“You might want to close that or I can’t promise I’ll behave,” Jake says in a sexy rumble of a voice, licking his lips.
He’s wearing one of the hospitality uniforms. The black and white ensemble of tight pants, shirt and vest are doing an amazingly irritating job of showcasing just how fit he is. Unlike the chef’s uniform, which is made for comfort and to protect from kitchen dangers, the housekeeping staff’s clothes are elegant and meant to impress.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to help my eyes as they drink him in from top to bottom.
He smiles knowingly. “I…” He clears his throat. “I’d like to invite you to dinner. I didn’t see you at the restaurant and I thought you might be hungry.”
I arch an eyebrow, waving my phone at him. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?”
He drums his fingers against the wooden frame, biting down a sly smile. “Okay, maybe I also wanted to make sure you didn’t get carried away reading my nonsense plan.” Nonsense is the last word I’d use to describe what that document is. “Plus, there’s this new dessert I came up with, and I need a guinea pig. If you are interested.”
I am more than interested. “Give me a sec.” I wave him in. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Once I’ve changed out of the hotel-supplied bathrobe and put on my suit, I go to the lounge where I left Jake. He’s sitting on the couch, intently watching some Christmas cartoon about a golden retriever and a hologram girl with a red hat. It takes him a few minutes to notice me observing him, and when he does, he aims a shy smile my way.
“It’s the holiday special. It came out last week, but I haven’t had the chance to watch it yet.”
I tip my chin at the TV screen, where the show is still on. “We can have dinner after it finishes, if you want?”
He hums, looking at me like a thief caught red-handed. “I might’ve taken the liberty of recording it so I could come back later and finish watching it.”
I saunter over, giving my hips an extra sway. Then I rake my hand through his lush curls and tilt his head back. His eyes immediately darken. “That’s a very creative excuse to come see me again, I’ll give you that.”
His smile transforms into a smirk, and next thing I know, I’m lying on the couch under him and staring at his beautiful face. It’s so close I can smell the hotel-provided shampoo on him, which tells me he must’ve taken a shower before coming here. Otherwise, he’d smell like herbs and food.
“Oh no, you got me. Whatever shall I do?” he teases, leaning closer as he drags his fingers up my flank.
“Feeding me is a good start. I’m dying to know what’s on the menu.”
His dark chuckle goes straight to my dick. Yeah, I don’t need him to even say it. He’s definitely on it.
Hopping up, he smooths out the hospitality uniform. I’m on my feet shortly after, discreetly adjusting myself as he leads me out of my room and up the stairwell. We ascend five floors and enter one of the function/conference suites. The furniture has been rearranged, so that the massive table is by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the fields and the mountains. Light from cinnamon and rosemary-scented candles keeps the space dim and moody, and two chairs on two opposite sides of the table wait for us. There is a couch by the unlit fireplace, and on its side, an end table with a music player.
Jake approaches the player first and turns it on. Soft jazz music begins playing, quiet enough so it works as a background without getting in the way of any potential conversation.
“Please, take a seat, Mr. Ward.” Jake gestures at the table with a slight bow.
I nod and make myself comfortable. Silverware and a carafe of whiskey have been placed on the high-grade silk tablecloth, sparkling under the candlelight. He pours me a glass, then disappears behind a wall section. That must be where the kitchen corner is.
“Since I didn’t see you at dinner, I thought I’d make you my killer sushi with some edamame salad, daikon and handmade gyoza,” Jake says when he reappears, carrying a tray with food. “I promise, this is the best sushi you’ll ever have.”
“I’m pretty sure you have to be Japanese for that to be possible,” I counter, snatching some edamame while he pours us soy sauce and wasabi.
“Okay. Correction. This is the best sushi made by a non-Japanese you’ll ever have.”
“I don’t know,” I hum around a salmon and cucumber piece that just melts in my mouth. It’s so good I nearly moan. Despite how simple and easy sushi might seem to make, getting it right takes a lot of practice and mastery. “I like to visit this place near where I live. It’s reservation-only and nearly impossible to make a booking for. The guy who runs it is a friend. He lived in Japan for ten years before opening his own place in Miami.”
Jake’s mouth hangs. “Miami? Don’t tell me you’re talking about Ryan Negima! Holy shit, you are friends with him?”
Oh. I always forget how famous Ryan is. I’ve known him for years, since before he was a big name, so to me he’s just Ryan. “Yes. Are you a fan?”
He graces me with a row of white teeth. “Maybe.”
We keep the conversation light as we eat. Everything is so delicious I can’t help but wonder if Jake lied to me about being a chef-in-training. If I didn’t know already, I’d assume he was one of those pros that the media is yet to get its greedy hands on. With his attractive looks, they’d gobble him right up.
I place my chopsticks down and just appreciate the idyllic moment as he explains the ingredients of the dessert. It’s a sponge cake with matcha custard, fruit and his special ganache. The flavors are pleasantly intense, but not overwhelming. Kind of like him. They are novel, a little unexpected, but delicious and intriguing at the same time, which only makes you want to taste them more.
Yeah, Jake would be a star on TV. But too bad for the greedy media giants that I am the one who discovered him first.
