Me: I hear ya. Anyway, I gotta take the pie out of the oven.
Jameson: I expect you to save me a slice tomorrow. You made me talk about feelings like a couple of women. I deserve pie.
Me: Fine. It’ll be in my office. Help yourself before Isaac finds its.
Jameson: Deal. Later.
Me: Night
I make my way back to my kitchen, depositing my cell on the counter. I retrieve a mitt from the drawer and pull the baked pie from the top oven. The sweet aroma fills the room, making my mouth water instantly. I’m not big on sweets, at least not like Isaac or even Jameson, but I do enjoy the occasional piece of cake or slice of pie.
Or maybe a chocolate iced Bavarian long john donut.
You know, like the one smeared across my lips last week.
I have to admit, it was damn good, even if I only caught a taste.
Speaking of taste, my mind goes right back to Lyndee and the almost-kiss. First, the one we nearly shared a decade ago, but also the one from last night. The one I wanted to happen more than I wanted my next breath, yet knew it was a bad idea all the same. It’s the reason I’m suddenly pitching a tent in my sweatpants at two in the morning.
Ignoring my cock, I finish tidying up the kitchen. As soon as the pie is cooled, I add dollops of fresh whipped cream and a crumbled candy cane as the finishing touches. Placing my creation in a sealed container, I slip it into the fridge, flip off the lights, grab my phone, and head for the stairs.
There are a few different things I can try, if sleep doesn’t come yet, though none of them are super effective. Besides cooking, working out in my home gym is my next go-to tactic. I’ve tried the whole music as background noise like Walker, but it doesn’t work for me. I mean, he uses it because he just needs sound to fall asleep and not for insomnia, but during desperate times, I’d try anything. Well, anything but medicine. Melatonin does nothing, and the few sleep aids I’ve used made me feel worse the next day than if I were just short on sleep.
Slipping my phone onto the charger, I slide off my sweatpants and crawl into bed. I prefer sleeping naked, even during winter months. When I do actually sleep, it’s always on the hot side. I can get sweaty, and it’s not for the reason I’d prefer getting sweaty in bed.
My mind returns to the one woman I can’t stop thinking about, and the cock I had finally convinced had no reason to be hard for is now standing like a soldier at attention and raring to go. “Jesus,” I mumble, closing my eyes, only that makes my situation worse.
All I see is her.
How in the hell am I going to get past this? Past her?
You know what you have to do.
Except Lyndee doesn’t seem like the type of woman to just get naked with someone to blow off steam.
Unless…
With starting her own business running her ragged, I’m sure dating is at the bottom of her to-do list. She might actually be interested in that no-strings idea that keeps popping into my head. Perhaps it would be just what she needs right now.
Like me.
Smiling, I ignore my rock-hard dick and settle against my pillow. My eyes close almost instantly and my body starts to relax as sleep draws near. I may not have figured out how I’m going to pitch this idea, but I’m feeling confident she’ll see the benefits of it.
And believe me, I have plenty of hard benefits to offer.
***
“You know, if you weren’t such an asshole to your staff, you might actually get them to stick around longer than a few months.”
“Not now,” I grumble, without a glance up at Walker. I keep my focus on making five perfect burgers for a late order.
“Mal says you made the girl cry.”
Sighing deeply, I glance up and meet his gaze. “She mixed up the regular mayo and the chipotle mayo, Walk,” I argue, hating how three plates came back on Tuesday with complaints about the wrong condiment. “That’s not acceptable in this restaurant.”
Walker crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “So you made Petra cry?”
I shrug, returning my focus to the five grilled buns and the freshly grilled patties I’m adding to them. “Not my fault she can’t handle the kitchen.”
“Sounds like it’s more about not being able to handle your criticism than the kitchen, actually. You have to stop making our employees cry.”
“I don’t do it on purpose,” I claim, adding fresh fries to the plates and hollering, “Order up!” I can sense Walker’s smile as I scrape the grill. “Isaac’s on it. He’ll find me a day shift assistant chef.”
Walker sighs. “He was out of applicants, Jasp. He’s relying on social media to spread the word now,” he replies. “You’re probably going to have to work without one for a bit.”
“I’ve been without for two days already,” I gripe, recalling how my day took a crap on Tuesday and I have yet to be able to catch up with Lyndee. “Besides, Patrick is doing a killer job helping out,” I add, noting our dishwasher has stepped up and fills in where he can.
Patrick glances over from the dishwasher and gives me a smile.
“I’m sure he is,” Walker states, smiling at the young man who, besides my three best friends, may be the only other person I can’t scare off. “I’ll let you get back to it.” Then Walker heads out of the kitchen, probably to return to the bar.
I try not to let it bother me, that I can’t seem to hold employees. I don’t expect perfection, but I do expect minimal mistakes. Little things like mixing up regular mayonnaise and chipotle mayo—especially when they’re not even the same color—or forgetting to label the containers of cheese so we know which one is which. Stupid, idiotic errors that send my blood pressure through the roof like a helium balloon floating to the ceiling when you accidentally let go of the string.
See? I can totally handle the little things.
I work hard until Ross arrives, then happily retreat to my office. It’s not every day I willingly turn over the grill for some quiet. I’ve been at it for three days and am actually quite grateful Ross is working this evening. As much as I love being in the kitchen, not having an assistant these last three days is taxing. It actually reminds me of when we first opened and maintained our business with minimal staff.
Spending the next few hours in my office, I’m able to dig myself out of the paperwork and orders that have accumulated throughout the week. It’s only Thursday, and shit still piles up if you don’t stay on top of it. I sort the invoices and confirmations and put them into the bin for Isaac, ignoring the way my stomach growls with hunger. Sure, I could slip out of my office and make a quick hamburger, but ever since I talked about pizza with Lyndee on Monday, I’ve had a crazy hankering for a homemade pie.
It’s near seven when there’s a tentative knock on my office door. “Come in.”
I’m sure it’s Isaac.
When I glance up, I’m surprised to see Lyndee peeking through the opening. “Am I interrupting?” she asks hesitantly.
I sit up straight. “No, of course not. Come on in.”
She slips into my office, a white plastic bag in her hand. “I’m sorry to bother you when you’re working, but I took a chance,” she states nervously, wiping her hand against her jeans, “that, uh, maybe, you were looking for dessert. I mean, you can take it home with you…or give it away, if you want. You don’t have to eat it.”