Taste of the Dark - A Mafia Romance

But I don't. I don't say any of that. Why would I? What would it get me-especially from this man? Bastian Hale doesn't do vulnerability. He does efficiency and excellence and probably some other e-words that I can't think of right now because my brain is still processing the whole shirtless thing. But vulnerability? No. Not once. Not ever. As if to prove me wrong, though, Bastian's face softens just a fraction. "Go home, Hunter. Whatever's going on, it'll still be there in the morning." That is the problem, though: It won't be. Not quite. Every morning, there'll be a little less. A little less light, a little less color, a little less of everything I've taken for granted. And then in ninety days, there won't be anything. 2 ELIANA mis·fire: /ˈmisˌfī(ə)r/: noun 1: when a dish doesn't cook as intended. 2: when a perfectly nice gesture gets torched to bits by a pompous, self-important bosshole. I give up on sleep around 3 A.M., which is probably for the best, since my brain has decided to run a highlight reel of last night's mortification on loop. But that brain, being the saucy little minx that it sometimes likes to be, has scripted a very different ending for the encounter. In real life, the whole debacle couldn't have lasted more than five minutes, tops. Deep in the throes of this REM cycle, though, five minutes becomes five centuries. Every detail gets magnified. It's not just Bastian Hale's chest I'm seeing anymore. It's every blonde hair on said chest, enhanced into ultra-crystal-clear 4K HD. Every curve of every muscle is there like brushstrokes on a painting when you're close enough for your nose to almost graze the canvas. It's not just "tattoo." It's the spread wings of an eagle, inked into skin that's tan and warm and smells like soap and wintergreen. And it's not just "Care to explain what you're doing?" Now, because I'm sick, because my thoughts are sick and my fantasies are sick (and probably also because I haven't experienced sexual contact since the last presidential administration), it's Bastian's voice purring something very, very different: I thought you'd never ask. It goes completely off the rails from there. Instead of his fingers gently encircling my wrist and peeling me off of him, those fingers now nudge my hands down, down, down. Past the soft thickets of chest hair, past the rivulets of six, count 'em, six defined abs, toward where the V points directly to the buckle of his belt. Then he keeps going. I force myself awake there, because Bastian's inked, scarred, calloused hands tempting my very innocent, very demure, very well-lotioned hands into performing heinous sexual acts in the middle of the workplace is a bridge too far. Also, getting my fantastical rocks off-with my boss, no less-is not high on my priority list. I have bigger things to worry about. My eyes are trying to quiet quit on me, which is frankly very rude. I ought to focus on that, not on the thick blue vein in my boss's bicep or the glint in his eye when he looked at me and smirked. Come 4 A.M., I am showered, dressed, and staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to memorize the exact shade of green in my irises. Turns out they have little flecks of hazel in them. Who knew? By the time 5 A.M. rolls around, I'm standing outside Grain & Gather, the bougie bakery three blocks from the office that charges twelve dollars for a croissant. That's a crime, but the real felony is that it's worth every penny. The owner, Fletcher, is just flipping the sign to Open. "Eliana!" His face lights up when he sees me. "You're early, even for you." "That's how you get the worm, right?" I grin for a second before my sick, depraved brain starts thinking of other "worms" it would like to get and I have to shake my head to dispel the unwelcome horny thoughts. "Anyway, I couldn't sleep." I take a deep inhale, soaking up the aromas of fresh bread and butter and a cinnamon-y sweetness that makes my stomach growl. Just like that, I'm grinning again. "Okay, that smells insanely delicious. I need... three of everything." He laughs. "You sure about that? That's a lot of carbs for a little lady." "First of all, how dare you disrespect my ability to inhale sugar? Secondly, it's not for me. Well, not all for me. I'm feeding the test kitchen crew." Fletcher's eyebrows go up. The test kitchen at Hale Hospitality is legendary-fifteen of the most talented chefs in Chicago, plus a small army of sous chefs, stagiaires, dishwashers, prep staff, and more, all working around the clock to develop bold new concepts for Bastian's ever-expanding culinary empire. They're the best of the best. They are also, currently, miserable. Bastian has been in rare form all week, rejecting dish after dish, sending entire menus back to the drawing board with scathing comments. He's taken to just scrawling NGE across the top in huge, red letters. That stands for Not Good Enough. It's honestly kind of impressive how concisely he manages to be a giant asshole. "That's kind of you," Fletcher says with a whistle as he reaches for boxes to start loading me up with kilograms of sugary goodness. "What's the occasion?" I watch him work, his hands quick and practiced as he selects pastries. Chicago dawn catches the glaze on a row of kouign-amann. The dusty cocoa on fresh bomboloni. The perfect spiral of a morning bun. It's borderline pornographic for a sweet treat addict like me. "Well, the boss is grinding everyone into useless little nubs since we're getting close to the Project Olympus launch. He's a sadist, I think. I just do what I can to lighten the load for my fellow sufferers." That is partly true-with the completion of Project Olympus finally on the near horizon, Bastian has been more monstrous than usual. The other part is something that was percolating in my head as I tossed and turned in the wee hours of the night. I have ninety days left-well, ninety minus one-and that's just not a lot of time. I want to taste everything, see everything, experience everything while I still can. And if I can do that while also bringing a small taste of joy to a group of stressed-out chefs? Well, that's killing two birds with one scone. Two hundred dollars later, I struggle through the revolving doors of the Hale building, juggling a trio of pastry boxes and a tray of coffees. The security guard, Kyle (not incompetent-spreadsheet Kyle, different Kyle), jumps up to help. "Ms. Hunter, let me⁠-" "I've got it," I say, then immediately prove myself wrong by nearly dropping the coffee tray. "Okay, maybe just the coffee." He takes the tray with a grin. "Test kitchen?" "How'd you know?" "Only reason anyone brings this much sugar before 6 A.M. Plus, Chef Rubio texted me that Mr. Hale made three people cry yesterday." "Three? I heard two."