Bad Boys of Red Hook [2] You're the One (8 page)

Nicki looked at her knees and then to the dog that was as big as she was. “Sure.”

He leaned over to Patrice and gave her a kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning, Patty. Behave.”

“Don’t I always?”

“I wish.” He grabbed D.O.G.’s leash. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you home before I’m late for my shift.”

Pepperoni jumped around until Skye picked her up—the little thing was a handful when she wasn’t interested in being held. “Thanks for all the help, guys.”

Patrice laughed and waved away Francis, who was already pulling D.O.G. out the door. “Oh, Nicki and I
aren’t leaving. We thought we’d stay, help you get unpacked, and get to know each other.”

Skye was not against making friends, but she had the distinct feeling that Patrice was on more of a fact-finding mission than anything else. The light shining in Patrice’s eyes made her nervous and she instinctively knew Patrice wouldn’t be as easily derailed as Logan.

Patrice took the remote control for the TV and turned on the Disney Channel. “Here you go, Nicki. I’ll be right in the bedroom with Skye.”

Nicki wrapped her arm around Pepperoni, who had jumped onto the couch and leaned against her side. “Okay.”

Patrice threaded her arm through Skye’s and steered her into the bedroom before flopping down on the bed. “What’s up with you and Logan?”

“Nothing.”

Patrice’s face made it clear she didn’t believe her.

Maybe it was time to break out that champagne after all.

*   *   *

Skye pulled the chicken stock from the walk-in refrigerator, dragged a stool over to reach one of the saucepans hanging off the rack, and then banged it down on the stove. “Maybe I should just get a stick with a hook on the end of it, or rearrange the entire kitchen for those of us who are vertically challenged.”

She ladled a few cups of the broth into the saucepan and turned the heat on to simmer, wanting to make sure it was worthy of saving. The only way to know that was to try it.

Rubbing her tired eyes, she cursed jet lag—labeling the cause of her insomnia, since she refused to believe it
was the grilling Patrice had given her while she “helped” her unpack her belongings. The woman must have been an inquisitor of the Spanish variety in a past life.

Okay, maybe Skye had been a little hard on Logan. It wasn’t his fault she was incapable of not drooling while in his presence. And it wasn’t as if he’d made a pass at her—if he’d tried, she’d have taken a spatula to him. And it wasn’t as if it bothered her that he hadn’t made a pass. Okay, maybe a little, but he was engaged. “Let’s face it, the guy can’t win. You just need to get your hormones under control.”

It wasn’t his fault that when he shook her hand, there seemed to be an electric current that ran straight to her breasts and other body parts that hadn’t seen any action in, well, way too long. “Maybe if I didn’t have four goons for brothers who scared every human with a Y chromosome I came into contact with, I’d actually have a sex life.”

She grabbed a spoon and stirred the stock, drawing the scent toward her, wanting to know what spices were used. It smelled good so far.

Since it would be a few minutes before it was at a full simmer, she went to the storeroom with a clipboard in hand to do a quick inventory. She’d read Rex’s order and wanted to double-check a few things before she called it in. Dragging the stool behind her, she took one look at the shelves and cursed—a lot. She really hated feeling like a midget in the land of giants. Climbing onto the wobbly stool, she grabbed the shelves to steady herself, and cranked her neck back to see what the heck was up there. “What makes tall people put heavy things on the top shelves?”

“Problem?”

Skye’s heart tripped into triple time. She had a big problem—Logan—and he was standing in the doorway. He’d caught her talking to herself. Skye closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hearing her mother’s voice in her head.
Breathe, Skye. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
All the deep-breathing and relaxation techniques she’d learned in the yoga classes her mother dragged her to weren’t helping. Of course, she’d always scoffed at them. Maybe she needed to start meditating like her mother said she should. “Logan.” The stool teetered.

He stepped closer and offered her a hand. “That’s dangerous.”

Not as dangerous as touching him was to her mental health.

“If you need the storeroom rearranged, you should ask Harrison to take care of it.”

She looked at his hand, and then at his face, not really wanting to get the electric shock she knew would assault her if she touched him.

In one swift move, Logan lifted her off the stool as if she were a child, and set her on the tiled floor.

She really needed to be grounded around this guy. Even through clothing, Logan’s touch was like sucking on a live wire.

“No more climbing on wobbly stools. I can’t afford to lose another cook. Harrison’s still out front with the rest of the kitchen staff—I’ll send him in. Let him help you rearrange things.”

“I was trying to keep a lid on the overtime.”

“I’d rather pay overtime than a hospital bill.”

Skye bit her tongue. This wasn’t one of her obnoxious brothers; this was her boss. She never realized what a big
difference that made. “Thank you—that would be great. I need to be able to reach things. Maybe I can get a step stool in here too. I don’t want to pull someone away from their work just because I’m short.”

He laughed at that, showing off his white even teeth. Wow, the man had a great smile. She reminded herself not to drool and did the deep-breathing thing again. Still not helping. Neither was being in a small room with Logan—especially since he seemed to fill the space. She slid past him into the kitchen. “I also need to pull the pots off that rack.” She turned in a full circle, trying to figure out where to store them that would be out of the way and yet easily accessible. “I guess it’s going to take some time to figure out a new setup that will work for all of us.”

Logan tilted his head and stared.

“What is it?” She walked around him to stir the simmering broth.

“Nothing.”

Still, he stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. She took a spoon and tasted the broth and turned off the heat. It was good. Hers was better, but if she added a bouquet garni and let it simmer for a half hour or so, it would do.

“Are you cooking?”

“No. I’m just testing the chicken broth. I’m picky and wanted to make sure it was something I wanted to use. Why, are you hungry?”

There was that smile again. “I’m a guy. I’m always hungry.”

“I can throw together a quick Stracciatella.”

“A what?”

“It’s chicken broth, with strands of egg with spinach,
and lots of Parmesan cheese. The broth needs a few more spices, but it will be a quick fix. And then, since I’m in an Italian mood, how about linguini with clam sauce?”

“We have clams?”

“I stopped at the fish market before I came over. I was going to cook myself dinner later, but I can easily fix it here.”

He slid a stool from beneath the worktable and sat. “You have enough?”

“For two? Of course.”

“That sounds great on one condition.”

Deep breath, here it comes. “What’s that?”

“Let me reimburse you for the food you bought.”

She pulled the clams out of the walk-in, trying to keep busy. “It’s not necessary. You supply the wine and we’ll call it good.”

“It’s not negotiable.”

“Fine.” She smiled to herself. “Just for that, I’m not going to let you have any of my dessert.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on bent knees. “What’s for dessert?”

“I have a tray of chocolate tiramisu chilling in my refrigerator at home.”

“When did you make that?”

“Last night. I couldn’t sleep—jet lag.”

“Lucky me.” He leaned back against the worktable. “I just happen to have an incredible port I’ve been saving. It goes great with chocolate.”

“Okay, since you have the port, and I was thinking of using it for a dessert special, I guess you can have a taste. I’ll start cooking. Send Harrison in to help rearrange the shelves and then if you wouldn’t mind, run over to my
place and bring back the tiramisu.” She tossed him her key ring.

“Deal.” He turned and made his way to the doors. “I’ll be back in a flash. And Skye, no more climbing on stools.”

“Right.” She looked at the pot rack above her head. “But if you expect that to happen, you’d better put a step stool or a ladder on your list of things to buy. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get any taller.”

He shot her another killer smile and slipped through the doors.

“Damn, the man is lethal.” She took a deep breath. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” She gave it a few tries, each time hearing her mother’s high-pitched voice. Amazingly enough, after about five deep breaths, it started working. She wondered if it would have worked as well while dealing with her brothers. She shook her head and put some water on to boil. No, probably not. After all, her brothers seemed to enjoy tormenting her.

*   *   *

Logan stepped up to the bar where Harrison, a blond guy with a goatee and gauges in his ears, was gesturing wildly, ending with what looked like a description of a woman’s breasts.

He had obviously interrupted one of the sous chef’s comedy routines—a crude one from the looks of it. “Harrison, could you spend some time with Skye rearranging the storeroom? She’s having a hard time reaching things.”

“Sure.” He shot a cocky grin at the rest of the kitchen staff.

Logan realized what he’d interrupted. It wasn’t Harrison’s skit; it was Harrison talking about Skye. Shit. He
tamped down the urge to pick him up by his collar and bang him into the wall a few times. “Wipe that smile off your face, Bubba—I’m not sending you in there to play spin the bottle. Skye’s your boss, and although she might not look it, she’s tough as nails.”

Harrison’s smile vanished. “I wasn’t—”

Logan’s eyes locked on his.

The man took a giant step back and nodded.

“Good. See that you don’t.” He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. “And on your way home, pick up a sturdy step stool so she doesn’t kill herself climbing around back there. Make sure you bring me the receipt and change.”

“Will do.” Harrison took the cash, shoved it in his pocket, and stepped out of Logan’s reach, double-timing it to the kitchen.

Logan stared at each one of the crew in turn. “That goes for all of you.”

Every one of them nodded and slid off his stool, heading for the door as if someone just lit a fire under his ass. Okay, maybe he was being a little heavy-handed when it came to Skye and the opposite sex. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t take care of herself. She’d had no problem giving him the brush-off. Still, he felt territorial when it came to Skye. If he were a cat, Pop would have him neutered. No, she wasn’t his and he wasn’t even available. He was just being a good manager; there’d be no sexual harassment under his watch—and he’d be watching.

He was tempted to follow Harrison into the kitchen to make sure he behaved. Yet he knew he should give her some room and let her handle Harrison. After what he’d seen of her, Harrison was nothing Skye couldn’t manage.

He followed the crew out, shaking his head. Was it Skye he didn’t understand or women in general? He was almost glad Payton was a low-maintenance kind of woman. She didn’t expect much from him, he didn’t expect much from her, and neither of them seemed to mind. He’d bet his left nut Skye would be just the opposite.

Skye probably wasn’t used to the way things were done at the Crow’s Nest. Pop thought of everyone involved as family, and Logan had fallen back into the fold over the last month. Going to one of the crew’s apartments wasn’t unusual. Hell, he’d already made friends with most of the staff. It was pretty obvious that Skye had never worked in a family-run restaurant. It had taken him a while to cool down enough to look at the situation from her point of view. She hadn’t been rude—just cautious. She was alone in an unfamiliar city—maybe for the first time—and was in a new apartment with a strange man who was twice her size. That would make any woman a little nervous.

That morning he’d been determined to respect her boundaries, and was relieved when at the meeting with the kitchen staff she was relaxed, in charge, and friendly. Within a few minutes, she’d put everyone at ease. She talked about her style of cooking and her expectations. She seemed tough but fair, and spent more time smiling than not. He’d been impressed.

Pepperoni met him at the door with the remnants of a light pink lacy bra in her mouth. Logan bent to pet the little scrap of a dog and swiped the bra. “What have you gotten into?” The apartment was strewn with shoes and clothing. He doubted Skye left the mess. “Why didn’t she put you in your crate, you little monster?” He tossed
one of Pepperoni’s bones into the crate and locked the puppy in as soon as her butt crossed the threshold. “There you go.”

He picked up a shoe the dog had gnawed the heel off. “Damn, Skye’s not going to be happy with you when she finds this.” He turned the slingback over and blew out a breath when he saw they were Manolo Blahniks. He didn’t know much about women’s shoes, but these were the kind of shoes Payton wore, and she didn’t wear anything on her feet that cost less than a grand. What was a woman making forty-five thousand a year doing wearing that kind of footwear? He looked at the puppy, then stared at the shoe. “You’ll be lucky if Skye doesn’t turn you into next week’s special. It’s a good thing she’s already taken her knives to work.”

He picked up Skye’s slightly wet, mostly gnawed, and barely there unmentionables and placed them on the bed, noting that her taste in lingerie was as expensive as her shoes. Shit, she’d been there less than twenty-four hours and the room already smelled like her—he’d recognize whatever her scent was anywhere. It wasn’t something out of a bottle. It was a little sweet, a little earthy, and a whole lot sexy with a hint of puppy.

He backed out of her bedroom and grabbed the tiramisu, wondering how he was going to break the news of the mess to Skye. Maybe he’d tell her after a full bottle of wine and the port.