Chapter Nine
Women and motors are hard on the heart.
—Italian proverb
Most online dates started with e-mails or IMs, but Jules couldn’t do that, not unless she wanted to have someone proofread all her messages for her. So she went straight to phone calls. If she was expecting an instant connection, then clearly she needed to calibrate her hopes. Over the years, she had become fairly adept at picking up cues in other people’s voices, so the disappointment of how the dates went surprised her.
The first one had ended when the guy got a call from not one, but two exes, then proceeded to ask her advice on their respective merits, complete with supporting documentation that he described as “boudoir shots.” The second went all the way through a pleasant, if bland, lunch until she asked why he kept bending down to scratch his foot. That’s when he showed her his nice, sparkly ankle bracelet. The flashing green light indicated he was still in monitoring range of the receiver in his apartment above the diner.
As she told Lili and Cara in her reports, if someone had filmed her disastrous dates, all her reaction shots would show gaping mouths and melting faces from variations of Munch’s The Scream.
Now at Starbucks in Wicker Park, Jules’s third first date since she had opened for business, as her brother called it, stretched ominously before her. Bachelor Number Three—Aaron Roberts—had yet to arrive and every swoosh of the front door had her raising her eyes in a brew of anticipation and dread. She had picked him because he owned a rug company, which hinted at safe and secure. Yet her schizophrenic mind had also jumped to sheepskin hearthrugs and cozy evenings by the fire because apparently she wanted a side of romance with her boring entrée.
Pathetic.
The door opened, her head shot up, and ding, ding, ding, what have we got here?
Bachelor Number Three wasn’t half bad!
He wore pressed khakis, a button-down Oxford, and the air of someone at home in the corporate surroundings of Starbucks. The Michael Bublé soundtrack matched perfectly his smooth, non-threatening entrance. A quick scan, and he strode over, head ducked a little shyly, nice all-American smile spreading wider as he drew closer. His online dating avatar did not do him justice.
“Jules?” he said tentatively.
She nodded. “Wow, you’re…” Shite, where was she going with this? “… not an ogre.” Evan was on a Shrek kick right now, so ogres, both real and fictional, were uppermost in her mind.
He laughed, a comforting sound that she could imagine blanketing her safely while she stretched out lazily on that sheepskin hearthrug. “Neither are you. Good thing we got that out of the way. Could have been awkward.” He shot a frown at her empty table. “Think we have a problem, though.”
“We do?” she croaked.
“You don’t have a coffee and I’m not sure I can break bread with a woman who isn’t a coffee addict like myself.”
She let loose a nervous giggle that made her sound a touch manic. “Oh, I just haven’t ordered yet. Didn’t want to get too far ahead in the perk stakes.”
“I love that sexy accent of yours,” he murmured. “Let me get the drinks in and then you can tell me all about yourself in that posh voice.”
Hmm, complimentary without being too forward, and manners to boot. She told him her caffeine requirements and watched unashamedly as he walked away.
Nice ass, Mr. Roberts.
Well, it looked like third time was the charm. Every girl had to kiss a few frogs first to get to her prince. Unable to help herself, she stole another glance in his direction. Aaron shot her an unfroglike grin and she wiggled her toes in a little happy dance under the table.
“Oh my gawd, he’s so adorable!”
Jules’s attention switched to the entrance once more. A woman dressed in fluorescent lime workout gear so tight she could probably lose weight standing still gushed loudly as she held the door wide to let in a guy with a stroller. The cutie pie who was the object of Screecher’s adoration wore a miniature Cubs cap and a manipulative preen Jules instantly recognized. Her bonny baby boy.
And the guy with the stroller was none other than Tad. Oh, hell, what was he doing here? And with Evan, who she had left with Cara not fifteen minutes ago. He couldn’t possibly know about her date, not that it would matter if he did. Because they were just friends.
Anxious, she jumped out of her chair as they approached, registering on some deep, feminine level how the female door-opener’s blatant admiration had moved higher to Tad’s denim-clad ass. Jealousy snaked through Jules’s insides—and the irony in ogling her date’s ass was not lost on her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked Tad, who had bent down to pluck a begging Evan out of his stroller.
“Nothing. I’m getting coffee.”
“No, I mean, why do you have Evan?”
“Cara had an emergency meeting with a client, something about an exploding fondue station. The chance to have some one-on-one guy time with my best boy here was too much to resist.” Brows angled, Tad hugged Evan to his hip. “You don’t mind, do you? I’ve watched him a million times.”
“Of course not. I’m just surprised to see you.” She rubbed her little guy’s chest, making him giggle and lash out for her hair. Securely stashed on Tad’s hip, he looked so happy. In fact, together, they were right there on the corner of picture and perfect.
“Where’d the hat come from?”
Tad grinned, and her heart lifted with the curve of his lips. Stupid heart. “I saw it the other day at Wrigley Field. It’s time he started to learn about all aspects of his heritage. Italian, British, and baseball.”
She returned his smile, and an electric sizzle passed between them. They were both remembering his promise, made on the day of Evan’s birth, to teach her son everything he needed to know. A toasty ache blossomed in her chest at the notion Tad spared a thought for Evan while he was out and about on his day to day.
“So why are you here? You look…” His gaze fell to the floral sundress she wore and dipped all the way to the cute strappy sandals that revealed shimmering blue painted toes. A weird expression came over his face. “You’re on a date.”
Inappropriate guilt pinched her chest and she chased it away with an internal scold. Kissing her until her lady parts turned to jelly did not give Mr. No-Follow-Through any special privileges over her dating choices.
“Yes. He’s—”
“Right here,” Aaron said, setting the coffee down on the table. “Grande caramel macchiato for the lovely lady.”
Tad’s eyes flew wide and he paled beneath his dark olive skin at the sight of Aaron in all his emotionally available, preppy perfection.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Tad DeLuca,” Aaron said, eyes lighting up in surprise. “Haven’t seen you in what, ten years?” He divided a curious look between Tad and Jules. “You two know each other?”
“Uh huh.” Tad clamped his mouth shut and retained all his energy for sizing up Aaron.
This could not be happening. Of all the guys in all the world, the first decent one she had met was a friend of Tad’s? Though “friend” might be pushing it given how Tad was glowering at Aaron like he had borrowed his rare vinyl recording of the Beatles’ Revolver and returned it with greasy smudge marks. Along with the DeLuca death stare, Tad seemed to grow a few inches in stature and inch closer to her. Anxiety spun out from her pores. Surely, he wasn’t going to pull that protective shit now?
Aaron appeared unfazed. “And who’s this little guy? You’re a father now, Tad?”
“This is Evan,” Jules cut in. Evan gave a gurgly grin at the mention of his name and shouted, “Mummy!” She had discussed with the girls how soon she should broach the subject of her kid. Cara had flattened her lips and recommended caution (give them a chance to enjoy the show first before you whip out your mom credentials). Lili had told her that if the guy couldn’t handle that, then he was not worth the time.
In dread, her body clenched waiting for Aaron’s response. She hated herself for it.
“He’s a knockout. So you two…” Aaron looked at Jules and Tad, trying to figure out their connection. Good luck.
“Oh, no!” Jules said, much too vehemently if the sharp look on Tad’s face was any indication. Seeing that no one was focused on him, Evan chose that moment to grab at Tad’s hair with a chant of “Tad, Tad, Tad.” It didn’t help that it sounded like “Dad” to Jules’s frazzled brain—or that she liked far too much how that sounded.
Her heart pounded in her ears. “He’s…”
“The nanny,” Tad finished for her.
“The nanny?” Aaron both smirked and chuckled. “Thought you were a bartender. Saw you in some magazine at my dentist’s office about best cocktails in Chicago.” He raised an eyebrow at Jules, inviting her in to the conversation. “Tad and I took a few classes together at U of C. Guy was going places; we all expected great things.”
There was an awkward moment of silence as everyone settled into their new roles. Aaron cocked his head, considering. “You got into that bar fight the night we were all celebrating the end of exams and then you disappeared off the face of the planet. What happened, dude?”
Death and loss happened, and apparently a bar fight, which was the first Jules was hearing about it. Not a muscle moved in Tad’s face—was he thinking about what might have been if he’d finished his degree, gone on to become an engineer, fulfilled all that promise his family held for him? Or was he thinking about his parents?
“College wasn’t really my thing. So what are you up to these days?” Tad’s tone was neutral but Jules knew better. She could hear the strain in it. He tightened his grip on Evan, an oddly possessive and protective move over her boy that made her light-headed.
Aaron rocked back on his heels, a little smug, steadily losing the goodwill he’d built up with that entrance and smooth opening overture. “Running my dad’s rug company out in the western suburbs. Schaumburg.”
“And you can’t get a date out there?” Tad asked, still on edge. “Need to come to the city to steal our women?”
“Tad!” Jules gave him a gentle cuff on the bare forearm cradling her son, one of those playful, Oh, don’t mind him, he’s just joking taps that desperate peacemakers use to keep hostilities from escalating during pissing contests. But instead of smoothing over the awkwardness, the touch electrified her body in startling awareness of Tad’s towering virility. His arm was so much thicker than Aaron’s, and while she was sure Aaron’s forearms were adequately qualified to support her son and wrap Jules in safety, she doubted they could fulfill either of those functions quite as well as Tad’s. Why, oh, why did every man have to suffer by comparison to Bloody Tad DeLuca?
Annoyance and attraction duked it out in her chest, and she was rooting for the former to come out ahead. A million reasons to be hacked off at Tad bubbled below the surface. The jackass had kissed her in the name of protecting her. He had offered his body then whipped the rug from under her when he chickened out. Those gems, along with that knuckle-dragging our women jibe, should have dimmed her appreciation for his forearms. They really should have.
Aaron smirked again. No, he smiled. She needed to stop looking for faults, failing him for not being Tad. Aaron’s forearms were in no way scrawny and he clearly had a nice dental plan. So the knife-edge crease down the center of his khakis was troubling, but as long as he didn’t expect her to get too friendly with an ironing board, they’d be okay. He was a nice guy who had made himself vulnerable on an online dating site. That kind of effort should have sent Aaron soaring in her estimation.
It really should have.
“I’m long past the point where bar-hopping and drunken hook-ups are my thing,” Aaron said, making his case. “I’m well established in my career, have a nice house, and I’m ready to take the next step. Schaumburg’s a great place to raise a family.”
The dig at Tad was unmistakable. The college dropout who tended bar and used his mixology skills to mix things up with the ladies he served in more ways than one.
“Tad’s about to open his own wine bar around the corner,” Jules chirped up in her friend’s defense. “Everyone’s so proud of him.” She was proud of him.
Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Tad’s face darkened so much she worried Evan might start crying any second, but then he flicked a switch in his brain. Toggled it to good-humored Tad and smiled, first at Evan as if he was trying it on for size, then at Aaron and Jules. In those flinty DeLuca blues, she saw him draw conclusions about what Jules was looking for in a man: a provider, a good bet, a guy who wears khakis. Aaron Roberts had filled out an exhaustive dating profile and announced to the world that he was ready for a commitment. And Jules couldn’t wait forever.
Tad might want to get all up in her business but he wouldn’t fight for anything real.
Heart crushed in disappointment, she hovered on a ledge, waiting for Tad to move on and let her get on with it. The date would be a struggle now with Tad’s ghostly presence imprinted on her messed-up psyche, but she would make the best of it as she always did.
So it was with barely contained surprise that she watched Tad lower his impressive male form to a seat, settle her son in his lap like he belonged there, and take a sip of the coffee that Aaron had so kindly purchased for her.
Well.
“I’d love to catch up properly, dude,” Tad said with a f*ck-you smirk of his own at Aaron. “Sit down and tell me more about the rug business in Schaumburg.”
* * *
“And where did you get this one?”
For what felt like the hundredth time, Tad balled his fists and suppressed the budding growl in his throat. Jules lay her soft hand on Derry’s arm, questioning the provenance of yet another of his colorful tattoos. The usually brooding mountain certainly didn’t show any signs of minding.
“Marseille. Vintage Pinot. Seven hours,” Derry said. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was being standoffish, but Tad knew better. Coming from Derry Jones, that was practically a gush.
Jules continued to caress one of the wine labels—which looked faded and could do with a touch up, Tad thought snarkily—and gazed in awe at Derry’s ink.
“Isn’t this early for you?” Tad bit out in Derry’s direction. He didn’t usually show up for prep until 3 p.m. and that he was here at noon rang a million alarm bells.
Derry looked sardonically amused. Dude always looked sardonically amused.
“Nope,” he answered, which wasn’t much of an answer at all.
Tad resented this cut into his time with Jules. For the last couple of days, once she had finished her prep and got her special on the stove or in the oven, he had been breaking out a nice bottle and completing her education. And then fantasizing about all the other things he could teach her.
A few days had passed since their conversation at the market when he had agreed with her about the crazy-cubed nature of his proposal. Bloody hell, protection sex, Tad? Said in that deadpan of hers that sounded even more mocking with that cut crystal accent. And he had laughed along with her when really he wanted to shout to the tops of the farm stands that he had never been more serious about anything in his life. He had meant every word and more. Itches would be scratched. Amazing orgasms would be achieved. Worlds would be rocked.
Worlds would be changed.
He had bailed because relationships were hard and a relationship with Jules—something real with this woman—would be his undoing and hers. But now he was starting to realize he had a bigger problem.
Out in the dating world, Jules was an unstoppable force.
Shane had filled him in on her disappointing dates so far, mostly idiots and guys with shit for brains. But that could not last and Aaron Roberts was probably the first guy who truly looked good on paper—stable, safe, suburban. Tad had nipped that in the bud by sticking around long enough to ensure it was the least romantic first date ever. Evan had played his part by throwing a tantrum and letting the Rugmeister know that this family business took work.
But Tad couldn’t be in position with a cranky toddler and a scowl, ready to sabotage every date. There would be others with good jobs and picket fences and no qualms about taking on another guy’s kid because Jules and Evan were an amazing package deal. Neither would it be long before she clicked with someone.
Seeing how guys reacted to her now that she was on the market was killing him. First, that farmstand guy at Green City, then Aaron Roberts, and now Tad had to watch her get all handsy with Kitchen Hulk.
“This one. That’s…” She scrunched up her face, squinting to figure it out. Tad loved that look on her, how the dawning recognition of a word overcame her frustration at not knowing it immediately.
“Beaujolais Nouveau,” Derry said, referring to an intricately drawn ink of a chateau winged by grapes. “Fifteen hours,” he added with a grim smile.
Jules turned to Tad, her face bright and open. “Do we have any Beaujolais Nouveau in our cellar?”
Our cellar. That made him warm.
“A new batch is produced every November,” Tad said while he sliced some artisan cheddar. “We don’t cellar it because it doesn’t improve with age and people expect the latest vintage.”
Jules shook her head. “I’ve so much to learn between the vintages and the terms. Cru, brut, cuvée. There are so many and that’s just the French ones.”
“Tricky bastards, the French,” Derry said with feeling.
Tad just about managed not to roll his eyes.
After a few more minutes of ink adoration, Derry left to run some errands. Yes, I am paying you to work here.
Jules’s disappointed gaze followed Derry out, but she covered quickly and returned to the crab with crème fra?che spread she had been working on before the Derry Jones tattoo slide show had begun.
Huh. So Jules had a crush on a certain hard-boiled chef.
What did Tad expect? She wanted to meet someone and he wasn’t exactly stepping up to offer her anything beyond a good old-fashioned bang-and-bolt. Derry was a decent guy. Rumors swirled that he was ex-military, maybe a Navy SEAL. Not the most sparkling conversationalist but he seemed dependable and trustworthy. Real husband material. He’d make a good father to Evan while Tad was barely good enough to be uncle.
The idea of another guy soothing Evan to sleep or holding him when he was upset distressed Tad almost as much as the notion of Jules with someone else. With Derry.
Shit.
“I want to show you something,” he said to her back. “Wait here a sec.”
Thirty seconds later, he placed a black binder on the counter before her.
“It’s a guide to all the wines we have in the cellar.” Our cellar. “The selection is small enough right now that it can fit, but we could always add to it. I was creating it as a training tool for the staff and then I thought…” He trailed off, unsure how to complete that sentence. A pang of discomfort pinched his chest but it was too late to undo this.
Placing the knife down carefully, she flipped open the binder, her tight stance a brace against an encyclopedia of words beyond her understanding.
“It’s a picture book,” she gasped.
He had printed off images for all the labels and paired them with a legend for that wine’s characteristics. A globe for “earthy,” a lemon for “citrus,” a jar for “jammy,” and so on. She had an excellent memory and once she had committed the key to that quick-as-a-fox brain of hers, he was confident she’d have it down.
“You’re a visual person so this method might work better for you.” Dyslexics tended to see pictures instead of words and were more likely to perceive with all the senses. They also liked routines, but they got frustrated easily. Becoming a stellar chef like her brothers might seem difficult on the surface but she had innate abilities that just needed to be encouraged. He wanted to be the one to help her realize all that potential.
Not Derry F*cking Jones.
“Tad, I…” Eyes shining bright with emotion, she raised a couple of fingers to her mouth and took a harsh breath.
Instinctively he pulled her in his arms, something he had taken pains to avoid since that night a year ago when he had almost lost himself in her. As always, touching her brewed up a storm of sensation that threatened to make landfall and decimate his last defenses. He gasped for air, got a lungful of her. She smelled like heaven, if heaven smelled like oranges and summer and home.
Shut up, brain.
“Jules, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She rested her forehead against his shoulder and it was so perfect that he had to suppress a whimper. Or a grunt, not a whimper. He never whimpered.
“No—no, you haven’t upset me. It’s perfect. I just thought…” She hesitated.
“You thought what, honey?”
“After all the awkwardness, I thought maybe we weren’t as good friends anymore. It’s been sort of strained between us.”
Ya think? He’d noticed but he was trying to power through. Making it work if it killed him.
“Jules, we’re going to have our good days and our bad days but I’m never going to stop being your friend. You’re my best girl.”
He pulled away but she held on tight, whispering, “Not done here.”
He chuckled against her temple and let the moment take him somewhere wonderful.
She peeked up and his breath trapped in his lungs at those ethereal green eyes beseeching him. “So, Teach, could I ask a favor while you’re feeling all educational?”
“Anything,” he breathed, and he meant it. He would give her anything, do anything to make her happy.
Withdrawing from his embrace, she lolled against the counter, her finger tracing a line along the stainless steel edge. “I was going to ask Derry for some tips but he ran out of here.”
His body tensed again at the mention of Derry’s name. “What kind of tips?”
She picked up an onion from a wire basket on the counter and threw it in the air, catching it easily as it fell. “I wanted to learn how to chop vegetables more quickly. Slice ’n dice.”
Panic threaded up from his gut, but he forced it back down his rapidly tightening throat.
It’s only an onion, cretino.
“I could probably do that.”
* * *
For an awkward moment, she thought she’d made a mistake. Tad looked put out to say the least, but then he reached for something deep inside and his expression smoothed.
“Okay, let’s get started,” he said with not a trace of his former hesitation. “First, we need the right music.” He punched up a song on the iPod in the corner and the melodic strains of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” flooded the kitchen. Tad’s favorite band was the Beatles, about the only thing he had in common with her brother.
“So today,” he said, “we’re going to learn not only how to chop an onion but how to do it without turning into a blubbery mess.”
“Cute,” she said, nodding at the iPod as the significance of his song choice dawned on her. “But not possible. I’ve heard all the tricks. Refrigeration, using a fan, onion goggles. Nothing works.”
He looked smug. “I’ve got the no fail way.”
“Get someone else to do it?”
“Other than that. Here, watch.”
With a quick slice, he peeled the onionskin away before she had a chance to see how he did it. Bet he was as quick shucking the clothes of one of his dates.
Holding the shiny white ball aloft, he said, “You leave the root and shoot on. The root is where the tear-making enzymes are located so as long as you don’t cut it off and make it bleed, there should be no tears. Capische?”
She nodded.
“Now for the knife. You need to be comfortable holding it, letting the weight do the work. Be one with the knife. We slice it in half”—he halved the onion through the root—“and then we arrange our fingers like so.” On the onion’s curve, he rested his fingers spaced in a triangle, the middle one in front, the other two behind. He ran his knife along the first knuckle of his middle finger. “Use this knuckle to guide the knife along the onion’s flesh.”
Flesh. There was something very erotic about that word, or perhaps the lips that formed it. Yes, definitely the lips that formed it. Her body tingled in memory of how marvelous it felt to be held in his arms.
Like a good chef who was respectful of dangerous equipment, Tad kept his eye on the knife as he started to slice through, getting as close to the root as possible without cutting into it and releasing those testy enzymes. Her gaze ping-ponged between his focused concentration and his quick-moving hands. Lips, hands, so versatile and skilled. Good thing she wasn’t holding a knife because she probably would have lost several fingers by now in her distracted state.
Turning the onion, he placed two careful horizontal slices through the flesh, then pivoted again and gripped it before launching into the dicing part. So smooth and easy, the knife edged up along his quick-moving knuckle like it was part of his arm. She had never seen anyone so gifted, not even Jack.
“Use the weight of the blade,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Then we chop around the root and voila, a diced onion… senza più lacrime.” Finally, he looked up at her, and for the briefest second he looked surprised to see her. He had gone away for a moment.
“Senza…?”
“Senza più lacrime,” he said. “No tears.” But his eyes looked a little shiny all the same.
“Who taught you that?” she asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear him say it.
“My mother.” The slight break in his voice sliced through her quicker than the blade through the onion. He returned his gaze to the board. “Vivi taught me everything.”
“What was she like?”
In the pause, she thought he was going to ignore her but then he spoke in a low, husky tone. “She was a pain in the ass. Stubborn, pushy, with a laugh that lit up a room. She could cook anything, make everyone feel better with a hug. She was the best person I’ve ever known.”
“And you miss her terribly.”
He shrugged, but it was shaky. Pain bracketed his mouth. “It felt like her life was unfinished, like she had so much left to accomplish. Some people aren’t meant to leave us so soon.” He looked up and the hollowness in his eyes shocked her to the core. She didn’t like that statement or its implication. That some people are meant to leave.
Jules’s mother had died when she was two, her father three years later, and she didn’t remember either of them very well. Jack hadn’t been around much and living with her aunt and uncle, she may as well have been an emancipated minor. She was used to people leaving, but the last two years had opened up a new world for her. Being alone was not natural. People were not meant to leave.
“What were they like together? Your parents?”
“Happy. Devoted. Kind of like Tony and Frankie, but more open about it.”
She knew what he meant. Tony and Francesca were one of those model couples. They had survived Frankie’s cancer, their restaurant almost failing, the pain of their eldest daughter’s anorexia, and had come out stronger than any marriage she knew. But they were quiet about their devotion. It was one of the things Jules had noticed first about the DeLucas—how non-stereotypical they were in their Italianness. None of that “Mamma Mia” and constant hugging that you saw on TV or in the movies. Even Cara and Lili were more reserved, sort of like Jules herself. Lili was fond of saying that Jack was more Italian than any of them and he didn’t have an Italian bone in his body.
Hearing that Tad’s parents were demonstrative was fascinating. Tad was like that, too. He was more tactile than she was used to, unafraid of human contact, but in the last year, he hadn’t touched her much since she’d tackled him on her sofa. Probably worried she’d get wicked ideas.
Last week he’d endured her hug when he offered her a job and today, he had let her get close again. Affectionate bookends to that scorching, but far too short, kiss from a few nights ago. She’d forgotten how much that physical closeness meant to her, how the contours of his body seemed to find a worthy match in her soft curves. If only any hard, hot specimen of maleness could do it for her, but with every crappy date, it became increasingly obvious that only one man turned her crank with the simplest touch.
Taddeo Gianni DeLuca.
He might not know it, but he needed it as well. This pulsing desire within her to comfort him, to fill those deep pockets of sadness he wore, pounded through her with a merciless beat. She wanted to draw him out, let him know she could be as strong for him as he had always been for her.
“So your mom taught you how to become handy with a knife. How come—”
“I don’t cook?”
She nodded.
The corner of his mouth hooked up but she could see it took effort. “You do realize that practically every DeLuca cooks before they can walk? There’s always someone on deck. Except Cara.”
Cara could run a kitchen with military precision but put a frying pan in her hand and the room would either burn or starve.
“Just because everyone else cooks doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. If not professionally, then… for yourself.” She wasn’t sure why but this exchange had taken on unexpected significance. So he came from a family of mega-talented chefs and he didn’t want to cook. No biggie, except her conversation with Frankie about Tad’s dream of being a chef and his reaction when his parents died played on a loop in her brain.
The joy left him.
“How about you give it a go?” He slid the chef’s knife across the cutting board.
So that wall would remain in place with the “No Trespassing” sign for another day. That was okay. She picked up the knife and let the weight fill her palm.
“Are you thinking ‘be one with the knife’?” he asked wryly.
“I’m so one with it you should be wearing armor.”
He smiled, just a flash. “Good girl.” He placed the other half of the onion in front of her.
Mimicking his finger position on the onion, she started slicing slowly, careful not to cut into the root. Her usual method of chopping an onion—of chopping any vegetable—had always been haphazard. She got frustrated easily and until now, she hadn’t wanted to take the time to learn even when it would have saved her countless hours in the long run. Really, she didn’t want to ask Jack to teach her because he would see her interest and start expecting things. As a perpetual disappointment to him, she had no desire to set herself up for more failure. Better to stay under the radar.
But with Tad, she didn’t want to hide the passion she felt for creating something. Tad wouldn’t expect anything of her. Tad would just be… Tad.
She couldn’t be sure when exactly it had happened, but she had a sudden wash of his body heat as he leaned in closer to her, his eyes never leaving her hands. Wow, she wished he had that intensity when he looked at her face.
“Make sure you keep your middle finger out front.” Her finger slipped—oops—and he moved behind her. She shouldn’t have done that but she couldn’t help herself. And her wicked scheme bore immediate fruit. “Here. Let me show you.”
Oh, yes. So she might have played him there.
The kitchen was suddenly very, very snug. Gently, he cupped his big, warm hand over hers. His fingers shaped hers to his liking while his body shaped hers from behind. Strong, hard chest to her tense, rigid back. His breath, hot and sweet, flushed her neck. The urge to relax into his strength almost undid her.
“Now, slice.”
She started a tentative chop across the flesh—she couldn’t get that word out of her head now—and let him guide her fingers back as the knife inched closer. In her ear, he made a rumbling sound of approval she felt right to the juncture of her thighs.
“Good,” he whispered. “Now turn.”
Her body twisted and because he stayed in position, her hip brushed the top of his hard thigh. His very hard thigh.
“The onion,” he said, amusement warming his voice.
Oh wow, his forearms. Her dream forearms! They hemmed her in on either side, tanned and coated in crisp, dark hair. Delicious, muscle-corded, Italian forearms that would look so good against her pale, English rose skin. A very illicit thought of their limbs entwined—why not break this fantasy out to legs as well?—and moving in torturous unison against cool, cotton sheets staged a coup in her fogged brain. His dark skin would be gleaming with sweat because she would be giving him a fine, fine workout.
Tad turned the onion. Apparently her brain was far too full with dirty fantasies to send a message to her hand.
“Oh, of course,” she said, the words spilling out in a nervy rattle. Was it her imagination or had he moved closer to her? Sweat trickled through every nook and cranny of her heat-saturated body.
Say something. Anything. “You must be looking forward to the opening. Your parents would be so happy to see it.”
His body stiffened behind her. “I don’t know about that. This isn’t really what they had in mind.”
“Why?”
“My father wanted a lawyer or a doctor. Someone he could be proud of.”
The pain in those words made her heartsick. How could anyone not be proud of this man who was always there for his family? For her?
She longed to turn into his arms and soothe him as he had done for her so many times. See if she could be a friend without getting all grabby. Just as she came to that conclusion, he spoke again.
“Vivi would have liked you.”
Her breath caught. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re stubborn, you’re brave, and you never give up. She was a great admirer of doggedness. Of people who went after what they wanted no matter the odds.”
Her vision blurred and that earlier urge to lean back against his strong chest finally overwhelmed her. He snaked a gloriously thick arm around her waist and pulled her close. Held her for a few precious moments.
“There are times I think you don’t realize how amazing you are. How great a mom you are and how you’re going to find your place. Just you wait.”
He brushed his soft lips against her temple.
She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move.
It’s always been you, Tad DeLuca. From the beginning, his faith in her had been nothing but steadfast.
“Jules.” He turned her to face him and tipped her chin up when she refused to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a big Italian jerk. All that ridiculous stuff about trying to protect you.”
“Is that what you were doing yesterday in Starbucks when you muscled in on my coffee date?”
“A guy who runs a rug company, Jules? Come on, I was doing you a favor. I knew as soon as I got him talking about it, you’d see visions of your dinner conversation for the next fifty years. Aaron Roberts would turn your brain to minestrone.”
She hmphed, annoyed because he was right. Of course, the mere existence of Tad was enough to turn her entire body to a soupy, gloopy mess.
He brushed the underside of her jaw with his knuckles. “You mean so much to me and the thought of you with some other guy who might not get how great you are pisses me off to no end. You’re a f*cking queen and you deserve the best.”
She had no idea what she deserved but she sure as hell knew what she wanted. This man before her, in the worst way possible.
“That’s a lovely thing to say,” she whispered, because it was.
“I have my moments.” He smiled, heartbreaking and beautiful at once.
“A queen, huh?”
“A f*cking queen. And don’t you forget it.”
In the charged space between them, she felt closer to him than ever. Which made what she had to say next exceedingly difficult.
“About the opening tomorrow… well, I can’t make it.”
His face darkened to thunder. “Why not?”
“Usually I can rely on Frankie or Cara to look after Evan, but all the DeLucas will be here to celebrate their golden boy made good.”
He shot her a look more black than golden and extracted his phone from his pocket. As usual, she was envious of the phone that got to spend so much quality time next to Tad’s lovely assets.
“Sylvia, it’s Tad.” His dark mood changed to sunny in an instant. “I need a favor.”
She backed away, meaning to give him privacy but he hand-shackled her wrist and pulled her toward him. The light pressure from his fingers on her wrist made her tingle everywhere. As if he knew just what an effect that had on her, he rubbed heated circles over her pulse with his thumb, all without paying attention to her face. It was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced and she had plenty of options to call upon from her Tad playlist.
About forty finger pad whirls later, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. She hadn’t heard a word of his conversation.
“Aunt Syl can take care of Evan.”
“But doesn’t she want to go to the opening?”
“I promised her a free meal for her next date with Father Phelan. Guy’s an oenophile and his secret is that he uses a nice Bordeaux for the sacramental wine instead of the special kind the Archdiocese ships in by the crate load. I’ll wait on the two of them hand and foot if it means you’ll be there.”
Sylvia was a big fan of the clergy at St. Jude’s, or rather one clergyman in particular. The parish priest couldn’t actually date, and if he could, it probably wouldn’t be a bouffant-crowned widow in her sixties, but trust Tad to know the woman’s weakness and exploit it. He seemed to know every one of Jules’s.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, her voice scratchy.
He clasped her hand. Warm, dry, secure, but not safe. Never that. “It wouldn’t be the same without you. Okay?”
“Okay.”