen months with Anton Baillard at Maison Rouge on the Upper West Side. He was more than qualified, but Thyme hadn’t had an opening for years until his junior pâtissier, Marguerite, went on maternity leave a month ago. Add to that the work visa hassles for non-U.S. citizens. But the guy had been adamant about working here and not at Jack’s place in London.

“Hope you’re settling in,” Jack said, trying to put the poor guy at ease just as he realized the kid didn’t need it. His eyes sparkled, making Jack wearier. Damn, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so excited to meet a fellow chef.

“Yeah, everyone’s been wonderful,” Shane said with a cocky eyebrow lift for good measure.

“Well, it’s great to meet you.” Jack nodded over Shane’s shoulder to Laurent. Move along, kid.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He held Jack’s gaze and smiled, wider now and with a touch of insolence, before heading out to the street. In under sixty seconds, Shane had gone from newbie eagerness to brash cockiness to something along the lines of “huh?” Maybe the great Jack Kilroy hadn’t lived up to the iconic image in the younger chef’s head. Jack slumped into a chair beside Laurent, his muscles duller because of Shane’s whatever-the-hell-that-was.

“Viande fraiche,” they said together. Fresh meat. Jack hadn’t spoken to Laurent in a while. The Frenchman hadn’t been his sous for the last few episodes of the show, preferring to get back to his duties in New York, so it was a relief to fall into their usual easy camaraderie.

“Remember when we were that young?” Jack asked.

“Younger. That one’s ambitious like you. He’s already making suggestions.” This last statement was underlined with disapproval; Laurent was old-fashioned and preferred the greenhorns to be seen and not heard for at least a year.

During the early days of his apprenticeship in Paris, Jack had barely known béchamel from caramel and thought a mother sauce was some weird French street slang, but he fronted it out with a nice line in chat and a cocksure grin. Back then, he’d never met a situation he couldn’t talk or screw his way out of. If only it were that easy now.

“I was an arrogant little bastard,” Jack said wistfully, feeling pleasantly warm at the memory.

“True, but you could back it up. Running stations by three months with hardly a word of French to your name. Your accent is still merde, by the way.”

That pulled a laugh from deep in his belly. He’d missed his friend.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Laurent said. “The charms of Chicago have lost their appeal?”

“No, still charming as ever.”

“So this is it. The great Jack Kilroy brought to his knees by the cloud of big hair and the cute nose wrinkle.” A sigh escaped his lips. “And she could so easily have been mine. We were getting along very well in that bar until you swooped in.”

“You snoozed, mon ami.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes. “So where is she today? I thought she would be with you.”

He thought right, but he was beginning to wonder if Lili would ever truly be with him. If she would ever make the leap necessary to meet him halfway or if he was no more than a prop to her fragile ego. He knew she cared up to a point but all the noise—her family, her history, her fear of change—was drowning out the possibilities for their future. At the mere mention of anything related to what comes next, she shut down emotionally and became Lili the temptress. Think of your needs, sweetheart. Her hands turned into weapons of sensual torture. What about grad school? Her lips nibbled and grazed, advance scouts for her warm tongue.

Shucking off her insecurities would take more than Jack whispering sweet-nothings through the voluminous hair that drove him lust-wild. He wanted it settled before he signed the contract; otherwise she’d use that as an excuse to retreat.

Irked at himself, he picked up the paper Laurent was making notes on, his large expressive scrawl barely legible. “Duck a l’orange? I know retro is in, but they can just as easily take away Michelin stars as give them.”

Laurent’s mouth tipped up in a grin. “Trust me. I have something special in mind.”

Jack knew better than to doubt it. Laurent’s brand of genius was quiet and methodical, and Jack often wondered why he stuck around all these years instead of branching out on his own. He would readily invest in any venture led by his right-hand man, but luckily for Jack, he’d always seemed happiest at Thyme.

Feeling nostalgic, Jack cast his eyes about the room, drinking in the polished wood and gleaming brass finishes, all molded in the style of a nineteenth-century Parisian brasserie. He and Laurent had planned it together down to every last detail, from the copper pans imported from Marseille to the antique light fixtures, exact replicas of ones they’d discovered gracing the walls of a run-down Pigalle bistro. It had been their baby, their big splash in the Big Apple, but as much as he loved it here, Jack knew in his marrow it didn’t belong to him anymore.

Laurent must have noticed something in Jack’s expression. “Lunch starts in thirty minutes. Did you want to run the kitchen?”

That too-familiar twist of apprehension wriggled in his gut. He hadn’t run a kitchen, a real kitchen, in over a year. “I’d love to, but I have a meeting with my agent.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, resulting in a parallel rise of Jack’s defensive hackles. His friend had never begrudged Jack his success but tended to be amused by it all instead. The look he was giving Jack now was on the other side of diverted.

“You should be here, Jack.” Laurent’s usual blue twinkle had suddenly acquired bite. “You don’t enjoy the current show. Why would you enjoy this new one?”

Jack harshed out a laugh that rang hollow against all that shiny brass. “What makes you think I don’t enjoy it?”

“Because the Jack Kilroy I know would never have lost that cook-off with Tony DeLuca.”

Jack stared. Blinked. Stared some more. “You were fairly hungover during the taping, but surely you recall our hosts engaged in a spot of cheating.”

Laurent made a sound that could only be described as “French.” “You are the best chef I have ever worked with, but you’ve lost your edge. None of your dishes that night were half as good as you’re capable of. You’ve been coasting for a while now. Cheating or not, Tony deserved to win, but a year ago there would have been no contest.”

Where the hell had that come from? Jack readily acknowledged that cooking had ceased to be an enjoyment since he’d swapped his chef’s toque for the bright lights, but he didn’t think the work had suffered. Not really. Knowing his diminished passion manifested where it counted—the f*cking food, stupid—flicked his ego like a rusty nail over a raw wound. But in the last few weeks, he’d felt that passion’s joyful return as he planned his new Chicago menu. As he fed Lili and fell in love.

“Thought you liked it when I’m gone. Gives you a chance to boss all the young bucks,” Jack said, half in jest but really to cover his discomfort about his best friend’s annoyingly pointed conclusion.

Laurent gave one of his trademark Gallic shrugs. In truth, he was the executive chef at Thyme except his name wasn’t on the menu. He’d never ask outright, which was part of his problem. No drive. Too much of a dreamer.

“You don’t need the money and you certainly don’t need any more reason to attract women,” Laurent said in a seductive cajole, more like the easygoing Frenchman he knew. “Come back to what you love.”

Come back to what you love. Food, Jules, Lili. These were the things he loved and he would fight to his last breath to have them all.