“Stop eating those. They’re for lunch.”
“Oh, and what are we having them with?”
“Sliced apples and pears, lavender honey, and cheeses. Tomato soup—” I caught sight of Sal’s smug face and glared. “You know what? Get your own lunch.”
“Somebody is grumpy.”
“Hmm.”
“Maybe you should go for a swim.”
“Maybe you should go—”
“Temper, temper, big guy.” Sal grabbed a pear this time. “We both know you’re snarly because you’re horny.”
“It’s like you don’t even value your life.”
“Amalie would kill you if you harmed one hair on my beautiful head, so I think I’m safe.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Sal rolled his eyes, not in the least intimidated. “Give it up. You’re all marshmallow on the inside, Oz. No one who bakes the way you do could possess anything other than a sweet heart.”
With a snarl of disgust, I slapped the dough onto the counter and counted silently to ten. This place was supposed to be a refuge from stress. So far, I had a grandmother trying to matchmake, an actress driving me to exhibitionism, and a fashion stylist getting on my last nerve.
Sal tossed the pear from hand to hand like it was a ball. “Why are you denying that you want her?”
I grabbed the pear out of midair and set it on the counter. “Do you see me denying it?”
That got him. He paused, nonplussed. “Well, hell. Then what’s the problem?”
So many things.
“That woman is the type you keep.” Forever. “I’m not in the market for that. And trust me; she’s not in the market for what I have to offer either.”
“So you’re just going to stay in here the whole time, beating your dough?”
“Har.” The kitchen suddenly felt too small. I rolled my stiff shoulders, but they wouldn’t ease. Fuck it. “You want to get out of here? Grab a drink?”
Sal’s perfectly plucked brows arched. “It’s almost lunch.”
I untied my apron and hung it on the hook by the pantry. “Amalie and Emma can figure out how to serve themselves.”
Just the thought of Little Miss Snoop invading my kitchen wafted over my skin like the blast of an oven opening. I rolled my shoulders again. “You coming?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lucian
Lesson learned: never underestimate Sal. He was as slick as his Elvis pompadour.
We were on the path to the front of the house when we ran into Emma. She’d finished up her swim—something I’d been doing my best not to think about—and was on her way back to her bungalow. But did that stop Sal from calling her over to us? Not even a little. He did it with a barely concealed glee.
Nor did it stop him from inviting her to lunch with us. The man damn well knew I’d been trying to get away from her. But I wasn’t about to be rude and protest. So when her deep-blue gaze flicked to mine, doubtful that I wanted her to come, I felt compelled to suck it up and insist that she join us.
So here we were, at my favorite burger-and-shake shack overlooking the pale sandy beach and the brilliant-blue ocean beyond. Surrounded by beachgoers and surfers, Emma stood out like a mini sun, drawing covetous or curious looks. She seemed oblivious. I didn’t know if any of them actually recognized her; she wore big white sunglasses and a floppy white hat trimmed in yellow daisies. It should have looked ridiculous, but like Sal, she had style that just worked for her.
Sal, however, I could ignore with ease. It was damn near impossible to ignore Emma. I felt the whole of her along the whole of me, as though she was constantly running her slim hand over my skin. It was unnerving as hell.
My skin prickled when she set her tray on the table and sat down next to me to gaze at the ocean with a satisfied sigh.
“I’ve missed Southern California.”
“When’s the last time you were here?” I found myself asking.
“Eight months ago.” Her plush mouth tilted wryly. “Not that long, I know. But it feels that way.” I couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses, but I felt her gaze all the same. “What about you? Are you originally from California?”
Discussing my old life was a bit of a touchy subject. But she obviously had no idea who I was, and knowing where I lived wouldn’t change that. “I grew up in Evanston, Illinois. My dad, Amalie’s son, was a curator for the Art Institute of Chicago. He met my mom his first year there; she specialized in painting restorations.”
“Wow.”
“Yep.” I’d grown up around art and beauty, my parents fully expecting me to follow in their academic footsteps. And yet they hadn’t so much as blinked when it had become apparent that hockey was going to be my life. They’d encouraged it because I’d found my passion.
“I’ve lived here and there. I’ve been in Washington, DC, for the last couple of years.”
“That’s quite a change.”
I knew where this was headed. Why did I leave? What did I do there? I headed it off best I could. “It was time. Amalie needed help.” Big fat hulking lie right there, Oz. I needed Amalie way more than she needed me.
I was twenty-eight years old, and I had run to my grandmother to lick my wounds.
Thankfully, Sal finally got his order and joined us.
“Burgers and beer.” He plunked down his tray. “To think we left behind tomato soup and an artisanal cheese board.”
“You didn’t have to come.” I gave him a long speaking look.
Which he ignored. “And miss all this?”
All this was encompassed by waving his hand between me and Emma and then, very weakly, toward the food. Subtlety was not Sal’s style.
Emma frowned, apparently not noticing the outright war of glares going on between Sal and me. “We left lunch behind? Now I feel bad. Everything I’ve eaten at Rosemont is so delicious I hate to think of any of it going to waste.”
And wasn’t that insanely gratifying. I had the urge to toss our burgers into the trash and haul her back home so I could feed her.
I grunted and took a sip of my bottled beer. “Amalie will eat it.”
Emma appeared slightly mollified. But the small furrow between her delicate brows remained. “I heard the chef was temperamental.”
Sal choked on his burger. I wasn’t taking bets on who told Emma that little bit of information.
I shot him a side-eye before answering. “He can be.”
“Have you met him?”
Now would be the time to clear things up. Only she might not want to eat my food once she found out. I wasn’t exactly her favorite person.
“I live on the estate. Of course I have.”
“What’s he like?” Definitely building castles in her head.
“Temperamental.”
Her mouth snapped shut before she glared—yes, I felt that glare through her owlish sunglasses. “You’re annoying.”
I saluted her with my beer. She scowled and tossed a balled-up napkin my way. It fell short of my plate by a foot, and I chuckled.
Shaking her head as though I was nothing more than a minor annoyance, Emma picked up a fry and poked at her pile of ketchup. “For some reason, I have a hard time picturing Amalie putting up with difficult staff.”