Feel the Heat (Hot In the Kitchen) by Kate Meader

in hell of getting it. He had five episodes to complete and a contract for his new show to negotiate. He had his Chicago restaurant to open and seven others to oversee so the quality wouldn’t slip. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, everything he touched was golden, a far cry from that fourteen-year-old Brixton street thug who had been headed for the gutter, prison, or worse. Cooking had saved him and set him on the right path. Now he felt…He wasn’t sure what he felt.
    Oh yeah, tired.
    He looked into the deep blue eyes of the bartender, an older Italian guy who could probably intuitively tell a troubled soul when he saw one. At least Jack hoped so.
    In a heavy accent, the bartender offered, “How about some grappa?”
    Jack gestured his surrender. “Lay it on me. Show me what I’ve been missing.”
    Twenty minutes later, he’d tried three different varieties of the pungent grape brandy and was feeling that comforting burn in the pit of his stomach. The bartender had explained how grappa was made and how the varieties differed from each other. It was quite the education. With that warm Italian-inflected English washing over him, Jack watched, entranced, as he expertly poured cocktails and manned the bar. He should poach this guy away when he opened his new restaurant.
    Lili’s scent, hot woman and floral, but more specifically vanilla with shades of hibiscus, reached him before she did and he felt that pleasurable prickle again. Grappa, like all alcohol, was a great leveler and summoned his magnanimous streak. He opened his mouth to apologize, but he couldn’t actually remember what he was supposed to apologize for. There had to be something. With a woman like this, there was always something.
    “Your appetizers have arrived and there’s no way on earth we’re serving them over here.” She turned to leave.
    “Hey, wait,” he said, his hand brushing her arm.
    She stood, fists at her waist, her stiff posture drawing his gaze to the flare of her hips, the slope of her breasts. Christ, she was a lot of woman.
    “What?” she asked, still pissy.
    “I’m surprised you’d take the time to give me a personal update on my first course.” Though close to twenty-five minutes for appetizers was a bit much.
    “I just want you to eat them how the chef intended. Hot instead of cold.”
    He blew out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry about insulting Italian cuisine this morning. I’m sure your father’s a great cook and the meatballs are fantastic.” It came out sarcastic, so not his intention. As well as being a great leveler, grappa turned guys into morons.
    “He is a great cook. You won’t eat better in Chicago.”
    “I don’t doubt it.” He flashed a conciliatory grin.
    “Okay, then,” she said, clearly thrown. Hey, it worked on housewives. She hovered for a moment, then turned heel and split.
    “I am sorry about that,” the grappa-pusher said, his brow lined with concern. “She is not normally so rude.”
    Jack waved the apology away. “No worries, mate. That’s how she usually talks to me—or that’s how she’s only ever talked to me.”
    Another shot appeared before him. The man knew how to work it.
    “She is right, though. The food here is quite good,” Ol’ Blue Eyes said, pouring a shot for himself. He clinked Jack’s glass. “Salute.”
    Jack slammed it and peered at the man before him. It was time for this guy to step up and do what bartenders do—listen inattentively to some drunken digressions while dispensing old-world wisdom.
    “Have you ever met a woman who annoys the hell out of you?” He paused to judge his next words carefully, his muddled brain already ascribing high-level importance to them. His head both pounded and spun like wet sneakers in a dryer. Drinking was not the cleverest of ideas.
    “I mean, you just want to touch her, and if she’s mouthy, kiss her to shut her up.” He turned the shot glass over. When the idiotic rambling started, the night was pretty much