His Just Desserts
Authors: Dakota Trace
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement (including infringement without monetary gain) is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
His Just Desserts
Copyright © 2013 by Dakota Trace
ISBN: 978-1-61333-571-0
Cover art by Tibbs Designs
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
Look for us online at:
Decadent Publishing Recent Releases
Pajama Party by Kelli Scott
One Night with the Bride by Sara Daniel
Alice’s Dragon by Stephanie Beck
Full Bloom by Bianca Sarble
Altered Frequency by Joya Fields
A Marine Affair by Heather Long
Remember Me by Amaleen Ison
Dom of the Dead by Virginia Nelson
Sun, Sand & Séances by Kathleen Ann Gallagher
Gaines & Losses by Camryn Rhys
Heart of Rock by Karyn Gerrard
Marine in the Wind by Heather Long
This Time Next Year by Catherine Peace
Ice and Peace by Clare Dargin
Cinderella Dreams by Cate Masters
Also by Dakota Trace
Blind Need
His Just Desserts
By
Dakota Trace
“Whitcomb, Gronberg needs to see you!”
Looking up from his desk at Donnie Zylka, a fellow junior partner, Sean Whitcomb resisted the urge to sigh and pushed up his black-rimmed glasses. Nearing quitting time at the Law Firm of Sachse, Gronberg, and Filbeck, and he still had a stack of litigations to get through. He didn’t need the interruption, but he preferred a summons from Nicopolis Gronberg to being called on the rug by Tlotzin Filbeck. A shudder ran through him. The final member of the original partners who’d started the firm back in the late eighties rarely bothered to hide his distaste for homosexuality unless Nico happened to be around.
It’s a good thing I’ve kept my sexual preference in the closet
. The man would make him miserable if he knew.
If he had his way, Filbeck would retire in four months, not Dhanajit Sachse. The older Pakistani had come to America in the fifties as a young boy to pursue the American Dream. He didn’t begrudge Dhanajit his retirement, but he’d miss him. He’d recruited Sean and taken him under his wing when he passed the Iowa Bar, showing him the ropes at the firm. He’d given a white boy with no parents a chance to prove himself and a place to call home. In return, Sean worked long hours, neglected his love life, and worked his way up through the ranks until his billable hours put him in consideration for a partnership at the age of thirty-two. But his efforts might be for naught if the idiot in front of him had his say.
“You coming? He said today, not tomorrow, dude.” Donnie drummed his fingers on the doorframe.
Shorter than him by several inches, his co-worker with the slicked back hair and pin-striped suit with wide lapels sent a shudder though him. In sharp contrast to his own well-tailored suits that clung to his tall body, Donnie looked like a mobster gone wrong. Sean dressed and styled his hair like the well-to-do lawyer he was, rather than some bit player in
The Godfather
.
“Yeah, I’m coming.” Pushing back from his desk, he grabbed his electronic tablet. It paid to be prepared. One never knew what Nico might ask of him. The one time he forgot his faithful tablet, his boss had recited a long list of potential clients, which had challenged his damn near photographic memory.
Following Donnie down the hall, he slipped into the zone to prepare himself. After being shown in by the secretary, he waited to be acknowledged. He hated standing around. Nico’s chair squeaked when his boss spun around to face them.
“Gentlemen, thank you for joining me.” Nico, looking suave yet relaxed in his gray suit sans jacket, leaned back in his seat. Glancing from him to Donnie and back, he crossed his arms over his immaculate white dress shirt. “As you’re aware, this firm has always been family-oriented and will continue to be so.”
“Of course, Nico. It’s one of the reasons I applied here. As a youngster, I listened to Uncle Tlotzin brag about the firm and how they took care of him.” Donnie sported a slimy smile, ever the ass licker.
Sean wanted to groan. The fool had applied to and been hired by SG&F because his uncle covered for his laziness. How he’d passed the Bar mystified Sean. Anywhere else, his lack of work ethic would’ve had him fired.
A tight smile crossed Nico’s face. “I’m well aware of how you came to be part of my firm, Donnie. You’re lucky, I don’t have the sole choice on who replaces Dhanajit.” Donnie stiffened. “With that being said, before Tlotzin, Dhanajit, or I can make a decision on who will fill the open partnership slot, we’re hoping to observe you in your home environments. In other words, outside of work. The partners represent the firm at various charities and functions. Seeing how you interact with your families will give us a good idea of what to expect if we offer either of you the position. As his last duty as partner, Dhanajit came up with a simple idea of how to accomplish this.”
“What idea?” Sean shifted his weight forward, his stomach fluttering with nerves. He didn’t like the direction of the conversation. He had no family, no life outside of work. How could he show—
“Each of you needs to plan a social function, perhaps a dinner, for all three founding partners: Dhanajit and his wife, Filbeck and his wife, and myself and my husband. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, but something you’d enjoy eating on the weekend. No takeout.” Nico eyed them. “Don’t assume for a moment that having a family, Donnie, gives you an advantage.”
“It won’t?” Donnie sneered. “With all due respect, Nico, Sean doesn’t have a family. He doesn’t go out. Uncle told me the other day how he didn’t have a steady girlfriend…that he might be a queer.”
Nico’s nostrils flared. “You care to rephrase that?”
Donnie’s gaze darted to the floor, then up. “I didn’t mean anything derogatory. Just an observation.”
“You better not have, because if I thought for a moment you were judging the people around you based on their sexual orientation, you’d be fired, nephew or not. I tolerate many things, but sexual harassment and/or gay bashing aren’t among them. Am I understood?”
Donnie swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
Nico gave a short nod. Then his attention drifted to Sean. “As I mentioned, I realize you’re not married. Which won’t be held against you, as not everyone gets married at a young age, like Donnie did. A significant other, girlfriend, or a boyfriend, if that’s the case, will suffice. You understand? Being dedicated to all work and no play isn’t good either.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Either way, gentlemen, I want you to remember the goal of this dinner. We want to meet the men behind the lawyers, so there will be no catering in. I don’t care if you have to make macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, the partners want you to work with your family to create a filling meal for us. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Sean forced the word past his suddenly tight throat.
Where the hell am I going to come up with a gay lover who can cook?
“Of course, Mr. Gromberg.” Donnie rubbed his hands on his pants. Excitement glimmered in his gaze. He had good reason to be excited. His wife owned her own catering service. As a master chef, she provided haute cuisine for most of the firm’s clients.
“My secretary will help you arrange the date.” Sighing, Nico dismissed them.
Dragging his butt back to his office with his precious date in hand, Sean didn’t know what to do. Staring out over the darkening Des Moines skyline, he tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair. Nico’s little test would be a huge problem. He not only couldn’t cook, he hadn’t dated in forever. He couldn’t just call one of his one-night stands and say, “‘Hey, remember that ‘wham, bam thank you, sir,’ we had a while back? Well, can I buy your services for an evening of pretend, which will include some affectionate glances and slaving over a hot stove?”
No, he needed someone who knew more than the size of his dick and what brand of lube he preferred. Ten years ago, he’d left Carlisle and the one person who could pull his ass from the fire. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, not wanting to contemplate the amount of groveling required to convince Isaiah Waterson to help him. His ex would just as soon as chop his dick off, if the fist to the jaw he’d gotten when he’d run into Isaiah six months before was any indication.
***
“Order up for table two, Berta.” Isaiah Waterson set the steaming plates of braised beef with
sví
č
ková
sauce in the window. His roommate and favorite afternoon waitress hollered out her thanks as she took the plates. Turning back to his kitchen, he reached for the next in the long line of orders. The busy dinner service was not surprising with Nonlia’s reputation as one of the spots to be for authentic Czechoslovakian food. Good “stick to your bones” food with a Slavic flare had customers coming back time after time and often led to a line of eager diners waiting for the next table to empty. It was also his first gig as a head chef since he’d left Chicago. He couldn’t afford to screw this up. He liked living in Des Moines.
“Okay Laco, what’s our ETA on that
kulajda
?” He scanned the tickets on the wheel, visualizing what he needed aside from the savory potato bisque.
“Less than five minutes, Chef. The potatoes are almost done.” The
potager
, soup chef, stirred the gleaming stainless steel pot with a long-handled spoon.
“Thank you, Laco.” Without looking up, he hollered for his
commis
, junior chef. “Kubus, I need you to check on mushrooms for the
smaženice
. See if Lev needs any help preparing it.”
“Yes, Chef.” The young man darted over to the prep station. Satisfied everything was under control for the moment, Isaiah sneaked a peak at the back door. If only he could step out back for some air.
“Isaiah, you’re needed up front.” Berta stuck her head around the swinging door to the dining room. “Front of the house says a customer is insisting he speak with you about the braised beef you just sent out.”
He frowned. “Is there an issue with the meal?”
Berta shrugged. “I have no idea, but Kaeli said something about the man not taking no for an answer.”
He straightened his clothing, preparing for battle. As a black chef in a primarily white town, he faced prejudice. Most expected to see a gangster wanna-be when they found out the chef was black. More than once he’d surprised an irate customer with his well-fit clothing and immaculate appearance. He never wore loose pants which hung down past his ass nor did he put on gangster airs. An educated man, Isaiah’s cooking defined him, and a chef who didn’t treat his job with the consideration it deserved ended up either not working or cooking at a fast food place—which was one and the same to him. So he hid his slender but well-muscled body behind his chef uniform, closely cropped hair under his beanie, and kept his goatee well-groomed. “Lev, keep an eye on things, I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Yes, Chef,” the man answered.
Leaving the hot kitchen, he walked through the cooler dining room, happy he wore a long-sleeved chef’s jacket. Kaeli Westenskow, their front of house manager spoke with a customer at one of the far tables near the reserved section. He could only assume this was the person who wanted to talk to him. Smiling and chatting with several regular customers, he crossed the crowded room. He stepped up behind Kaeli, who looked over her shoulder and smiled.
“Ah, here’s our esteemed Chef Waterston, Mr…?” Kaeli stepped to the side. Isaiah’s blood ran cold. Taking in the blond-haired white man wearing gray slacks and open-collared dress shirt, memories flooded him. Blue eyes he’d found mesmerizing and lush lips he’d kissed more than once pleaded silently for him to stay.