On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [123]
When Jess stepped into the kitchen, all slicked down and freshly scrubbed in jeans and a blue striped Oxford with the sleeves rolled past his elbows, Frankie was ready with a grin and a lazy hip bump.
“Oi, changed into your muftis already, eh?”
Jess arched a brow as he dumped his messenger bag on the counter. “Watch it, you know that Brit-speak gets me hot.”
Frankie gave him a flash of tongue. “What makes you think I mind?”
Blue eyes alight, Jess leaned up for a kiss, but Frankie jittered out of his reach and around the kitchen island.
Oh, bugger, oh, damn, oh fuckfuckfuckityfuck.
No, he told himself as sternly as a first-form teacher. You mustn’t. No teasing, no tempting, and absolutely no seducing.
It’s time to grow up, Peter Pan, and start thinking about what’s good for someone other than yourself, for a change.
Chance would be a fine thing. Frankie could almost hear his father’s rough, sneering voice saying the words.
But Frankie knew better. He knew how to love.
He knew how to do it so well, no one would ever suspect the depths of it. And what he knew, above all, was that it was impossible to love someone and allow him to sacrifice his future for you.
“It was mad tonight, yeah?” Frankie rushed to say, hoping to cover the momentary awkwardness of being unable to resist baiting Jess into coming closer while simultaneously vowing not to touch him. Tricky, that.
“Yeah, it was,” Jess replied slowly, not fooled for a minute. “I was proud of you.”
Frankie adored that quick mind, but he could wish it weren’t quite so speedy just at the moment.
“Frankie, what’s going on?”
Busted, as Adam would say. Frankie hid a wince. He was looking forward to getting his best mate back and available for war council. The recent relationship pow-wows with Devon, while enlightening and no doubt salutary, had left Frankie more gutted than uplifted.
And with a clear fucking sense of what he needed to be getting on with. So Frankie got on with it.
“Nothing, Bit. Just been thinking.” Mother of God, why was this happening in the kitchen instead of in the alley where he could have a smoke?
Because you and Jess talked, really talked, for the first time in that alley behind the restaurant. And you can’t handle doing this there, with the ghost of that all around you.
Frankie scowled. Damned perspicacious of the voice in his head. He didn’t like it.
“What about?”
Jess looked wary, his perfectly curved mouth pulling into a flat, worried line. Frankie’s heart stuttered. “About your sister. She and Adam are probably back now.”
“They are!” Jess lit up all over again, his eyes shining. “Miranda texted me when they landed. Something about how they’re going to Adam’s place to crash and will probably sleep for about eighteen hours straight. After which, she wants to see me.” He laughed.
Frankie arched a brow. Perfect segue. “Bet I know what she wants to talk about.”
“Oh, come on. She’s just been to Europe for two weeks! Surely she’s got more on her mind than my housing applications.”
“The way she was after you to turn them in before she left? Doubtful, Bit.” Needing to hide his face for this next part, Frankie ducked his head and started unbuttoning his chef’s jacket. He’d worn it tonight out of respect (grudging, unwilling, shocked as hell respect) for Devon, since it was the man’s last service. And a damn good thing, too, since Devon had shown up wild-eyed and doing his nut because Tucker’d gone missing.
Frankie might not ever be best mates with Devon Sparks, but he wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on his worst enemy.
And, wonder of wonders, Frankie didn’t bollocks it up too badly when he had to take over expediting while Devon dealt with the nabbed kid. Or not nabbed, with his druggie mum, and Grant said it was all fine now, which was a relief.
Frankie didn’t kid himself that he could run the kitchen every night. The very thought made his fingers twitch for a calming cigarette. There’d been far too much excitement around the place lately. Frankie wanted things back to normal. With Adam calling the shots, Grant