All Fired Up (Kate Meader) (27 page)

“How’re you feeling?” he asked Shane.

“Could be worse. Drugs are starting to kick in.”

Jack grabbed one of the beers Tad had brought and popped the cap. He lolled against the counter, a position he was no doubt familiar with, having lived here with Lili for about six months.

“I had a chat with Mason Napier after you left Lincoln Park, Cara.”

Cold dread poured over her. She raised an oh-really eyebrow and waited for him to elaborate.

“He seems to think we’re running a catering business. That we’re going to be hosting some party”—he flapped his beer-free hand and Cara braced herself for the notorious Jack Kilroy fireworks—“for a hundred people.”

“We can do it,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

That pulled a strained smile from him. “Cara, in case you haven’t noticed, we run a very high-end, fine-dining, bordering-on-Michelin-starred establishment.”

“And you hired me to be your events manager,” she countered, her hackles on the rise. This had been a long while coming, and while she’d prefer not to do it with Shane and Tad watching on, it was time to have it out.

“Mason Napier…Mason Napier choosing
us
is an event. A nod from him would send business into the stratosphere. We’d be the first choice for every party, every charity do, every shindig on the Chicago social calendar.”

He huffed out a breath. “Cara, I admire your moxie—”

“Did he just say moxie?” Tad asked around his gnocchi chewing.

“Sure did,” Shane said. “Time warped right back to 1934.”

Jack shot filthy looks at the chorus, then went on. “I admire your moxie but that’s not what we do. I hired you to manage small events in our private dining rooms. Events my current, handpicked team can handle at the same time as regular service. I’ve done these big parties at my other places in London, New York, Vegas. Quality control is a nightmare. I can’t risk putting my name to frozen food and temp staff just to make a quick buck.”

Even after a year of lying low, Jack’s sensitivity about his spin around the hamster wheel of fame was still fresh. Having suffered the slings and arrows of the tabloids and the accusations of hackdom by chefs he respected, he still smarted at the thought his name could ever be associated with an inferior product.

“Jack,” she said in her best Cara-cajole. “So you hire a few more people. Trusted people.”

He was already moving down the list of cons. “And what about the space? We’d have to close for this one event and I know you won’t want to stop there. Are we supposed to shut down every time we have numbers higher than what we can manage upstairs?”

“There’s the place next door,” Shane said.

Thank you, Shane.
She didn’t need to look at him to know his Irish eyes were twinkling.

Jack ignored him and kept his imperious gaze trained on Cara. “You’re still angling to take on that lease?”

She lifted her shoulder in an indeterminate shrug as if it wasn’t the first thing slamming her brain each morning when she woke. After Shane. She spent a couple of foolish moments letting Shane take a starring role in her fantasies first. Then she got serious and hit the gym.

“It’s been vacant for six months. Someone’s going to take it.”

“In this economy? Cara, I don’t want to be a purveyor of fast food. That’s not what we’re about here.”

“What about Wolfgang Puck?”

All eyes shifted to Shane who had just thrown out that gem.

“What about him?” Jack asked warily.

“He does big events all the time.” Shane flicked a go-with-me glance at Cara.

“Right, the
Vanity Fair
Oscar party, for example,” she picked up. Wow, Shane was on fire. She paused to let it sink in with Jack.
One, two.
“Don’t you want to be offering that kind of service in Chicago?”

“Wolfgang Puck?” Jack said. “He sells soup. In supermarkets.” But he sounded more intrigued than annoyed. Nothing like a little friendly chef competition to stoke those fires.

“I’m sure your soup is better than Wolfgang Puck’s, Jack,” she soothed, trying desperately to ignore Shane’s dimple winking at her from around his fingers. That dimple was going to be the death of her. “Just think of how Chicago is crying out for this kind of service.”

“Cara,” Jack said, half exasperated, but then his face transformed with a wide grin.

Turning, Cara found Lili, who had just walked in and now leaned in to kiss Jack.

“Your fiancé is an absolute Cro-Magnon,” Cara said. “He’s completely prehistoric about his business.”

The tense line of Jack’s shoulders slackened and he smiled at her sister, his eyes lurking with intent. “She likes me Cro-Magnon. It works for her.”

“I’m trying to make us the go-to destination in Chicago,” Cara hurried on, before Jack’s brain turned to baby food in the presence of Lili. “It’s bad enough you charge midlevel prices when you could be asking for twice as much.”

“You know why I do that. I want anyone to be able to eat at Sarriette, not just the Mason Napiers of this world.” They’d had this argument so many times she could recite it in her sleep.

“But in the meantime the Mason Napiers, and more specifically the mothers of the Mason Napiers, have needs that we can serve. Penny Napier’s stamp of approval would be—”

“Penny Napier?” Lili interrupted. “You mean Penny Napier, founder of the Pink Hearts Cancer Foundation?”

Cara nodded. “She has that annual dinner every December and Mason said we could cate—um, host it if we had the space.”

“We should do that,” Lili said to Jack.

Jack let out a weary sigh. “Sweetheart, it’s not so simple.”

Lili curled her body into Jack’s side. “I’m sure you could work something out between the two of you. You’re both such go-getters.”

“Oh, shush,” Jack said, but Cara was already enjoying the sweet buzz of victory. She really should have roped Lili into the fray sooner. And Shane.

Who was now the subject of Jack’s glare. “I suppose
you
think this is a good idea.”

“Not bad,” Shane said casually. “You could design the menus, and there’d be any number of chefs who’d jump at the chance to cook to your specs.”

“And you’d have Cara running the show,” Tad said.

“Zombie apocalypse, Jack,” Lili added, grinning.

“What the hell does that mean?” Cara asked, her gaze flitting around the kitchen for answers.

Jack delivered a half smile. “I might have once remarked that come the zombie apocalypse, I would want to be on Team Cara.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Jack.”

Everybody laughed, even Shane, though the wince that crossed his face told her it must hurt like hell.

Cara’s excitement threatened to overwhelm her as the idea of a business—a family business—took hold. There are other ways of belonging and maybe she had just found hers. Her mind racked up frequent-flier miles racing through the possibilities. Top chefs like Jack and her father. Lili in charge of photography. Tad, their wine expert. Shane’s magical creations would slot right in. Shane as part of her family business.

Wow.

Thinking now might be a good time to call it a day, she shot a significant look at her new ally.

Shane gave an exaggerated yawn. “Thanks for coming over, guys, but I think I need to lie down for a while.”

As the visitors headed to the door, Lili’s gaze slid to Vegas. “Where’d the cat come from?”

“He belongs to Shane,” Cara said, though that pink collar bore all the hallmarks of a Cara-style intervention.

“Hmm,” was Lili’s multivolume response as she stepped into the hallway. She turned back, mock surprise on her face. “Oh, you’re staying?”

“I’m just being a good neighbor,” Cara said, ignoring her sister’s smirk.

She let Jack and co. walk a few steps before calling out the kicker. “We haven’t actually sealed the deal yet. Mason wants a chef’s table for dinner next Saturday night.”

Jack’s expression soured. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She closed the door, leaving him to Lili’s soothing hands.

“Told you we make a good team,” she heard behind her, so close she shivered.

Heart skimming the roof of her mouth, she called on all her resources as she turned around to greet Shane.
Don’t jump him, don’t jump him.

“We do,” she said, backing up until she met the unyielding barrier of the door.

In his sling, he should have looked helpless and ripe for a Cara smooch assault, but as usual, he managed to completely undo her to kitten weakness with his nearness and strength.

“Pity about this.” He patted his trussed-up arm. “I’d do anything to have both hands free right now.”

“You would?”

He tilted his head and his gaze raked her body top-to-toe. “I hope you’re good at taking instructions, LT. Because you’re going to have to follow my orders to the letter.”

Instructions. Orders. Images of doing anything he asked assailed her diminishing calm.
Touch me, Cara. Right there, baby. Now yourself…

“What did you have in mind?”

His smile was dirty, hot, and slow. “I’m going to teach you how to cook.”

Chapter 14

Come Monday, Shane was in so much pain that he had no choice but to visit a doctor at Cara’s insistence. Because she had a meeting with a potential client, she assigned Jack to drop him off at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago to see an orthopedic surgeon she knew through her numerous contacts. Shane suspected she had created a new binder to organize his recovery, or at minimum a spreadsheet.

In the car, Jack and Shane chatted about the wedding menu, then lapsed into comfortable silence until about six blocks out when Jack spoke up again.

“I hear you might be leaving us,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Cara said you have plans to open your own pastry shop.”

That Cara had spoken to Jack about it bit into his neck, but then he hadn’t actually sworn her to secrecy, had he? Still, it confirmed his gut instinct not to confide anything more personal. “It’s just an idea. Nothing’s settled.”

“If you need someone to invest, you know where to turn.”

What?
Shane had been saving for the last six years and didn’t need the money, but the joy coursing through his body numbed the pain dead. Of course, it wasn’t just because of Jack’s offer. Without knowing how he got here, Shane had come to the decision that he planned to stay in Chicago for as long as he was welcome. He could open his business here. He could live above DeLuca’s. He could be with Cara.

“Why would you be interested in that? It’s small potatoes for someone like you.”

“The winner of the Best Design at the International Exhibition of Culinary Art? The guy whose creations cream the thongs of all my female customers?” Jack’s brows drew together in a chevron. “Uh, that’s why I’m interested in that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll miss you in my kitchen but this way I still get some benefit out of you. I’m nothing if not self-serving.”

Jack had to have known about it, but he had never once referred to the design award, which Shane had put down to some keep-the-help-from-getting-cocky dynamic. The drugging effect of the joy was wearing off, but Shane embraced the sweet ache. He wanted to remember this feeling forever.

“Of course,” Jack went on, “I’ll need a favor from you.”

Too easy. “What’s that?”

“I was thinking you could contribute a recipe to the book I’m cooking up with Tony. We’ve already got some great desserts—Frankie has this amazing zabaglione—but we could do with something with a bit of a wow factor. That chocolate cake with the basil-lemon filling…”

“Bella Donna.” Beautiful woman. Italian flavors with hints of tart in a rich, decadent casing. “I’d be honored,” Shane said, his chest too full with emotion.

“Good.” Jack turned off Superior Avenue into the drop-off zone for the hospital. “So how’s Cara? She seemed awfully worried about you.”

Non sequitur? No chance.

“She’s just being a good neighbor.”

“She cooked for you.”

Crickets.

“None of my business?”

“Something like that.”

Jack fed him a sharp look. “Don’t hurt her, all right? She means a lot to me.”

Shane blinked away his surprise. “And there I thought you were looking out for
me
when you warned me off before. Isn’t she supposed to be a ballbuster?”

“Tales of her testicular terrorism might have been exaggerated. She’s…” He looked like he was choosing his words with the precision of someone selecting a cupcake with the perfect amount of icing. “She’s not as tough as she gives off.”

Shane’s heart disintegrated to mush because he knew it was true. Cara wasn’t tough at all. Every new minute with her revealed new vulnerabilities, and not just hers.

“She’s not tough, but she’s not exactly easy either,” Shane said, feeling the situation out.

Jack strummed the steering wheel. “Of course she isn’t. She’s a DeLuca woman. If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy…”

“If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing,” Shane finished in the words of the great Bob Marley, a poet ripped from the world before his time. Along with his heart turning to overly wet dough, an unwelcome twinge in Shane’s gut acknowledged the twin negatives of annoyance and jealousy. Jack knew about Cara’s anorexia.