Hot and Bothered (Hot in the Kitchen) (5 page)

The house felt stuffy so he opened the back door to let some air in, sighing at the sight of the run-down yard. Weeds sprung up between the patio tiles, fighting to escape the piss-colored lawn grass that was clearly on life support. Each year, he threatened to bring his mother’s overgrown herb garden to life and each spring passed with no result.

“When the bar takes off, I’ll be able to get a mortgage to cover your half. Just a few months.” Of course, the bar might not take off. The reviews might be bad. He might not be able to find a decent chef or ever serve food. Jack’s investment had to be settled before Tad could even consider taking his share.

His sister hummed in his ear. “We want to have a baby soon and we could really do with the cash. David doesn’t earn that much money and it’s not cheap to live here.”

Maybe she should quit going out every night and acting like she was still a wine cooler-swilling teenager. Marriage was supposed to calm her down but his sister had always been a par-tay girl.

Feeing hungry and knowing there was nothing in the fridge, he wrenched open cupboard doors, but too late remembered why the cabinet closest to the fridge was off-limits. With a bitter swallow, he shut the door on the bottle of Bordeaux he had forgotten was sequestered there. His father’s last gift.

Gina sighed into the silence. “Have you ever thought that maybe it would be… you know… healthier to move out?”

He paused to give the question the consideration she felt it deserved, all the while knowing the answer would be the same. “Just give me some time, okay?”

They chit-chatted about this and that, and he hung up with a promise to visit her in the coming months
(unlikely)
and to keep her posted on when that mortgage would be happening
(no time soon)
.

The crappy food situation had him phoning in an order for an Italian salad and a slice. He’d been eating too much pasta at DeLuca’s Ristorante, his uncle Tony’s place, which made the gym workouts more punishing than they had to be. Next time he hit the treadmill, he was going to have to turn the dial up a notch. Maybe the workout endorphins would help cushion the blow of Jules’s sure-as-shit dating announcement.

So she wanted to date. Well, it was no skin off his nose.

Why then did he have an urge to pick up a chair and throw it through the plate glass window of his brand new wine cellar? She was his friend and he was supposed to be happy for her.

Because there were weirdos out there, psychopaths trawling online looking for unsuspecting women who were tired of the bar scene. Maybe if she was putting herself on one of those Christian dating sites, there was a chance the guy might have more than murder or getting in her knickers on his mind. Though even that prospect was dim, because a woman like Jules would tempt the Pope to forget his vows. Either way, her heart would be open for any guy to come in and bat it around the outfield for a while before bringing his dick home.

For once in his life, Tad found himself on the same side of the divide with Jack as far as Jules was concerned. If she met someone in the natural course of things, that was one thing, but this online dating seemed so dangerous. The men answering her ad or whatever they called it would pick up on how defenseless she was.

Jules gave off a scent of vulnerability and such goddamn sweetness that every creep out there would be able to smell it through their laptops. They’d be queuing up in droves to get their hands on that gorgeous honey pie.

She needed his protection. After all, what were friends for?

He picked up the phone and dialed. It took her a few rings, usually because Evan had her hair in a stranglehold.

“Hiya,” she answered breathlessly.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless himself though he had no excuse.
Gotta get to the gym.
“Did I catch you in the middle of something?”

“Just finishing up bath time for the demon formerly known as Evan. I think he’s feeling a bit strange because the flat is new. He’s the one who has an early bedtime, but I’m the one who’s worn out.”

“Nothing a glass of wine won’t sort out,” he said.

“Oh, so tell me, master sommelier, which works better on a devil child—a nice Cab or a fruity Pinot Gris?”

“The Cab, but if you give it to Evan, it’s considered child abuse so be sure to drink it all yourself. Afterward, all his antics will take on a nice rosy hue.”

He could hear her smile. “So, what’s up?”

You’re about to start fucking dating, that’s what’s up.
“How come you didn’t tell me about the dating thing?”

There was enough of a hesitation for him to doubt the truth of what came out of her mouth. “It was spur of the moment. I was just running it by the girls when Jack overheard and got his boxers in a twist. Why? Do I need to get your okay?”

Yes.
“You don’t want me to be your wingman?” he asked, all light and airy, hating with the heat of a thousand suns that things had changed between them in the last year.

She harrumphed. “You’d scare any decent guy off with all your macho posturing. Whenever we used to go for a drink or dancing, no one came near me because the Tad force field of fuck off was always locked in place.”

So she’d noticed. “It was for your protection. As long as you were with me, they thought you were mine.”
Mine.

The word hung between them, weighty and full. He covered the receiver to mask his hard swallow.

“Is this really why you called? To nose around in my nonexistent love life like my brother?”

And nonexistent it would stay. “Actually, I’m calling to find out what you’re doing tomorrow around lunch time.” Far too soon for her to have found a date, he was sure of it.

“I was going to go to the gym. Frankie offered to look after his highness for a couple of hours.” She sounded a little uncomfortable, and he suspected it was because she felt she had baby weight to lose. He thought she looked more than fine but that was the kind of argument a man can’t win, especially when that man should not be appreciating the fine figure of his friend.

“Skip it.”

“What?”

“Skip it and come into the bar. You said you wanted to learn more about wine and I need to practice my spiel.” Weak, but whatever.

“Playbook getting overused, is it? Need to craft some new chat up lines?”

“My wine spiel, wiseass.” He licked his lips, feeling unaccountably nervous. If she couldn’t make it, she couldn’t make it. No big deal.

He heard her hesitation. “I can’t drink much. I’m such a lightweight these days.”

“You won’t get tipsy. We’ll treat it like a professional tasting and I’ll let you spit.”

She laughed, warm and husky. The sound stroked his spine. “Bloody hell, I hope your spiel is better than that. Okay, it’s a date.”

Chapter Three

To a quick question, give a slow answer.
—Italian proverb “First, we have to come up with your profile.”

Cara opened a binder, which allowed Jules a moment to catch Lili’s eye. As she suspected, Lili was halfway between an eye roll and a brow hitch. Notorious for her organizing skills, Cara never began a project without a binder and an unhealthy supply of office products, and everyone enjoyed ragging on her for it.

They were slumped at a table in the juice bar at Wicker Park Fitness, trying to catch their breaths after a Zumba class that had left Jules reeling. Cara had urged Jules to get to date weight
(just a touch-up and tone!)
. Jules had let the comment slide because she knew that not being able to indulge in her usual exercise regimen while pregnant was tough on a woman who had once defined herself by her D/s relationship with her Stairmaster. Since acknowledging her complicated relationship with her body as she recovered from anorexia, Cara had eased up on herself but she still loved hanging at the gym. Using the mother ship as her HQ for organizing Operation Get Jules Hooked Up was like comfort food for her.

“I have the muscle tone of an eight-year-old child,” Lili said sadly, pulling on the soft skin under her upper arm.

Every similarly toneless muscle in Jules’s thighs and arse throbbed, and not in a sexy way. She lay her head down over crossed arms, ready to be taken by a higher power.

“Kill me now.”

“Oh, quit the dramatics,” said Cara, drama queen extraordinaire. “There’s work to be done.”

Jules grunted, which Cara took as her cue.

“So I’ve done a little research.” She skipped over a frighteningly complex-looking spreadsheet, complete with multi-colored pie charts, and cracked open a section about a quarter of the way in. “And there are certain commonalities to the most successful profiles.”

“Such as?” Jules asked, raising her heavy head.

“Blondes have it best.”

“Already ahead of the curve. Good thing Lili’s off the market, bless her heart.” She smiled at her sister-in-law, who ran a hand through her cloud of unruly dark hair, made even wilder by her Zumba exertions.

Cara gave a sly grin. Blondes of the world unite.

“The best profiles use words like “fun,” “easygoing,” and “travel.” There’s a shockingly huge love of travel in the online dating community.”

“It’s a wonder anyone gets time to date if they’re always out of town,” Lili commented dryly before dissolving into a coughing fit. She took a sip of Cara’s muddy green protein shake and made a face.

Ignoring her, Cara attacked her laptop’s keyboard with gusto. “Fun-loving girl who lives to laugh, travel, and squeeze every drop out of life.”

“Sounds painful,” Jules muttered.

Tappity-tap.
“I’m looking for the guy to light my fire,” Cara plowed on, ignoring the smart arse commentary, “and make me smolder.”

“Arsonists should bring their own gasoline and matches,” Lili said, drawing a laugh from Jules and a glare from Cara.

“It’s important to be fearless,” Cara said primly. “Ask for what you want.”

“How do you know all this?” Cara seemed awfully prepared considering Jules had only made her announcement yesterday.

“I was going to start the manhunt online last year but I ran into an Irish brick wall first.” She smiled shyly.

“So you don’t recommend a drunken marriage to a total stranger in Sin City?”

“It worked out,” she said, touching her stomach reverently like she was the Virgin Bloody Mary, “but that’s a one-in-a-billion thing.” Cara had turned into quite the softy since she’d met Shane and fell in love with him on their way to an annulment.

Cara completed the vital statistics section quickly while Jules peered around the monitor. As usual, the words on the screen shifted and changed before her eyes, so it was a good thing she trusted her friends to write this up. Numbers weren’t a problem, though. Twenty-five years old, zip code 60622…

“You put me in as 5’5”. I’m 5’8” if I’m an inch.” Closer to 5’9”. It was always a nightmare to find men who were taller.

“Not online you’re not. Guys are intimidated by tall women. Start as you mean to go on.”

“By lying?”

“Everyone fudges the truth. You’re painting a picture of you on your best day—”

“Or the day when you’re at your shortest,” Lili chimed in.

“We all create faces,” Cara went on, undeterred and clearly speaking from experience. “You can’t show what’s inside up front, not in a forum like this. You have to craft something first and play your cards close. Then when you’ve got him on the hook, reel him in, and let him know a bit more about you. It’s a delicate balance but we’ll be there with you. Daily reports.”

It sounded so complicated and just a little bit deceitful, though the line about creating faces hit the mark. There had been a lot of that in London. Bad Girl Jules was a pro at never letting the bastards see the real you.

“What about the talent here?” Lili cast an assessing gaze around the gym, seeking out potential guinea pigs for Jules’s Big Dating Experiment. “Oh, there’s Tad.”

Yup. There he was.

The Italian hunk lay stretched out on a bench at the back, pumping weights like they were matchsticks. Holy Channing Tatum, look at those forearms! Not to mention his strong, muscular thighs as they strained against the hem of his shorts with every smooth motion. The sight of his glistening olive skin and the touchable thatch peeking above the neckline of his tank completed the unwholesome image and boosted her pulse precipitously.

One look at Tad DeLuca: cardio without moving your fat arse.

A perky gym bunny—a two-percenter in the body fat department—approached and settled in for the show. Within seconds, she was joined by another. And another. It was if they were breeding. As Tad set down the weights, there was a minor scuffle over who should hand him his towel.

“See anything you like?” Lili asked with a smirk.

“Catfights are always entertaining,” Jules said, ignoring Lili’s insinuation. After wiping down the bench like a good gym citizen, Tad generously allowed his horseshoe of admirers to pay homage for a few before he swaggered off to the showers.

Swallowing a green lump of envy shot through with want, Jules turned back to Cara, who was clicking through menu options with nimble-fingered expertise.

“Now, what do you want in a guy?”

This was more like it. She had given her requirements some thought. “All his own teeth. No rugs. No aspiring anything like actor or poet. Maybe somebody who works with his hands.”