Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen)

chapter Five




Lili was still shaking.

Fifteen minutes ago, she’d experienced both the hottest and most humiliating moments of her life. One right after the other. She jammed the toothbrush into her mouth with such vehemence that she grunted at the abrasive pain.

What in the name of all things good and holy had just happened with Jack Kilroy?

So she wasn’t the brightest spark when it came to men. Exhibit A, Marco Rossi, the man she had mooned over for six pathetic months. She had known it was a lost cause, but at one time the slightest glance from him had been enough to send her into a tizzy of anticipation, which usually fizzled quicker than a damp squib. Thankfully, she was cured of Marco.

Next up, Exhibit B, Jack Kilroy, with his epic chest and his hot mouth. No vaccine available against that. He had walked out of that fridge and into her flat-lining life, dazzling her with that easy smile and stupid accent. Cara and Tad had egged her on, and like an idiot, she had played into their rom-com script.

How could she have mistaken the nuclear heat rolling off the man in waves? The looks that promised he was picturing her naked. The appraisal of her body, first with his eyes, then with his hands. That mouth…that mouth that could do anything and have her begging for more. Begging for him to feast on her neck, her breasts, her belly, her—

The harsh blast of the intercom slashed through her pathetic fantasy. She rinsed the mouth that had just been kissed stupid. No, she could still taste him. Essence de Kilroy.

She had played a little, teased a lot, added in the empty threat of Laurent, and it had worked. He had followed the sure thing and then proceeded to blindside her. Even if he had been affected by their clinch—and she had definitely felt the affection when he ground his body into her like she was the mortar to his pestle—he clearly had a different agenda.

She hated guys with agendas.

The buzzer sounded again. Living in a neighborhood filled with bars usually guaranteed a few late-night visitors. No one she knew, just idiots who liked to press buzzers on a drunken dare and stumble onto the next target.

A few seconds ticked by. Another buzz. She knew who it was before she’d even pushed the Talk button.

“Yeah?”

“Lili, I need to see you.” Jack’s voice filled the room, crisp, British, and not in the least bit apologetic. Following a moment of silence on her end, he buzzed again. She pressed the button and listened to the ominous crackle.

“Lili, let me in so I can explain.”

She bit down on her lip, praying that might work to stop her from screaming at him. Her finger depressed the Talk button again and caught him midsentence.

“—down and shut up,” he said, followed by incomprehensible muttering.

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” she asked, incensed.

“No, not you.” He sounded distant, like he was underwater; then his voice came in again so clearly that it startled her.

“Sweetheart, I can hear you breathing.” She stopped. Breathing was overrated anyway. “Why don’t you let me come up and we can talk about this like adults?”

Adults? She had wanted to do some very adult things with him and now he wanted to talk. Like adults. That suppressed scream yearned to break free of her throat. She caught muddled snatches of what he said next. Something about Laurent, then a torrent of French gibberish.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Lili shouted, because a raised voice always got the job done.

“I need to explain.”

“It’s really not necessary. Please go away.” And leave her alone with her humiliation.

The sound of a scuffle bounced through the intercom followed by more foreign babbling. A full minute passed.

“All right, you’re going to be sorry,” he said, inducing a flap of panic in her chest. Would he try to break in? Bang on her door until one of the neighbors called the cops? If only. It was worse. Much worse.

Jack Kilroy started to sing.

The caterwauling made by the most deluded of wannabe contestants on American Idol had nothing on this. Hearing such a sound blasting from her TV was one thing; listening to it through her intercom was quite another. His voice had not improved any since the last time she’d heard him mangling a tune, right before she clocked him with a frying pan.

“Lili, I just met a girl, she’s called Lili…” This, to the tune of “Maria” from West Side Story.

Someone on the street cheered. Encouraged, Jack raised his voice a couple of inadvisable octaves. Another voice punctuated the lyrics with shouts of “Lili” a half-beat late. There was a pause as Jack told his accompanist in no uncertain terms to shut the f*ck up.

The crazy galoot. All that charm in six feet two of hot, spicy male, and for a brief, brilliant moment, it was directed at her. This must be what being in love felt like—the swoopy sensation in her stomach, the lightness of her galloping heart, the notion that anything was possible because one guy chose to serenade one girl with an atonal rendition of a show tune.

It was silly to feel like this, a frivolous fakery, but she held on to it as she took the stairs, two at a time, and threw open the door to the street. Poking her head out, she found Jack arranged against a wall looking like some good ol’ boy at a barn dance waiting for Ladies’ Choice. All he was missing was a toothpick and a Stetson.

“What took you so long?” he said, gifting her with that so-help-her-God smile.

Along with all the other sensations, her legs now turned to water.

Laurent was sitting on the ground with his head between his knees. A couple of guys, helping each other along with the affection of the drunk, turned and shouted, “Lili!” Jack saluted them like they were old pals.

“You are an awful singer,” she said, biting back a budding laugh. It wouldn’t do to make it too easy on him.

His eyes crinkled with good humor. “What I lack in skill, I make up for in enthusiasm.”

“Add that to the list of things no woman wants to hear.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair and his expression took a turn for the serious. “I want to explain.”

Lili waved him off magnanimously. “Forget about it.”

“I behaved terribly,” he said.

“Right, just not terribly enough.”

He pushed off from the wall, closing the gap between them, and his eyes did the full-body sweep. If that wasn’t enough to haul her back to earth, the whispering night breeze reminded her she had changed into her version of jammies: gray sweat shorts and a thin-as-wax-paper tank top with SAVE THE TATAS emblazoned across her chest. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. She crossed her arms to cover her nipples, which she suspected would start betraying her at any moment.

“You lost your leering privileges when you told me to take a hike.”

Jack’s sensual lips curved into a knowing grin. He opened his mouth to say what she assumed was something flippant. She cut him off at the pass.

“Jack Kilroy, your energy might be better employed explaining why you flirted your buns off, kissed me with all the technique of a marine mammal, and then dropped me when things got interesting.” By interesting, she meant when her hand encountered that intriguing bulge between his legs. The tipping point, she would have thought, with any other guy.

“You’re right, I did all that, although I think my kissing technique is slightly better than a marine mammal’s.” He managed to look both sexy and affronted.

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Well, you have to admit you provoked me.”

“I provoked you?”

“Is Laurent still here?” he mimicked, sounding nothing like her in the slightest. “There’s only so much a man can take.”

Not for the first time in his presence, words failed her. He handily filled in the silence.

“I didn’t stop because I’m not attracted to you or to teach you a lesson, though you probably deserved it for trying to use me.”

Use him? This from the guy who blew through women like Gina blew through hairspray. In what crazy-ass universe did men worry about being used when a woman offered herself up on a platter?

“I wasn’t trying to use you,” she said, less sure now. “Well, no more than anyone who wants…”

His raised eyebrow challenged her to finish that sentence. No more than anyone who wants what? A night of wild, abandoned, no-strings sex with a guy you just met? That’s what she had meant, but it rang sordid even in her head. Damn him.

He huffed a breath that rippled through the strands of dark hair brushing his forehead. “A lot of women I meet are only interested in screwing me because I’m on TV. And after a while, casual sex becomes really old.”

This was said with all the blithe confidence of someone who has no problems getting casual sex on a regular basis. It was like a rich person saying money didn’t matter. When you didn’t have any or weren’t getting any, it most definitely mattered.

“I wasn’t interested in you because you’re famous,” she said, squelching her discomfort.

That earned her more of the judgmental eyebrow. “Right, you just want my body.”

Well, yeah. She couldn’t deny it, though she could do her best to ignore it and flip this table around. “Are you saying you’re giving up your hound dog ways and retiring to a monastery?”

“I’m saying that now when I want to sleep with someone, I’d like to know more about her than just her cup size.”

She folded her arms beneath her D-cups.

“Lili, any guy would be lucky to be with you, but one-night stands no longer interest me. In fact, I haven’t slept with anyone in quite a while. These days, I’d rather get to know a girl first.”

She barked out a laugh at the notion Jack had suspended his membership in Man Whores United. His eyes registered surprise. He was serious.

“You mean dating?” she squealed, as if the word were foreign to her.

His eyes locked on hers in a way that completely unnerved her. “Yes, dating. Do you have rules against dating fame-hungry megawhores?”

She should have known that would come back to bite her, but her unease about it was nothing compared to the emotion roiling through every cell of her body. Jack Kilroy—the Jack Kilroy—had asked her out on a date. When a few awkward seconds passed and an obsequious game show host still hadn’t jumped out to tell her it was all a hilarious prank, she regrouped.

“I don’t have time for dating,” she blurted. Not exactly true, but not exactly a lie either. What she didn’t have time for were men who needed a woman to keep their inflated egos pumped up to supersize levels. She’d already traveled this road with Marco. For their few months together, she had felt warm and safe and…grateful. Grateful that the cute guy who wouldn’t have looked at her twice in her fat days had come down from the mountain and shown poor ol’ Lili what she’d been missing. Marco had turned on that winning smile, and after she got through the metaphorical throat clutch followed by a “who, me?” she had grasped at the opportunity a little too desperately.

Never again.

Eventually, she would meet someone sweetly average, a guy at her level, who didn’t think he was doing her a favor by breathing the same air as her. Real life, not the stuff of romantic fantasy.

Some people might think a guy singing tunelessly through your intercom to snag your attention was romantic. Hopelessly romantic people. She kicked that thought to the curb. Now wasn’t the time to get mushy.

“You live in New York. I live here. It would never work.” But even before the words were on the warm night air, she felt the cool chill of regret.

“Right, it could never work.” His eyes glinted as if he was thinking about how to make it work, which had the curious effect of making her think about how to make it work. This guy was good.

“How’s your friend?” she asked, eager to pilot them to more neutral ground. Laurent had since fallen over and was now curled up on the sidewalk, probably imagining he had made it to the safety of his comfortable hotel bed.

“Not great. Frenchmen should be able to hold their liquor, what with them being weaned straight from breast milk to wine, but Laurent has always been a bit of a lightweight, bless his heart.”

They looked down at the Frenchman-shaped puddle on the ground.

“I just need to get him into a cab.” He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. “Unless you want to offer us a bed for the night.”

“That’s a really bad idea.” Lili gave Laurent a gentle shove with her foot and was rewarded with a reedy moan. “I don’t think I’d trust a Frenchman, even an adorably inebriated one, in my apartment. He could probably make zee love while in zee coma.”

“I’d protect you. And you’re definitely not his type.” Jack shrugged. “Despite all the Gallic swagger, he much prefers the company of sheep.”

Laughter bubbled up from her gut. Jack Kilroy was charm personified, all shiny surfaces and glittering bon mots. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed talking to a guy this much. It had been even longer since her body had reacted with such…sizzle. When Jack touched her—when Jack plain looked at her—her body sizzled.

Laurent interrupted her musings, inching his way up Jack’s leg like he was climbing a jungle gym. “’Allo, Lili.” He draped his arm over Jack’s shoulder and expelled a juicy belch. “Merde, Jack, it is drunk out.”

Jack murmured something in French that Lili didn’t understand but could tell wasn’t very nice. Propping his friend against the wall of her building, he held his palms up, willing Laurent to stay upright. Then he turned back to her and stepped in close. Too close.

“Before we go, I’ll need you to take it back.”

“Take what back?”

“What you said about my kissing technique.”

Aw, poor little big shot needed massaging for his sore ego. “It’s all so subjective. That suction thing might work for some girls, I suppose.”

Another dangerous step and he had gripped her hips with both hands. Mercy, he was fast. “Give me another chance.”

“Oh,” she managed to eke out just as that smooth-talking mouth met hers. Her initial thought was gratitude that he was holding on to her, because her spine had dissolved. Her next was…she didn’t have a next. The kiss hit her like a fifth of bourbon and with each luxurious swipe of his tongue, she fell deeper and deeper into oblivion.

Displaying his range, he cut a path of honeyed devastation along her jaw. “Am I doing better?”

“Hmm. Full letter grade improvement. B minus,” she teased. “But I’m still not going to date you.”

He laughed, a warm chocolaty sound against her neck that goose-bumped her heated flesh. “And I’m still not going to sleep with you. No matter how much you beg.”

“Oh, I think I’ll survive. We great women are used to enduring.” Her hands caressed his strong back, shaping its tightly woven muscles. “You, on the other hand…How long has it been since you last had sex?”

“Four months”—he nipped her earlobe—“one week”—his lips tickled the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder—“five days.”

“Sounds terrible,” she murmured as she rubbed her breasts against his chest. So much for keeping her nipples in check. They happily pebbled their pleasure at this latest turn of events.

“It hasn’t been so bad,” he said, his voice as thick as the humid night. “I just can’t help flirting with gorgeous women.”

Her mind heard the compliment, but before it could register fully, he moved in flush, making her gasp as his hardness rasped against her belly. A Darth Vader–like rumble reverberated in her head. I have you now. They just needed to get Laurent settled on her sofa, then let the good times roll.

Jack drew back to face her, his lust-blown eyes illuminated by the overhead streetlamp. “Lili, all joking aside, I’m serious about going on a date…” One hand dropped from her waist and traveled shakily to his forehead.

“Jack, are you okay?” She squeezed his beautifully muscled shoulder. She couldn’t wait to kiss every inch of—

“I’m fine,” he muttered just as his body crumpled and slid from her grasp. He made a surprisingly soft thud considering all that rock-hard muscle. As if in sympathy, Laurent slid down the wall with a well-oiled giggle.

Merde.