Taste: A Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance
Taste
A Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance
Rhona Davis
Copyright © 2017 by Rhona Davis
All rights reserved.
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Contents
Also by Rhona Davis
Description
1. Mel
2. Mel
3. Vincent
4. Mel
5. Mel
6. Vincent
7. Mel
8. Mel
9. Vincent
10. Mel
11. Vincent
12. Mel
13. Mel
14. Vincent
15. Mel
16. Mel
17. Mel
About the Author
Thank you!
Also by Rhona Davis
Hard Rock Love
The Billionaire’s Proposal
My Best Friend’s Dad
Off Limits
Description
They say if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen . . .
But with Vincent De Luca in charge, any red-blooded girl would be crazy to throw in the towel.
At twenty-four, I’m a struggling young chef trying my best to make it in the culinary world. Normally nothing distracts me from my goals, but that changes the day Vincent moves to my neighborhood and opens up his new restaurant.
Vincent De Luca is the world’s most famous celebrity chef and bona fide hunk. He’s an older man who stands way over six feet, with muscles on muscles, and a face carved by the god’s themselves.
When he offers me an opportunity to work for him as Sous Chef I jump at the chance. But what I couldn’t have expected in my wildest dreams was all the wonderful perks that went along with the pressure of the job . . .
He’s a cruel boss but an exceptional lover . . .
And although the food we make at his restaurant is pretty tasty, it’s got nothing on him!
‘Taste’ is a steamy romance novella with no cheating and a Happily Ever After guaranteed.
1
Mel
Having barely survived another manic dinner service, I retreat to the staff bathroom, splash my face with cold water, and rinse away the stale scent of fried onions and garlic from my hands.
After I’m done refreshing myself I leave the bathroom and make a bee-line for the pantry. Taking out some flour, dough mixture, and a few eggs, I wipe down my work surface and get stuck into my hundredth attempt at the perfect pastry. Pastry is my one major weakness as a cook. I suck at desserts—always have done, ever since Home Economics class in school.
Sea bass . . . cooked anyway you want? You bet.
Fresh Vegan cuisine, meats, bistro, gastro, French, or anything the customer wants for a starter or main? No problem.
But desserts? You may as well hand me a blunt rusty knife, an anatomy encyclopedia, and ask me to perform brain surgery.
As I get stuck into my challenge I feel thankful for the respite, having just made it through a grueling evening working as Sous Chef—code word for kitchen slave—at Big Mickey’s; one of Portland, Maine’s worst restaurants. If I never served up another ‘Meatball-ala-canned tomato sauce’ in my life, I could die a happy woman.
I should go home really, dig into a box-set of Game of Thrones while I lament my stalled career. My body aches—from the nape of my neck down to the balls of my feet—and I’m dog-tired, but I appreciate the opportunity to use work’s kitchen and flex my creative muscles. Rest is a something I have to sacrifice in order to nail this darn baking thing. I’ll never open my own restaurant if I can’t make a half decent Pear Tart Tatin.
Just as I tie back my greasy brown curls into a tight ponytail, like some Kung-Fu student about to take her black belt grade, Billy waltzes out of the guy’s restroom. He’s freshly changed out of his food splattered work clothes and is now suited and booted. Billy is the chef I work under; a big, stocky guy with a jovial face and a wicked, although annoying, sense of humor. He’s likeable, but I’d never admit that to him.
Walking through the kitchen toward me, he shakes his head. “Still at it?”
I look down at the glass bowl in front of me. “Until I get this right.”
“You do know the restaurant’s closed, right?”
I shrug.
“You’re a glutton for punishment, Ms. Baxter,” he says, hovering over my table of ingredients. “Do you ever sleep?”
I shoot him a dead-eyed look. “Killing myself for minimum wage while I serve up eggs, bacon, and meatballs, isn’t exactly going to buy me that restaurant.”
“You still on that trip?”
I nod, daydreaming of opening night.
“Why don’t you get your folks to put down the deposit?” he says.
“I don’t want my parents to bail me out again. They’ve already put me through college. Besides, there’s no point thinking I can run my own place if I can’t get a simple pastry to rise properly.”
He smirks. “You could cook up a bakery store full of the stuff, but unless you’re winning the Powerball anytime soon then what’s the point of torturing yourself?”
“Mock me all you like. You’ll see.”
He scoffs.
Bastard.
“Coming out for drinks?” he says. “Me and some of the waiters are heading downtown for cocktails. Two for one specials all night.”
“No thanks.”
“Do you know what you need?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“You need a social life.”
I glare at him. “Thanks. I’ll make a mental note of that.”
“Aw, I didn’t mean it like that . . . I meant—”
“I’m a sad case,” I cut in. “I know, I know.”
He exhales. “Maybe I’ll drag your out ass one night, huh? Celebrate you making the perfect puff pastry?”
“Sure.”
With that, he bids me goodnight and leaves the kitchen for the delights of Portland—booze, laughter . . . men. God, I can’t remember the last time I spoke to some random hottie in a bar. I think I scare most of them off anyway, especially when I rant on about the optimal temperature to serve soup.
As I crack my first egg into the side of the bowl, Mickey—my boss, and general dictator—comes bounding through to the kitchen from the back entrance. Shaking his head, he scrutinizes a printed receipt for tonight’s takings. Without making eye contact he comes to an abrupt stop by my side.
“Things looking up?” I ask him, not really caring but hoping he’s in a good mood so our exchange is short.
He blows out through his nose. “Is it ever?” His attention darts down to the glass bowl which now has three eggs whites swimming at the bottom. “What are you doing?”
“Dessert. Remember, we talked about it?”
“We did?”
“Yeah, I’d stay behind after service to brush up on my skills.”
He squints at me. “Melanie, we serve up comfort food. Meat and potatoes. What’s the point in all this?”
“I like it.”
He studies me for a while, his lips twisting to the side in a half smirk. “Okay, but I’m locking up in half an hour.”
Shit. I need at least an hour.
“Mr. Rossi, we agreed that I would lock up.”
“Did we?”
“Ye
s.”
He pauses and then takes a sharp breath. “All right, then.” His attention shifts from me to the light fixtures above. “Just make sure you’re no more than an hour, though. The rates these days are enough to drive a man out of business.”
“Of course.”
God, he’s so cheap.
For the first time in my twenty-four year life, I am seriously considering playing that Powerball lottery.
One day, Mel . . . one day and you’ll be free.
When I arrive home several hours later, I storm through to the kitchen, slam my effort down on the faux marble countertop, and sag on a breakfast stool. Scrutinizing the thing, I try figure out how something so deceptively simple always throws me.
Too much sugar?
An egg too few?
Just before I throw a full-blown hissy fit, mom walks in from the living room. “Wow. Something looks good.”
I roll my eyes.
She stops by my side and places a hand on my hunched shoulder. “What is it, sweetheart?”
I slowly shift my gaze to her. “Thanks.”
“What?”
“What is it? What do you think it is?”
She shoots me an unsure smile. “Soufflé?”
I sigh. “No mom, it’s supposed to be a plain pasty.”
She angles her head. “Well, it looks . . . nice.”
I shoot up from my stool, pick up the glass dish, and scoot over to the trash can before emptying out the sludgy contents with my fingers. “It’s an unmitigated disaster.”
She sits on the stool I rose from. “I have some news that might cheer you up.”
“Can’t wait,” I mumble under my breath.
“The house next door . . . I know who’s bought it.”
I start over to the sink and blast hot water on the sticky remnants of my pastry. “Yeah?”
“Try not to sound too excited.”
I turn on my heel and sneer. “Why should I be excited?”
She smiles.
I raise my brows. “Well?”
“You will be when you know who’s moving in.”
2
Mel
Saturday morning: 8:30 a.m. My first day off after two weeks of back-to-back shifts and I’m already wide awake. The sound of women’s voices, chatting away downstairs like they’re at some cocktail function, has snatched me from the cradle of precious sleep.
Pissed off, and more than a little curious to find out what all the fuss is about, I bolt out of bed, wrap a dressing gown around me, and charge downstairs to investigate.
“Melanie,” Barbara, mom’s best friend and next door neighbor, says in a cheery tone. “Sleep well?”
Not nearly enough.
I shoot her a polite smile while inside I rage at being rudely woken.
Just past Barbara’s shoulder, I see almost the entire female population of the neighborhood congregate inside the kitchen. I rub sleep crust from my eye.
“What’s all this in aid of?” I ask Barbara, looking down at a dish in her perfectly manicured hands.
“The new neighbor has just arrived.”
I stare at her like she’s lost her mind, waiting for her to embellish.
“Mr. De Luca,” she says. “In the flesh. Can you believe it? Moving here . . . to our humble little street.”
Shit, so I never imagined the conversation I had with mom late last night. She was actually being serious.
Barbara gushes some more. “Come on, honey, let’s get you some coffee. Wake up that sleepy head of yours.” She winks at me. “We’re all swapping notes on how handsome he looks.”
As she waddles through to the kitchen, with an animated sway to her curvy hips, I follow.
When I get to the kitchen I draw a sharp intake of breath. It’s like some over the top scene from Desperate Housewives—only in Technicolor! Everyone is dressed to impress, a strong scent of perfume hangs in the air like a toxic cloud of yucky sweetness, and I have never seen so many dishes and plates of food in my life—even at work. Every single woman, from Barbara, to Mrs. Thorn—the seventy-year old head of neighborhood watch—is kitted out in their finest threads. It’s complete pandemonium.
I push through the rabble and charge toward mom. “What’s all this?”
She smiles. “Morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?”
Just as I begin to tear a strip off her for the impromptu coffee morning party, I freeze. She looks dressed up for a gala dinner and ball.
I squint. “Why are you wearing that?”
She looks down at the floral summer dress that clings to her body like Christmas wrapping paper. “What, this old thing?”
“Yes, mom. That old thing.What’s going on?”
Her cheeks almost turn the same shade of red as her nail polish. “He’s here.”
I roll my eyes. “What are you talking about?”
She tuts. “Oh do get with the program, Melanie. Remember our talk? De Luca’s just turned up. Mrs. Thorn alerted us all an hour ago on the phone.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“She saw a removal truck pull down the street a little after seven. Those binoculars of hers are amazing.”
God help this poor man. He doesn’t know what he’s in for. He may as well be parachute dropped into the middle of a cannibal tribe in a remote forest somewhere. These women will shred him to pieces if given half a chance.
Suddenly, Annie, from three doors down, jumps up and down by the kitchen bay windows that overlook the street. “He’s on his porch. Quick, let’s all go out and say hi.”
Like a heard of elephants rushing for a watering hole after drought season, a stamped of around a dozen of the neighborhood’s finest housewives charge through the hallway and spill out onto the front yard.
Mom follows suit, dragging me by the arm.
“Mom,” I shout, pulling in the opposite direction.
She stops dead and snaps her gaze to mine. “Come on, Melanie, it’s polite to say hello.”
I sneer. “Can’t remember you making this fuss when the Sullivan’s moved in.”
“That was different.”
“Why?”
“Because George Sullivan is not Vincent De Luca.” She pulls at my wrist again. “Don’t you want to meet one of your heroes?”
My heart beats overtime. Of course I want to meet him. But not like this. Not when every woman in the neighborhood is baying for his attention like a group of horny high school cheerleaders after the football champ. And not when I have frizzy bed hair, sleep crust in my eyes, and bad morning breath.
But, as always, when mom wants me to do something I go along with it.
A line of women wait outside Vincent De Luca’s front door. It’s like the line you’d see downtown for a book signing. The whole spectacle is completely insane.
Looking around the street I see the faces of most of the wife’s husbands look on in bemusement. My sympathy is with them. I’ve never seen anything like it.
As we wait our turn, I pull on mom’s arm. “I’m going back.”
She whips her gaze to me. “This is your chance to introduce yourself . . . tell him you’re a cook.”
“No way!”
“Melanie. Darling. What if he wants you to work for him?”
“Mom, this is madness. I’m not cueing up outside his house for a job interview.”
She starts to rearrange my hair. “You look so messy.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Smoothing down my hair, she smiles. “There . . . much better.”
I clutch my gown tight and shake my head.
As soon as the woman in front of us hands Vincent the tenth platter of food he’s received from the community, she walks away all giddy.
Mom grips my hand tight and practically drags me over. She extends her other hand out to Vincent. “Mr. De Luca,” she starts. “It is an honor to meet you.”
Dressed in a snug blue polo shirt and skinny black jeans, Vincent De Luca looks every inch the sex-god he does on TV.
Standing way north of six-foot, his striking black hair is neatly cut and his gorgeous dark brown eyes sparkle.
Staring at the knots of muscle in his arms, and the wide flare of his chest, has me feeling just as giddy as all the other women who made a line to greet him. I feel silly but it’s impossible to deny how handsome and sexy he is, even for a guy in his forties.
Seems the bug has bit me. And yes, as mom said to me, he is my hero—one of the world’s best chefs, and magnetically confident and hot.
Mom motions to me with her hand. “This is Melanie, my daughter.”
Vincent jerks his chin to me.
I tear my gaze away from him and look down at my bare feet.
“Melanie is a chef,” mom says.
I grip her hand tight.
“Oh really?” Vincent says. His voice is smooth, rich, and deep. “Where are you working?”
“She works at Mickey’s—”
I yank on mom’s hand and finish, “It’s just some little café out by the harbor. Nothing special.”
Mom chuckles. “She’s being modest. My daughter is an exceptional cook, Mr. De Luca.”
“Maybe I’ll have to try out your food some time,” he says to me.
Feeling like I’m going to break out into a full-blown panic attack at any moment, I let go of mom’s hand, smile meekly at the hunky chef, and run back inside my house.
Rushing up to my room, I slam shut the door, lock it, and fall face first onto the soft mattress of my bed. Never have I wanted the world to open up and swallow me whole as much as I wanted it to just then.
Mom can be so cringe sometimes.
3