Chapter 1

Jason

Why isn’t this bus moving?

A woman stands at the front, fumbling with her transit card.

Flustered by the digital reader, she runs her fingers nervously through the waves of her medium, bouncy waves, tucking a curl behind her ear.

From that sweet, bitable lobe dangles an earring in the shape of a knife. That’s cute. So is the Marilyn Monroe cut of her bombshell-blonde hair.

“No, face down. Turn the card face down!” The driver is yelling at her, but she’s not getting it.

“It is face down,” she says. “I can’t get it to work.”

“Lord, give me strength for the tourists,” sighs the driver.

“I’m not a tourist,” she corrects. Her voice is meek, but at least she sticks up for herself. Passengers at the back are starting to grumble.

I can’t watch this anymore; it’s too painful.

“Relax, Larry, I got this,” I tell the driver as I jump into action, snatching the poor woman’s card out of her hand. Before she has time to react, I successfully scan her bus pass and hand it back to her.

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” She shoves the card back into her wallet, quickly explaining, “I’m not from around here. I’m gonna be late for my first round of interviews, and I thought the driver would kick me off! Thank you so much.”

“Larry’s bark is worse than his bite,” I say, beaming down at her, ready for her to glance up and receive the full effect of what one interviewer from Food Wine magazine once described as “the most elusive grin in Dallas.” The journalist’s words, not mine. It’s sort of true. I keep to myself and rarely give interviews.

The hapless passenger sweeps her hair from her eyes. Everything I thought I knew, she smashes to pieces. Those sexy waves frame a face so stunning that I forget I’m standing at the front of a bus that’s supposed to be moving. Emerald-green eyes that know too much for her early 20s. Full strawberry-red lips that could bring me to my knees. And her skin? Luminous. Biteable and tempting as candy. Flawless—except for a tiny scar down her cheekbone.

My grin fades. I’m dumbfounded.

“And my bark is only gonna get louder until you two love birds have a damn seat!”

Love birds? Who’s Larry talking to?

As if reading my mind, the woman before me says in a hushed tone, “I think he means us.”

Her blush reaches the tip of the vee in the pink top she wears under a white peplum blazer and matching chiffon skirt that’s so short and breezy it barely reaches her mid-thigh. Interesting choice for a job interview. She looks like a slice of strawberry cake. I crave a bite, or several, and I have no intention of sharing.

The woman brushes past me and finds a seat. I can’t help myself: I watch the way her budget heels make her thick ass sway, her skirt hem kicking up teasingly against the backs of her glowing thighs as she walks. Designer or Target brand heels, the effect is all the same on my cock when a woman with a backside like that walks away from me.

Inwardly, I groan and cover my midsection with my knife case and take my seat across from where she sits. She clutches a metal bar and grins at me tightly.

The bus resumes its path down Main Street. When we pass Elm and Dealy Plaza, the Kennedy assassination conspiracy theorists are out in full force, handing out their pamphlets. The gorgeous green eyes across from me widen as the bus lurches past the grassy knoll, the book depository, then makes a sharp turn up Houston Street. Realization hits her.

She makes no sound over the wheezing, lurching of the bus, but I see her lips move in a silent, “Holy shit.”

She must feel me staring because soon her gaze turns to me. Busted.

I give her a polite nod, and her shy smile rewards me.

The bus stops in the West End, and she stands to exit, so I do too, even though I’m headed up to the Design District to deal with a food inspection disaster at one of my company’s newest acquisitions.

“I-I’ve got a few minutes. Can I buy you a coffee to thank you for saving a damsel in distress?” She nods to the coffee cart near the alleyway between the Rushmore Hotel and a karaoke bar.

“Sure, why not?” I sound way more casual than I am, but the casual part disappears when I hand the barista my card.

“Hey,” she laughs. “I said I was buying.”

“Come on,” I say. “I can’t let a kid with no job buy me coffee. That would make me an ass.”

She raises those perfect brown eyebrows. “I’m not a kid, I’m 22. Also, how do you know I don’t already have a job and that I’m not being poached by another company?”

I pay for our coffee drinks, then turn to her as we step aside to wait. “Because you have that look in your eye.”

“What look is that?”

“Hungry,” I reply with no hesitation.

“Desperate, you mean? Great.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d better fix that before my interview.”

“No. Literally hungry. Let me take you to dinner tonight.”

She laughs louder. “Smooth.”

The barista hands us our coffees. The strong brew braces me for whatever she dishes out next, but I’m still not ready.

“Give me the dirt on Larry. You two used to date or something?” The woman winks one twinkling eye as she sips her iced oat milk brown sugar latte with whip and salted caramel swirl.

It takes me a minute to figure out what she’s talking about because I’m busy committing her coffee order to memory.

“The bus driver? Shit, no. He’s a notorious grump, and I’ve been taking his route for years.”

She nods and sips her coffee.

“Good to know. Well, I’ll buy a car if I get this job, so that will be my first and last encounter with the infamous Larry.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Must be a lucrative job. Where are you interviewing?”

She smiles slyly and gestures over her shoulder. “The Rushmore,” she says.

“In guest services, or…”

She shakes her head. “I’m interviewing for the sous chef at the restaurant there. The Rubicon?”

Interesting. Very interesting. I should have known by the earrings, which, upon closer inspection, look like tiny chef’s knives.

“You look like you’ve heard of it, and not in a good way. Spill it!”

Do I tell her she can’t work there because the chef is a complete tool who talks down to his female employees? I hate to burst her bubble and send her packing to Tulsa, or wherever that accent is from. A lot of chefs are jerks, unfortunately. She’s going to have to learn to deal with a lot of unpleasant people in this business. I vow to do the right thing before she accepts the job, and at least help coach her on how to deal with Chef Richard.

But man, I really hate that guy.

“No, I’m just impressed with you, that’s all,” I nod casually, seething at the idea of that guy working with her.

“I’m Journey, by the way.”

“I’m Jay.” I give her the name that only my college track coach called me. Why do I do this? I can’t really explain it. Maybe I don’t want her to guess who I am. The restaurant business is a small world, and I don’t want to rattle her.

I want her to stick around.

And as I stand here on the sidewalk drinking coffee with this woman, I know I’m about to do something that will guarantee she does just that.

I need to see her tonight. If she’s going to work for that tool at the Rubicon, I will make her wish she was working for me instead.