Luck on the Line (20 page)

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“You just tensed up.” He kisses the top of my head, runs his arm along mine. “You’re totally scared. Like,
ohmigod
, you’re going to run right out that door.”

I kiss him to shut him up. “One, I don’t sound like that. Two, that’s not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about the opening. There’s still so much to do.”

“Tasting first, my darling.”

There. My darling. I tense up again, but this time I disguise it by curling up against him and throwing my leg across his body.

“Comfy?” he asks.

I nod into his shoulder. My body feels weightless. The constant brush of his fingers against my skin, the steady beat of his heart against my ear lulls me to sleep, and in my soul I’m afraid, not of him, but of me. I’m always happiest before I ditch it all, and run.

Bacon.

Find me a food that compares and I’ll find you the lost city of Atlantis. In my dreams of crashing motorcycles in hurricane winds, where an animated cake cuts itself open and feeds itself to me, I can smell bacon.

I’m covered in a navy blue comforter. James’s framed family photo is directly in my line of vision. In my groggy state of awareness I fumble to get out of the bed. I make a note to third degree him later, but first my stomach is an industrial steam engine ready to be fed.

I pop into the kitchen and watch him. In his Christmas boxers with tiny presents printed all over, a shirtless James dances around the kitchen. His radio is turned down low as he shakes the pan full of bacon, making them jump in that practiced arch that I’ve never managed to replicate. I gasp internally when I realize his tattoo is there in full glory. I thank god that it’s not a stupid tribal tattoo like half the meatheads in the world. It’s a name, written in an elegant slanted script. The ends of each letter continue in beautiful swirls that make it look like the ink is alive and stretching across his back. It’s simple, but grand at the same time, with a single rose at the end of the last letter. Deirdre.

His head bounces to Pearl Jam as he sprinkles seasoning into another pan.
Mmmmmm
eggs. The great thing about these new apartments is that the floors don’t creak. I walk slowly on my toes, arms extended to wrap around his delicious torso when he chuckles. “I saw you in the reflection.”

“When did you get up?” My elongated face smiles at me from the metallic fancy kitchen.

“While ago. Did some pull-ups. Went to the grocery store. I thought you’d be gone by the time I got back, but there you were. Figured I’d feed you.”

He smacks my ass playfully with a free hand.

I bite his shoulder from the back and he whimpers.

“Holding a hot pan, here.”

I let go and stare at the treats on the table. There are pancakes, perfectly round with just the right amount of toasted brown and stacked high. A plate of grapefruit and orange triangles. I grab one and let the bitter sweetness coat my tongue. There’s the tiniest hint of brown sugar on it as it that wakes up my senses. It’s the simplest touch but it’s delicious.

“How do you like your eggs?

I sit on the other side of the counter. “Surprise me.”

A tiny smile tugs on his lips. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, but you snore.”

He makes a face. “So do you.”

On each plate he arranges two fried eggs and bacon. He sprinkles something that I can’t see the label of.

“Is this some magical leprechaun dust or something?”

“Red pepper salt, smart ass.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m also pretty sure leprechaun jokes are racist.”

“I’m
kidding
. I love spicy food.”

He sits directly across from me, holds his fork in the air. “Cheers.”

I clink it to his and run the side of the fork on the bright yellow yolk. Delicious gooey egg runs all across the plate. I love mixing the egg white with the yolk and topping it on bread. As if my brain willed it, a little toaster oven light beeps. James winks at me and pulls the piping hot bread from the metal racks.

“Truth: when I was kid I believed toaster ovens were just ovens made specifically for kids.”

I laugh. “Did you ever try to bake in one of them?”

“I don’t think so. I do remember trying to melt my action figures on it though.”

“Was that your first culinary masterpiece?” I bite down on the eggs and then promptly forget about James and his charming childhood stories. The egg is the perfect texture, the right amount of
done
. The red pepper salt isn’t very spicy but crunchy and delicious. I take a slice of bread. It’s brown and thick.

“Brown bread,” he says. “Just like my grandmother used to make.”

I scoop some eggs and yolk on it and bite down. I’ve never had brown bread, having grown up in a house where for the first seventeen years of my life, carbs were as bad as the Taliban. Sure, I grab bagels and croissants and donuts when I’m on the run, but it’s never something I crave.

This. This delicious, soft brown bread brings a smile to my face. James watches me eat, and I can feel myself trying to not give away signs of how perfect this is.

“How Irish is your family?” I ask instead of showering him with praise.

He shrugs. “Dad’s family’s hasn’t left Boston since the 1880s. On my mom’s side I’d be second generation. My mom was born in New York so she’d have citizenship, but raised in Ireland until she was eleven or twelve. When they came back to America, they chose Boston. The streets were too dirty, too loud. Not as bad as New York, but
definitely
not the Kerry highlands. She’d never leave the house.”

I bite on the rich, salty, thick bacon. It’s almost more like ham, and I would like a hundred more, please. “What made her come out?”

James shoves eggs and bacon in his mouth. He breaks off a piece of brown bread and slathers it with butter. If I find that he churns his own butter, I’m never going to let him live it down.

“My dad,” he says through a mouthful. He scratches his chest, drawing my attention to the spectacular view of James shirtless. The tiny window behind the kitchen sink lets in a little bit of gray light, which makes his sea-green eyes even brighter. My concentration is torn between the feast in front of me and the other feast in front of me. Oh Lucky, what has your life become?

“Your dad?” I don’t know why I’m so confused. Maybe it’s because James is so fucking secretive over his life. There isn’t a single picture of anyone who could be his dad. There isn’t a single tattoo with a dude’s name on his body. There’s only the strain on his face that he’s trying desperately to hide. I recognize some of it. It’s like when people ask me about my famous mother. When they talk about how fabulous she is. I make that face. “You don’t get along?”

He doesn’t answer that. Instead he says, “They were neighborhood kids. He saw her across the street and boom. It was over. He used to say that he could see the green in her eyes from across the street, like they were beacons for him when he was out fishing in the summers and she waited for him by the piers. He never says how he got her to talk to him. Maybe it was that he did all the talking so she didn’t have to feel pressured to say anything.”

“Is he—” I don’t know how to ask that question.

James looks at me questioningly, then, understanding the implication of my silence, shakes his head. “He’s fine. Well, I don’t know about fine, but he’s alive. Still at our old place.”

Then he shoves more food in his mouth and with that I know he isn’t going to say anymore.

“Where did you get this ham?”

“Do I have to school you right now?” James gives me an exasperated look. “It’s bacon.”

I roll my eyes. “Bacon is thinner and fatty and crispy.”

His brilliant smile takes my breath away. “My mom called American bacon
streaky
bacon because it was all fat.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

He takes my meaty
Irish
bacon from my place. “Not wrong, just not as delicious.”

“Hey!”

Calm as the eye of a storm, James stands there with my salty morsel in his fork. And I’m the flustered mess around him. I get up from my seat, appetite quenched but hungry for something else. “Give it.”

I walk around the counter and stand in the trap between his legs. His knees clamp down at my hips. Then he eats it. He takes the whole thing and makes over the top yummy noises. “That’s so fucking good, oh my god.”

I punch him in his naked abs. “Jerk.”

He blocks my fists with his big hands and holds my arms at my sides, then around his neck. I decide the next best thing to Irish bacon, is James’s lips. I taste the salt on them, press my tongue against his. He holds me tighter so I can feel him get hard against me. I reach down and free him from his boxers.

I gasp as he picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. He turns so that my back rests on the breakfast counter. His lips tracing hungrily along my neck. He runs a strong finger through my wetness, moans into my neck. “You’re already ready for me.”

He pulls back, and I follow to trap his lips. His beard has my skin red and raw but I don’t care. He stretches to the right for a grocery store bag. I grin as he rips open a box of condoms, tears a wrapper open, and rolls it down his thick long shaft. I don’t waste a second. I lift myself up and sit on him, moaning into his ear.

“James.” I want to say his name over and over. He takes my hips and presses me further down until he’s completely inside me. Neither of us moves.

He wraps his arms around me and squeezes until there isn’t breath inside me and I have to gasp. I press his head into my neck and welcome the hungry way he licks and bites my skin.

Then I bounce up and down on him as he pulls my hair back to expose my neck to him. The combination of his bite, of facing him, grinding on him, makes me come faster than I ever have. I can feel my insides squeezing him as the orgasm peaks and I stop moving. He kisses my sticky, sweaty skin, and licks my neck where he bit me.

He brushes my hair back and I’m suddenly self-conscious of the way he’s looking at me. Hungry. Caring. It’s the caring that does me in. It makes my heart race even faster.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

I smile, but I don’t have a chance to answer. My phone goes off. I ignore it and kiss James, enjoying the way my skin tingles with him inside me. I rock back and forth, but the phone goes off two more times. James sighs, and I realize he isn’t going climax with my phone ringing off the hook. I fumble between the empty plates of food until I reach it. I bite my lip as I feel James throbbing hard inside of me.

“It’s Stella. And Felicity.” I have six missed calls from them. I must not have heard the others. I hit dial.

“Don’t you
dare
stop,” His voice is a husky plea as I try to unsaddle him.

He leans forward and kisses me between my clavicle as the phone rings and my mother picks up.

“You rang?” I ask my mother.

I don’t understand her as her scream is a jumble of words strewn together without comprehension.

“I didn’t understand any of this.”

I bite my tongue as James thrusts slowly, achingly slowly into me. I grab hold of his neck with one arm and hold the phone to my ear with the other. My hard nipples pressed against his smooth chest. I clench my teeth to stop from whimpering.

“Did you see the paper? Where is James? I leave for
two
days and this is what you do?”

Panic floods my bloodstream. But also pleasure.

“Listen, I need you to not be hungover and be serious for once.”

“Serious like running away to New York?”

James lifts his face and grinds his teeth. I can feel him, all of him, pushing deep into me in a way that makes me want to scream. I hold to the phone at arm’s length as she screams on. I open my mouth to let out a much needed moan, but he presses his finger to my lips to keep me quiet. James shivers and I can feel him getting close.

I bring the phone back to my ear, Stella’s chattering hasn’t quite stopped. “Where the hell are you? Are you with Bradley?”

“What? No I’m not with Bradley.” I’m with your Executive Chef James Hughes and he’s second away from climaxing inside me. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the restaurant. Get your ass over here, young lady.”

When she hangs up, I let my phone drop. James lets all the noises he’s been holding in go. There’s some swearing, and lots of calling my name.
Lucky
.
Lucky. Lucky.
New warmth fills me as he shudders and rests his face on my chest.

I grab his chin and lift his face up so I can see his eyes. I decide that sea-green is my new favorite color.

James drops me off around the corner from the condo on his way to The Star. I run to the apartment for dry blue jeans and a clean white shirt. I wash my face and rub a deodorant stick under my arms. I smell like leather and James and a little kinda like bacon.

I run to The Star. I’ve never worked a few blocks away from where I live. The blocks are so long, longer than Manhattan avenues. The wind is strong, slapping harbor mist and rain on my face. My umbrella is useless so I leave it in the nearest trashcan before walking into the restaurant. One look at Felicity’s panic-stricken face and I know something is wrong. The room smells like fresh paint from the wall-that-shall-not-be-named. It still looks undone, but better than charred sheet rock.

“What’s wrong?” I set my bag and camera on the table. Papers are strewn all over the first dining table. Half of a bagel rests on a napkin.

Felicity’s curls looks like she’s run her fingers through them over and over. I feel guilty for not being here early. While I hope my aura doesn’t scream “I just had amazing sex and an amazing breakfast, both served by a gorgeous guy,” if I has a chance to redo it, I’d still be here late.

Before she can answer, a door slams. James storms out of the back offices and through the restaurant. I realize I’m smiling. My eyes are glues to the blue of his shirt, sharp like a cloudless sky. His leather jacket, the one I wore all of yesterday is bunched in his fist. His eyes are lined with red, his beautiful lips an angry line across his face.