Page 17 of Dirty Chef
Good call on my part, I thought when I entered my room. As I reached my nightstand, I tucked away my favorite photo of her. It was from when we were in Italy to see her folks. Alessia Rossi in a yellow bathing suit with cleavage—sweet mother of God. She’d been so uncomfortable in that thing. I’d been uncomfortable in my trunks, for other reasons. She didn’t like showing much skin, ’cause she was fucking nuts.
While I was in here, I changed out of my jeans and into a pair of basketball shorts. If I was taking a break from work, I’d do it comfortably. On that note, a pillow was necessary too.
On my way back to the living room, I checked the time and bargained with myself. Two hours should be fine. That’d give me three hours to play around with the lunch dish for the Valentine’s menu before Tracy arrived for prep for tonight’s shift.
I set an alarm on my phone.
“All right, let’s cuddle those cramps outta ya.” I fanned out the duvet once she was off the couch and gestured for her to get underneath first. My plan was to trap her between the back of the couch and my body—and we’d stay there forever and ever.
The second I joined her on the couch, I felt her icy cold feet. “Jesus Christ, woman.”
“Sorry.” She wore an impish smile, not sorry at all.
“Yeah, I believe that.”
She adjusted the pillow for us, and I was about to offer my chest for her pillow…when I noticed how close we’d be if we both used the pillow. Pillow, it was. Face-to-face, both on our sides, I was mere inches away from her dimpled smile, faint freckles, and soulful peepers.
She let out a soft cookie-scented breath and closed her eyes. “That moment when the painkillers kick in…”
I smiled and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “You saying it’s not my presence that magically does it?”
She giggled sleepily and tucked her hands under her cheek. So goddamn cute.
I made sure the duvet covered her fully.
“I’ll do my best not to cop a feel,” I joked. Kinda.
She smirked and kept her eyes closed. “You must be getting desperate, then.” Uh, what? “How long has it been since you dated?”
Fuck that. I had no interest in this topic, or other women. “Last thing I wanna talk about. No dating for me.”
She cracked one eye open, and her forehead wrinkled with confusion and skepticism. “Did something happen?”
I shook my head and pinched her lips shut. “Rest, love.”
I only wanted to enjoy the moment with her. The rest of the world could piss off.
She sighed, a silent way of saying fine, and I released the lips I wanted to kiss.
There was another reason I didn’t want to discuss dating. Over the years, I’d told so many lies that I’d lost track of them. Alessia would sometimes mention names and specific events, and I’d pretend to remember or duck out of the conversation. It’d been whenever she was dating someone that I had ventured out there for a couple lousy lays and a bucket of bullshit. When she’d dated a teacher from the other side of town a couple years ago, I’d been on a few dates with someone from Seattle. I’d quit seeing her quickly, yet it’d taken me months to say that to Alessia.
In the end, what had been a few dates with someone I didn’t remember had turned into a six-month-long relationship—according to Alessia.
The first lie was always the hardest. I remembered mine too. We were about to open Coho, and she’d asked me what my type was.
Before I’d fallen for this Italian spitfire, I would’ve said anything with a pair of tits. But then Alessia got under my skin, and my type became her. Her curves drove me batshit. Thick, soft, silky-fucking-smooth thighs, finest ass I’d ever seen, those hips of hers, her waist, spectacular tits, and those expressive eyes that could bring me to my knees. Everything about her was grace and softness, sprinkled with fire and a bit of fumbling.
I’d lied to her and nodded at some random woman outside the restaurant.
Alessia had snorted and rolled her eyes, then continued with inventory for our opening.
She’d been dating someone at the time. Some fucking paramedic who’d sent her flowers and made her smile like a fool. Fucking dick.
Almost ten years later, I was as much of a coward as ever.
I hadn’t spent this past decade pining; the restaurant had been my priority and my wife for a long time. The one thing I’d wanted to put first. But my feelings for this chick had been there too. Sometimes blending in with the background, sometimes forcing my chest into a vise.
It was definitely in a vise now, and it had been for a couple years without reprieve.
