there with you, Jimmy boy.
When Nicole bent over to pick up her bucket and rags, Mark let himself look. She was just a hot body with a snotty attitude, no different from any other blonde who’d done a hit-and-run on his life.
He didn’t want her to be any different, because then he would want her, and wanting her wouldn’t get him anywhere.
Jimmy nudged him. “Nice, huh?”
The son of a bitch was leering at Nicole’s butt.
“Watch it,” Mark warned. “That’s my boss.”
“Oh, I’m watching,” Jimmy said. “And I bet you’re doing more than that, you lucky bastard. She any good?”
“She’s my boss, Jimmy,” Mark said quietly. “So put your eyes in your head and your tongue in your mouth before I have to knock your teeth down your throat.”
Jimmy slumped on his bar stool and sulked in his beer. So much for selling atmosphere.
But over the next week, Mark was forced to watch as Nicole did her damnedest to create ambiance—whatever the hell that was—in his bar. She attacked dirt like it was her personal enemy, coming in, Joe had reported, before the bar opened and working sometimes through the quiet hours of early afternoon.
Her ideas weren’t bad. Not all bad, anyway. Mark had had some ideas himself, back when he’d thought he had a chance of buying the place. But…
“What are these? Handkerchiefs? Doilies?” Mark asked on Thursday, brandishing a little white square with a stylized cobalt moon rocking over a purple wave.
Nicole didn’t miss a beat. “New cocktail napkins. They match the new menus,” she explained, and went out to plant flowers in the tub outside the front door.
New menus?
Strange sandwiches appeared from the kitchen and on the chalkboard that listed the daily specials, grilled sandwiches with tasty ingredients and stupid names.
“What the hell is a Tuscany Twosome?” Mark grumbled to Louis.
Nicole overheard. “Capicolla and provolone with pesto aioli on focaccia,” she said. “And before you start getting negative, you might as well know I’m not adding them to the permanent menu. They haven’t sold very well.”
“There’s a surprise,” Mark said.
“When I want your opinion, DeLucca, I’ll ask for it,” Nicole snapped, but she didn’t sound so tough. Just tired.
And there was that sad baby droop to her lip when she thought no one was looking that made him long to…do something for her.
Mark rubbed his jaw. It was kind of too bad about the sandwiches. The one he’d wolfed down when he came to work today had actually tasted pretty good. And Louis seemed okay with the idea of occasionally cooking something besides chicken wings and loaded fries.
Maybe Mark didn’t know food. Dinner in the DeLucca household had mostly been a matter of Tess opening cans. And neither the chow at the mess or the MREs he’d bolted down in the field were exactly dining at the Algonquin.
But he did know the Blue Moon’s clientele.
“Try changing the name,” he suggested.
“Excuse me?”
“Call it Italian ham-and-cheese,” he said.
“Thank you. I’ll consider that,” she said stiffly.
Like she didn’t gave a rat’s ass for him or his opinions or anything. But then he walked into the kitchen at the end of the night and caught her packing the unused sandwiches into a big white box.
“What are you doing?”
Nicole blushed like he’d spotted her adding water to the vodka bottles over the bar. “I’m packing a carton for the interfaith food shuttle.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you giving food away?”
She tossed her blond hair over her shoulders. “Better than throwing it away.”
But he wasn’t fooled by her snippy attitude this time.
“Yeah,” he agreed slowly. “I guess you’re right.”
And when some of the guys wandered in after league night at the Thunder Bowl, he gave out a couple of the new sandwiches for them to try.
“We sold out of ham-and-cheese,” Nicole announced three nights later. “And it’s not even seven o’clock.”
Mark set up the drink order for table five—two Millers and a seven-and-seven—and slid it over the counter for Deanna.
“Congratulations.”
But Nicole didn’t look very happy. “Do you think Palermo’s is still open? Because I need to pick up more focaccia, and—”
“Hey,” he interrupted her. “Relax. This place isn’t going to close down because we ran out of one sandwich.”
“But—”
“Erase the specials board, and increase the bakery order for tomorrow.”
“Yes. All right.” She flushed. “I suppose you think I’m pretty silly, getting all worked up over a sandwich.”
“I think you’re—”
Sweet. Special. And trying too hard.
Uh-huh. Like he could say any of those things to his boss.
“—anxious to see things succeed.”
Nicole beamed at him as if he’d said something really deep. “I am.” She laid her slim hand gleaming with golden rings on his arm and squeezed gently. His tongue dried to the roof of his mouth. “I want you to know I realize it wouldn’t have happened without your support. I really need you here.”
He almost fell for it. Staring into her baby blues, feeling the warmth that stole through him at her words, he almost fell for her.
Was anything more seductive than those whispers?
Betsy, her eyes swimming with easy tears. I need you, Mark.
Hayley, her voice trembling with well-assumed anguish. Mark, I need you.
Was anything more painful than those memories?
Mark’s jaw clenched. He so did not need this. Not again. Not with her. Not ever.
And so he did the one thing guaranteed to end it, made the one move sure to drive her away. Or get him fired.
“Not here, babe.” He turned to set up the drinks for another ticket, checking to make sure no one was near enough to overhear. Grateful he wouldn’t have to watch her face as he said the words. “We’re kind of busy, you know? But after we close, maybe we can get naked.”
Chapter 5
She should have slapped him.
There simply were no words to describe how awful he had been. There were no words to describe how terrible he made her feel.
Nicole bent over the sink in the ladies’ room, feeling as if she was going to throw up. Her face burned. Her eyes burned. Her throat burned.
But of course she wouldn’t throw up. Any more than she could have slapped him. She could not show—not by the flicker of an eyelash—how devastated she was by Mark DeLucca taking her sincere overture of friendship and turning it into something casual and dirty.
And so she had pulled her totally shaken self together enough to say, “You are a jackass. And I am your boss. So our ‘getting naked,’ as you so charmingly put it, here, now or ever, would be as wildly inappropriate as it is unlikely.”
Inappropriate was good. She’d managed all five