Hot and Bothered: Hot in the Kitchen, #3

Prologue

Lying half-naked and spread-eagled with a hot hunk whispering encouraging words in your ear might be the fantasy of millions of women, but this particular variation was not doing the trick for Jules Kilroy.

I need to bleedin’ push!

Not yet, Doctor Harper said firmly. Her tough-as-old-boots OB must have been a sergeant major in a previous life.

Push, don’t push, deep breaths, shallow breaths…agh! Jules was trying not to act like she was the first woman to give birth, but it was her first time and blimey, the pain was excruciating.

It’s not called labor for nothing, the man at her side added, a knowing smile in his deep rumble of a voice. Usually that voice worked gangbusters to get her through the rough times, not to mention fueling a few luridly inappropriate fantasies, but today she just wanted to drop-kick Tad DeLuca’s beautiful face into the middle of the next millennium.

Instead of choosing violence, she made a conscious decision to breathe herself to serenity. From time immemorial, the entirety of womankind had endured the pain of childbirth, so she needed to stop being such a trauma queen. The sucking-in-air part she could manage. Slow, deep breaths. Around her, the low hum of hospital equipment and the professional, almost balletic movements of Team Get Demon Out of Jules focused her mind on the task ahead.

Bloody hell, she was having a baby!

Pain, sharper than before, lanced through her. She clasped Tad’s hand so hard she half expected to see diamonds pop out.

He didn’t flinch, but then he never did.

Tad had been her rock since she showed up in Chicago five months ago, straight off a flight from London with a bun in the oven. Those broad shoulders, indecently covered with drip-dry fabrics ready to absorb her weepfests, had borne the weight of her weary head more times than she cared to count. He was the first person she confided in about her dyslexia, the last person who comforted her through every piddling panic. She had her brother, former celebrity chef Jack Kilroy, and an amazing extended family in the DeLucas, her brother’s in-laws, but Tad was the guy who made her feel like she was part of something bigger. He made her feel special.

A rolling wave of pain caught her by surprise—surprising because she had passed the point where the contractions let up and gave her breaks. For the last hour, they had been blurring into each other, shifting like tectonic plates heralding an earthquake of suffering.

Demon wants out, she muttered, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Of course he does. Tad thumbed at the corners of her eyes, swiping her leaking emotion away. He’s dying to meet you. And we’re all dying to meet him.

Him. That she was having a boy was bloody typical. The male of the species had been nothing but trouble since that first moment on a London school playground when she realized the anatomical differences between boys and girls were worthy of further exploration.

Curiosity, every woman’s downfall.

Now’s the time to push, barked Doc Harper.

Jules bore down, trying to remember how to do something that was supposedly innate and natural. She had to be getting it all wrong, like she always did.

Tad squeezed her hand, much more gently than she had squeezed his.

Hold it for ten seconds, just like we practiced in the classes.

With an empathetic held breath of his own, his shoulders lifted, inflating his already immense chest. The scrubs he wore should have been loose-fitting, but they molded to his muscles on that inhale, a fact she should not be noticing now, of all times. Think of the fortune this deliciously distracting man could make hiring that face, bod, and voice out to birthing mothers everywhere.

That’s good. Now relax, don’t push, said Dr. Harper, her professional eye on the fetal monitor. Its steady beeps reassured everyone in the delivery room that the baby was okay even if Jules felt like an alien was about to explode from her hoo-ha.

Maybe you should take some of that dope they offered so liberally a while back, Tad said, in clear violation of her instructions.

No matter what happens, don’t let me take any drugs.

There had been other instructions to Tad as well: refrain from flirting with the pretty nurses and under no circumstances are you to look down there! But mostly, the just say no to drugs was rule numero uno.

Though she had always been open to the idea of an epidural, in the end she had elected to stick with a natural childbirth. Not because she was an earthy-crunchy, tree-hugging hippie type. She had a sneaking suspicion that if she got high, she’d get chatty and might reveal a few unfortunate home truths to the man at her side.

Such as how he made her tingly in troublesome places and that she had a whopping mega crush on him.

Too late for that, Doc cut in, eliminating the need to make a decision.

So the window for legalized narcotics has passed, Tad said. "But that’s okay because I’m here. I’m your drug, baby. Just look at me and tell me you’re not addicted to my shocking good looks."

Arsehole, she muttered, annoyed that he had the audacity to read her mind while she was at her lowest point. Shocking good looks weren’t far off the mark, though. Taddeo DeLuca was a Prada commercial come to life. The hard bod, the piercing blue eyes, the dark, wavy hair that framed his face like a wimple of sin. In his banged-up jeans and motorcycle leathers, he was sex-on-Italian-legs.

He smiled brazen and wide, passing over her ill humor like a true friend.

If my hotness is not enough to distract you, let’s talk about all the things you’re going to do once you offload this basketball.

For months, she had been whining constantly about everything she missed while pregnant, so even in her addled state, the list reeled off her tongue smoothly.

First up, spicy tuna rolls.

I’ve got Aiko’s on speed dial, he said, referring to their favorite sushi place in Wicker Park, the north side neighborhood where they both lived. Just say the word.

A double gin and tonic. As soon as the words escaped her lips, her mouth watered like she was Pavlov’s dog. Just one, though, because I’ll be breastfeeding.

Tad’s dark brows lifted and his gaze dropped to her breasts, covered by a hospital gown. They’d ballooned to a point where they could be seen from the International Space Station. There was the Great Wall of China, then her massive boobs.

The miracle of life, he murmured dreamily.

She thumped him in the arm. Perv.

Well, they already look fantastic, but I’m all on board with them getting bigger when your milk comes in. Tad had devoured all the pregnancy books in the name of supporting her as they approached the big day and he knew more than the average male on the topic. He mimicked cupping zeppelin-sized breasts. What are we talking here? Double Ds, Double Fs?

You’re impossible, she said, feeling dangerously tender toward him right this minute.

He raised her clasped hand to his lips and brushed his soft mouth across her knuckles.

"What else are you looking forward to, mia bella?"

Mia bella. My beautiful. She loved when he called her that, especially when she was feeling less than beautiful.

Seeing my feet again. Also on the MIA list were unmentionable body parts, such as the overgrown forest between her legs that machetes might have trouble hacking through.

Jules had set up an appointment for a bikini wax about ten minutes after her waters broke seven hours ago.

Cute shoes. My feet have puffed to marshmallows and my shoe collection misses me terribly.

She’d sequestered them in the back of her closet along with her most fashionable threads—the ones single girls on the pull wore as their armor—because the sight of them every time she opened the closet door gouged her fashion-loving soul.

Most of all she missed feeling sexy, and all research pointed to the disturbing conclusion that it might be a while before she got there again. Demon was going to be a real crimp in her love life for sure.

As if the little bugger heard her negative thoughts about him, he made a break for the border.

I have to push, she said with authority, desperately trying to sound like she had some control over this frightening situation. It was a biological need to propel this baby into the world, but also a psychological grasp at the tethers. Her entire life had been spent ducking and diving from the hard decisions. Fleeing when it got tough, shutting down when the situation demanded she step up.

Five months ago, she’d made the best choice for her baby when she left London and all the pain behind. Finding the strength to admit she needed help by mending fences with her brother had brought her to Chicago. To a new life and a ready-made family.

Not yet, Doc ordered.

Yes. Jules disagreed because it felt right.

Demon applied the screws again, determined to rip her open in his push to embrace daylight. The pain. Oh, God, the pain. She screamed, terrified and thrilled to be finally taking charge of her life.

Okay, push, the doctor said as if this baby wasn’t running the show.

"Come on, mia bella." Tad wiped his rough, callused palm across her sweaty hair-matted forehead. Do I look beautiful now, you bastard? You can do this. You can do anything.

And in that moment, she believed him. He was a man, so lying was ingrained in his DNA and one of his penis people had got her into this mess. But he was also her friend, and she believed him.

Forty seconds of the most agonizing torture she had ever experienced and it was over. Her eyes registered a blur of red, a ball of rawness, really, before the doc whisked him away to be examined and prodded.

Is he all right? She turned to Tad, whose face was frozen in a mix of wonder and fear. Tad, is he all right?

A baby—her baby—let out a wail that must have reached the waiting room where she knew her brother was likely wearing a groove in the floor. Choosing Tad to be her birthing partner had pissed Jack off in the extreme and set them back a few steps in their relationship rehab. But her brother needed to recognize that having her own agency in this, in all aspects of her life, was paramount.

Fuck, he’s got a set of lungs on him, Tad said, awe deepening his voice. Sounds just like his mouthy mom.

Jules raised a weak hand to smack him, only to let it fall away. She had nothing left to give.

Or, so she thought until she saw him.

Her fresh-born baby, out in the world, wrapped in a blanket and looking oh-so-innocent. The pretty nurse Tad had not flirted with placed the child against Jules’s chest and her jellied arms locked naturally in place to cradle the helpless bundle. Predictably, her stupid heart melted into a puddle of love and hormones while protectiveness pounded in an unrelenting build through her bloodstream.

A big head, no neck or hair, distended torso, wrinkled skin—alien and yet instantly recognizable as her flesh and blood. Large, soft blue eyes stared at her, seeking connection, making no apologies.

Oh, he was his father’s son, all right.

Pushing that evidence down deep, she re-focused on the new, beating heart in her arms as he found a rhythm with the one inside her chest.

Thanks, Jules, she heard beside her. Tad. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

Her son blinked the biggest eyes Jules had ever seen and tried to shift his gaze to the source of the voice. Tad met him halfway, with his face hovering close, giving the little guy his first taste of Italian perfection. Lost in each other, her two guys forged a bond she hoped would last a lifetime.

Thanks for what? she managed to husk out.

For letting me be a part of this. The reverence in Tad’s tone caught her off guard.

Leaning in, he kissed her sweaty forehead with warm, firm lips, then dropped a gentle kiss on the soft crown of her baby boy’s head.

The pleasure was all hers, though the way her vision blurred seemed to contradict that. Demon’s fist shot out and grabbed at her hair in vain.

He’s going to be a great pitcher for the Cubs, Tad said with a chuckle, ghosting over the serious moment from a few seconds before.

Footie, Tad. You’ll have to teach him the sport of his ancestors.

I’ll teach him everything he needs to know. How to score with girls, how to appreciate the finest wines—

At her raised eyebrow, he laughed. In moderation and not until he’s at least fifteen. Hey, he’s part of the Italian culture now. And if he’s got Jack riding him hard, he’s going to need a cool uncle.

Uncle. And that’s all Tad would or could ever be. She had spent twenty-three years on planet Earth wishing for a family to love and accept her, hoping she might one day be the center of someone’s world. Reconnecting with Jack and finding acceptance in the bosom of the DeLucas was the best thing to ever happen to her.

Well, the second best thing. Her gaze fell to her bonny baby boy and she let go of a happy sigh.

Acting on this inconvenient attraction to Tad would only put her newfound stability at risk. She had responsibilities now and they trumped her treacherous hormones. Men would come and go, but this—she looked down at her new focus, the precious heart beating outside her body—this was the love of a lifetime.

One

Eighteen months later …

Tad DeLuca ground his teeth so hard he risked bone dust shooting out of his ears.

It needs a part, came the latest utterance from under the hood of the pizza oven.

Four little words that signaled a screwing over of the major variety was about to take place. Compounding the insult, the speaker, complete with abundant ass cleavage and just-for-show tool belt, crawled out from behind the oven, butt first, and adjusted his waistband.

Too late, dude; you’re already the clichéd repair guy who can’t seem to find a pair of jeans—or a belt—to fit him.

That’s what you said last week, Tad said patiently. Really patiently. You installed the…

Temperature regulator.

Temperature regulator, and said that should be it.

Over the oven guy’s head, the pizza oven loomed, mocking Tad’s foray into the world of business ownership. Flatbreads were one of the cornerstones of his new wine bar menu—or had been—and now he was thinking about his back-up plan. The non-existent one. The joys of being his own boss.

It’s not the regulator this time. There’s a— He said something incomprehensible and Tad tuned out. Three semesters of engineering coursework under his belt didn’t really qualify him to talk pizza oven repair shop, but maybe if he’d stuck around college longer, he’d be on more of a conversational footing here.

How long?

Still in an ungainly squat, Oven Guy rubbed the back of his neck while he caught his serrated breath. A week. More like two.

God damn it. The man’s eyebrow shot up as if Tad had spoken that aloud. He hadn’t, but the pulverized bone dust blasting from his ears might have given anyone pause.

In less than a week, he was slated to open Vivi’s in trendier-by-the-second Wicker Park, just a stone’s throw from his family’s restaurant, DeLuca’s. Going from bartender to bar owner had seemed like a logical progression but fate hadn’t been on speaking terms with logic for a while.

His first location choice had burned to the ground before he signed the lease. He had been outbid on the second. Not to mention his chef had up and quit, leaving Tad without someone capable of cooking the spectacular tasting menu he had planned. But he couldn’t dwell on the roadblocks; now it was all systems go.

It had taken him a while to get here. Years of dwelling on his mistakes and making excuses had held him back. Letting people down was second nature to him, but this—he looked around at the gleaming, polished surfaces of his new kitchen—would be his way back in. Making his mom, Vivi proud might get him there.

A menu of delicious snacks would definitely help.

Penny for ’em, babe, Tad heard softly in his ear. "Or should I just tell you what’s going on in that charming head of yours?"

Smiling away his irritation at how shitty the day had gone so far, Tad turned to greet the girl-next-door blonde who could make it all better. Hair in a topknot, dark circles under her green-gold eyes, her shirt shapeless and wrinkled over baggy desert camo pants rolled to just below her knees. If it were anyone else, he would guess she had just tumbled from a warm bed where she had been well and truly serviced. But this was Jules Kilroy, his best girl who, as far as he knew, had never been on a date—or anything more—in the two years he had known her.

The smart upturn of her lips couldn’t disguise how tired she looked. Neither did it detract from her pale, fragile beauty, which had him itching to wrap his body around her and gather her tight to his chest.

Instead of focusing on all the reasons why he wanted to protect her, which inevitably led to the reasons why that was a terrible idea, he moved his gaze back to the safer territory of that smirk. When Jules wore that look, it was easy to remember why they had become friends in the first place. They had connected the moment she showed up in his family’s restaurant, knocked up, beat down, and in need of a pal.

Some pal he had been. He jerked his brain away from that thought and dialed up a friendly grin.

You don’t want to know what’s going on in my head. It’s a whirling cesspit of debauchery that would make your hair curl.

She gave a discreet nod to Oven Guy, who had once more descended to all-fours to poke around the appliance mechanics.

You’re thinking there’s nothing more attractive than the sight of a generous arse peeking out of denim.

He’d always liked that word. Arse. Or really he liked the way Jules’s lips shaped it.

Her British singsong accent hadn’t diminished one iota in the time she had lived in the States. It wasn’t one of those regal voices that sounded like her mouth was filled with plums, either; it was a good-time girl voice. A little husky, the kind of rasp you might get from screaming above the boom-boom bass at a club the night before.

Up until her baby bump had made her self-conscious about shaking her booty on the boards, they had been quite the team on the dance floor. Now she had her hands full with her eighteen-month old, Evan. The kid was adorable but those circles under Jules’s eyes confirmed he was also a handful.

His phone buzzed and he checked it discreetly, unable to hide his frown at the number of the last person in the world he wanted to talk to. When he looked back at Jules, there was no missing the blatant curiosity on her face.

How’s the washed-up ballerina?

Usually there was a more engaging proposition on the other end of the line and Jules liked to tease him about his flavor of the month.

Retired Olympic gymnast, he corrected, referring to the gamine hottie he had been seeing the week before and who had now been relegated to Tad’s past tense.

Still pulling out all the stops on the floor exercise?

That drew a laugh from deep in his gut. Jules and her cheeky mouth.

It didn’t work out, he said sadly.

Oh, the poor thing. Marked down by the Italian judge. A slender finger touched her lips. Or maybe not as flexible in her old age. What was she? Barely eighteen?

Twenty-two. She just looked young.

Taddeo DeLuca, when are you going to settle down with a nice-ah plump girl and make-ah da bambinos? she sang in a terrible stage Italian accent. For good measure, she pinched his cheek, an unapologetic nod to his Aunt Sylvia, who devoted her non-Mass time to matchmaking for her unattached nieces and nephews.

In his head, the answer to the rhetorical question rang clear as a bell. No one compared to the fair, green-eyed beauty standing before him. On his lips, something more flippant hovered. Maybe a joke about how his Facebook fan base would never stand for it, but she had already redirected her attention.

At Oven Guy, who had pulled himself to a lumbering stand and was writing up his chit of can’t-help-you-a-damn.

Hi, there. Her bright grin became impossibly wider.

Visibly startled, the repairman ran thick fingers through his untidy hair. Uh, hello, he offered cautiously.

Looks like hard work, Jules said, her eyelashes fluttering. That’s right, fluttering.

Juliet Kilroy did not have a flirty bone in her body. Not once had he seen her even talk to a guy with any intention beyond ordering a Sprite in a bar. Of course, as long as he’d known her, she was either pregnant or mom to a rambunctious kid, so flirting was fairly low on her list.

But it sure looked like she was flirting now. With Oven Guy.

So two weeks to get that part? She loosed a breathy sigh and chewed on her bottom lip. Oven Guy’s cheeks flushed and he stood up a little straighter, and damn if Tad didn’t blame him. That lip snag thing was very cute. And very sexy.

Defenseless in the face of Jules’s charm assault, the man’s hands fell into a distinct caress of his tool belt.

Jules looked down at the belt with wide-eyed innocence, as if the notion of belt-stroking and all it implied had only just occurred to her. Slowly, she returned her gaze with a slide up Oven Guy’s body.

What are you doing? Tad asked her and then wished he hadn’t because his voice registered more peevish than curious.

Practicing, she said without taking her eyes off the non-repair guy. You don’t know how much we’d appreciate it if you could get that part sooner. The pizza needs of the masses must be appeased. Was it Tad’s imagination or did her accent sound a little posher than usual?

Practicing what? Tad asked, no longer caring how put out he sounded. Ignoring him, she kept her green-gold gaze trained on her target.

I could probably put in a special order, Oven Guy said, his blush now saturating his hairline. Have it in a couple days.

Lovely man, she said with a fire-bright smile.

Lovely Man returned a shy grin and backed out of the kitchen, muttering something about calling with an update the next day.

Sorted, Jules said, rubbing her hands together in satisfaction.

What in the hell was that? Tad asked.

It’s a well-known fact that honey gets the bee. Do you want your special part or not?

If it meant he had to witness that display again, that would probably be a whopping great negative.

Thanks, he said, trying not to sound like a curmudgeon and failing.

You’re welcome. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, an action that molded the shapeless material to her figure in a way he should not be noticing. Where’s Long Face?

That was the nickname she had given to Jordie the chef, who usually wore the lugubrious expression of a man with the weight of the world on his reedy shoulders. The bastard hadn’t sounded all that sad when he called to quit this morning. Tad filled her in on his tale of woe, glad for the distraction and gratified when she made sympathetic noises in all the right places.

Moving her gaze around the room, she rocked that look where she wanted to say something, usually some criticism about how he was mistreating his latest woman or the fact that he drove too damn fast on his Harley. As well as being one of his closest friends, she was unafraid of playing annoying sister and nagging mother hen.

Out with it, he said, eager to hear what she had to say. Her smart-mouthed take on his occasionally imperfect decision-making was often the highlight of his day.

No working pizza oven, no vittles, and a dining room about to be filled with the harshest critics known to man. You’re in deep doo doo, mate.

Shit. In all the excitement, he had forgotten to cancel the trial tasting of his now non-existent small plates menu. Luckily, the impatient herd about to descend on his fledgling bar was his family and not Chicago’s rapacious food cognoscenti.

He had planned trendy accompaniments to go with the extensive wine list. Duck rillettes. Porcini and shallot flat bread. The expected selection of artisanal cheese and charcuterie. Items that didn’t require too much effort and absorbed healthy mark-ups. He might expand the menu later but he didn’t want to overextend himself starting out. For now, it was all about the wine—especially today when there was no hot food on offer.

At least there were cold cuts. He strode over to the prep station and uncovered a couple of platters.

Here, make yourself useful, wench, he said to Jules. Take this out to the horde.

Two

W hat do you mean he quit?

Jules lifted her head at her brother’s sharp tone. Jack was going with the dark and disapproving thing he used to great effect, and laying it on even thicker because he also happened to be an investor in Tad’s business. She knew Tad would have preferred to go it alone but it was either bring Jack on board or wait another three years to accumulate enough seed money. Sometimes dreams involved compromises.

Her brother, Jack Kilroy, was one of those incredibly successful restaurateurs with a household name even Pygmy tribes in New Guinea had heard of. In the last couple of years, he’d scaled back his multinational food empire and eliminated his TV commitments to focus on his grand passions: his Chicago restaurant, Sarriette, the go-to foodie destination in the West Loop and his wife, Lili, who was Tad’s cousin.

He was offered a job on a cruise ship, Tad was saying about Longface, the AWOL chef. "The idiota wants to see the world. I hoped you could spare Derry for a few weeks while I work on getting someone else in."

Jack’s forehead crimped. Lending Sarriette’s sous-chef to Tad for a month was not trivial. While Jules suspected her brother wouldn’t even cross the street to piss on her friend if he were on fire, she also knew Jack would do what he needed to make sure his investment succeeded. There had always been tension between them, most of it stemming from her brother’s disapproval of her closeness to Tad.

We’ll sort something out, Jack said after a long beat. So we’re not eating, but what are we drinking?

Tad twisted the bottle in his hand to face the rest of his audience—Lili, her sister Cara, and Cara’s Irish husband Shane Doyle, who was also Jack’s half-brother on their father’s side. Long story.

Doggie! Evan struggled in Jules’s arms, reaching for the bottle with a picture of a friendly overgrown terrier on the label. Her precious boy, the center of her world, was a touch obsessed with dogs lately. The label’s letters leapfrogged over each other, making little sense to Jules’s literacy-challenged brain. Dyslexia could be a real pain in the arse.

Tad launched into his wine spiel. This is a Chilean Pinot. Plummy, lashings of fruit, full-bodied. Goes well with zin-braised short rib flatbread. He met Jack’s pointed stare. Or it will when we have someone to cook it.

Tad poured tasting samples of the purple-red wine into stemware and passed them around. A small smile shaded his lips as he took a seat on the plush, chocolate velvet sofa, just one of three sofas ringing a low-to-the-ground stone table near the entrance. He had been planning this place for so long that Jules knew he couldn’t help himself. His pride at how the bar had turned out was clear. It was beautiful.

The flickering votive lights sitting on the window ledges