Roman-1(Lane Brothers, Book 5)(51)

So far I’ve gotten through entrees—onion soup with a truly gruesome drawing of The Scream in red food coloring. I hate expressionist art, but I get paid to be this brilliant. And thank God the soup is a cold course, because I’m good, but twenty of those were murder.

Mains had been a little more bearable because all it had required was a little rendition of Van Gogh’s Irises beside the salad—easier with the lettuce, but those blooms were a bitch to recreate.

Now I’m on dessert, and I have to admit I am a superstar. Who knew food could really be considered art? This dessert is a cheesecake—divine—sitting in the middle of any painting of my choice.

Of course I choose my eternal favorite and go Sunflowers on them. What? I am obsessed with that painting.

“Just make sure—”

“Yeah, yeah. We can’t let the cakes move or they’ll ruin the sauce and your precious art. We got this, Sis, just relax your poor arm and chill already. Your work here is done.”

I start tidying my workspace and chat with the chef, Jim, and his assistant while the staff serves dessert.

“That was fantastic, Sis. When I open my own restaurant you are so invited to be my food artist,” Jim booms, whipping his bandana off as he bows.

We laugh because this is the millionth time he’s tried to cajole me into going into business with him. Sure, I like the work, and the money would be great, but…

“You know my true love will always be the canvas, Jimmy boy.”

“Fine, then at least agree to a date. You’re leaving me too disappointed here, kid.”

I snort and narrow my eyes at the Viking, taking in his blonde, blue eyed good looks. He’s a hottie, no doubt about it, but James Harlow is way too free with his affections for my taste, and he knows it.

“I’ll agree to a date when you stop dating three women at the same time, player. Anyway, you’d so fall in love with me and break the hearts of women all over the globe. I’d feel terrible depriving all those future one night stands of your…talent.”

We tease and insult each other constantly as we clean up and start loading the van.

“One date and a night in my bed is all you’ll need to fall in love with me, Sis.” He laughs, nudging me away from the dishwasher. “Come on and give me a shot. I guarantee I’ll do more than go for goal. We could even hit double over time.”

“In your dreams,” I snort. “And stop using my love of hockey against me,” I chortle, snapping the dishcloth at his butt.

He retaliates by twirling me into his arms and dipping me, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously when his lips stop a breath away from mine, and he winks.

“One of these days I’m gonna wear you down, kid.”

“Hopefully not today, and certainly not in my kitchen.”

Jim whips me back up and lets go of me with such speed I lose my footing and crash into the counter, slamming my hip into the marble so hard I gasp and go crashing to the floor.

Oh, ouchie.

“Christ!”

When my vision clears I look up, expecting the hands running all over my body to be those of Jim. They aren’t.

“Not you,” I moan, struggling to sit as lances of pain shoot through my bruised hip.

My would-be rescuer stops glaring at Jim and stares down at me with a sardonic lift of his brows. Those eyes, the exact color of mint leaves, pull me back in, and I still, just staring as he runs gentle hands over my hips, searching for injury.

I can’t look away, even though I know my staring is rude and I should be embarrassed. I’ve spent hours since that day last week trying to get him onto canvas. There are four in total at the moment that are destined either for the trash or my bedroom wall if I can’t—

“Your eyes. They change color,” I breathe reverently. “That’s why I couldn’t get it right.”

He starts as if a live wire has sparked through him and frowns before rising and offering me his hand.

“Next time you take it into your head to dip a woman, try not throwing her at the goddamned floor. Miss Bennet, a moment of your time, if you please.”

He walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance, and I shuffle to the door, looking back at Jim with a grimace.

“Sorry, kid.”

“It’s okay…wish me luck,” I mutter, exiting the kitchen into a long hallway.

“This way.”

I turn to my left and see him—Vincent, I think his name is—waiting three doors down, his back as stiff as his expression.

“Well, come along, Miss Bennet, I don’t have all bloody night,” he barks, spurring me into a run.

He steps back when I pass, avoiding any body contact, and I blush angrily. Suffice it to say I haven’t exactly been the picture of feminine grace around the guy, but he doesn’t need to act as if I’ve got the freaking plague.