On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [28]
Frankie exhaled and watched the blue smoke dissipate into wisps above his head. The clickety-click of a bicycle slowing to a stop a few meters away made him smile.
Jess Wake.
“Hi,” was Jess’s breathless greeting as he squatted to chain his bike to a drainpipe.
“That the best you can do?” Frankie said, extending a lazy hand. “C’mere and give me a proper hello.”
Jess’s cheeks were flushed, either from the exertion of the bike ride, the heat of the day, or from seeing Frankie. Impossible to tell, and it didn’t matter, anyhow. His perfect milky redhead’s complexion showed even the most minor change in Jess’s body chemistry. Frankie adored it.
Eager as ever, Jess came to Frankie’s hand at once and allowed himself to be folded into the shelter of Frankie’s much-taller frame. The trust implicit in the melting line of his body against Frankie’s made things low and deep in Frankie’s gut go wobbly.
“You took off so early this morning,” Jess said into Frankie’s shoulder. “You should’ve woken me.”
Frankie’s chest tightened at the memory of Jess at dawn, sprawled out over the tasseled sultan’s pillows piled around their apartment like an artist’s garret from the twenties, his sweet mouth slack with sleep.
“Made too pretty a picture to disturb, Bit,” Frankie told him. “Besides, wasn’t a thing you could do to get me ready for this morning.”
“Nothing? You sure about that?” Jess pulled back far enough to arch a brow up at Frankie. The bright, mischievous expression on Jess’s puckish face made Frankie’s breath catch hard in his throat. Fucking hell, he was gone over this one. He felt the knob of Jess’s shoulder under his palm, loved the curve of his own elbow round the back of Jess’s neck. Frankie savored the way they fit together. These things were his. For now.
While Frankie was woolgathering, Jess’s cheerful leer smoothed into a more serious look. “So Devon’s here? He’s really running the kitchen tonight?”
Frankie leaned back against the wall once more, giving himself a little distance. He brought his neglected cigarette to his lips with jerky fingers.
“Looks that way.”
Jess scowled. “I still don’t understand why Adam doesn’t leave you in charge while he and Miranda bum around the German countryside. You’re the sous chef! It’s your job to run things when he’s not around.”
Frankie covered the sudden tension in his limbs by propping one combat-booted foot on the wall behind him. “It’s Adam’s choice, innit? He’s the boss.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s right,” Jess said, obstinate as a mule. “He’s not only your boss, he’s your best friend. You’d think he’d have a little more faith in you.”
Closing his eyes briefly, Frankie bought time with another drag on the cigarette. He could feel the frustration pouring off of Jess in waves, the righteous anger on Frankie’s behalf. It was beautiful and humbling and scary as fuck—because Frankie had no idea how to tell Jess the truth.
Adam had offered to make Frankie chef de cuisine. He’d earned it, Adam said, those steady brown eyes watchful on Frankie’s bloodless face. He’d do a good job leading the crew while Adam was away. Adam was proud of him.
And Frankie had turned him down.
Now, looking into the brilliant blue eyes of this young man beside him, so full of life and ambition and potential he was near to bursting at the seams with it, Frankie’s gut churned with a mixture of shame and determination. Jess wouldn’t understand. How could he? Frankie barely understood it himself.
“No snarling at Adam for this,” he cautioned Jess. “It’s his place, his crew. And Devon Sparks is a fine chef.” Frankie was proud of being able to choke that out without a hint of sneer. “And like your sis said when she came up with the scheme, it’s great publicity, yeah?”
“I guess,” Jess