Cook's Choice: A Bad Boy Protector Romance (Lost Boys Book 4) Read online

  Cook’s Choice, Book 4 of the Lost Boys series

  Copyright 2020 by Janice M. Whiteaker.

  www.janicemwhiteaker.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First printing, 2020

  Cover design by Robin Harper at Wicked by Design.

  Photo-Furious Fotog

  Model-David Cook

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  1

  THE FIELD IS so crowded I can barely dodge the bodies as I rush across it, doing my best to avoid bumping into any paper baskets filled with all varieties of snacks and sandwiches.

  The taco truck needs more napkins, and running out is not an option.

  Roy is at the side door waiting for me as I rush up.

  “Call me before you run out next time.” I shove the brown paper package his way.

  I don’t like looking unprepared, and that’s exactly what this makes people think.

  That I’m as incompetent as they believe I look.

  “Calm it down, son.” Roy glowers at me. “We’re selling so fast we can’t keep up. It’s a good problem to have, so don’t get your nuts in a twist.”

  Roy’s old enough to be my dad, and occasionally acts like it. He’s one of the few people who doesn’t seem to mind my endearing personality. It’s why he’s the manager of FrankenFood.

  Because he can deal with my shit.

  “It’s gonna be fine, Levi. Just relax and enjoy it.” Roy tips his head toward the food trucks lining the football-field-sized lot on the outskirts of downtown Memphis. “Go get yourself some lunch and a beer. We’re fine.”

  “That’s why I had to go get your ass napkins.” I can’t leave it alone. I should. I know that.

  But this is my fucking business.

  Mine.

  Proof I’m not the piece of shit almost everyone thought I’d be.

  Not completely, anyway.

  Shirley pokes her head out the door, her frizzy hair tucked into a net, squinty eyes fixed on my face as she unloads the squirt bottle of water we use to clean the grill right at me. “What did I tell you about taking that tone?”

  Roy isn’t the only one who takes every opportunity to tell me to act right. His wife turns to him, her aging face cracking into a smile. “Get your cute ass back in here.”

  I should never have agreed she could come work for me too. At the very least I should have separated them.

  But my customers love it. Love their banter, and the clear affection they have for each other. Roy and Shirley are almost as well known as FrankenFood at this point.

  And close to being synonymous.

  Roy shoots me a last look. “Go see what they’re cookin’. Might give you some ideas.” He pulls the door shut, leaving me standing in the grass surrounded by a thousand people.

  And still just as fucking alone.

  I turn, getting my eyes on the only truck here that outperforms mine. It’s a tiny little thing, painted in bright orange and neon green. I can smell it before I’m even close. The scent of fried plantains and sofrito is easy to identify, even though the space is packed with trucks making anything and everything.

  Momma Rosa’s stands out, even in the air.

  And the line shows it.

  The thing wraps and winds through the crowd. So much so that it takes me a handful of minutes to find the actual end of it so I can take my place.

  I don’t like being beat. Especially at the one thing I’m good at, and Momma Rosa is kicking my ass.

  “Is this place good?” A soft voice barely registers behind me.

  I turn just a little, keeping my eyes on the open window in the distance, trying to see what they are passing through. “Line makes it seem that way.”

  “I suppose if popular opinion is what you’re going for.”

  The softness of the tone doesn’t match the content of the words, and it drags my attention from what I’m supposed to be assessing.

  The woman behind me looks exactly as soft as her voice would suggest. A pale pink sweater with tiny pearl buttons up the center matches the pink roses on her earlobes. Her hair is barely brown and just past her chin, tucked behind one rosebud dotted ear.

  She looks like she teaches preschool and drinks tea instead of whiskey.

  Which makes me wonder why in the hell she’s talking to a man like me.

  “Popular opinion is all that matters, isn’t it?” I turn to more fully face her, figuring once she gets a good look at me, her questions will dry up and I can go back to what’s important.

  Business.

  Her brown eyes are as soft as everything else about her as they rake down my body with a slow sweep I can almost feel.

  The judgment is coming. It will be swift and sharp. Like always.

  Women like this see me for what I am and nothing more.

  “Didn’t peg you for the kind of guy who cares what the masses decide.” She barely shrugs. “Guess looks can be deceiving.”

  I shake my head at her. “They’re not.”

  Then I do what I should have done in the first place, turning my back to her and forcing my eyes to the window where the only food outselling mine is passing through at record pace.

  Just as fast as my team moves.

  I wait a few minutes. As long as I can, before daring a peek over my shoulder.

  It shouldn’t bother me to ignore her. She’s no one to me.

  But according to Shirley, sometimes I’m supposed to at least try to be a little less of the asshole I am.

  Only Little Miss Soft and Sweet is gone, replaced by a lanky college-age kid who takes a step back when I look his way.

  There it is. That’s what I’m used to.

  What makes sense.

  Uncertainty. Caution.

  I’m not the kind of man you chat up in line. It’s written all over me.

  At least Pinky figured it out before I had to make it even more clear.

  The line moves faster than I expect, and soon I’m closing in on the window, scanning the handwritten chalkboard displaying the menu. A few minutes later, Momma Rosa is passing me an order of ropa vieja, a basket of croquetas, and a container of arroz con leche. I tuck my food close as I move back through the crowd toward the table I keep set up under a tent behind my Southern Smash truck. These places always run out of seating, and I like for my guys to have a spot to sit and relax on their breaks. Luckily, no one’s on break now so I have the spot to myself.

  I set my lunch in front of me and look it over, checking to see if there’s anything I can learn from Momma Rosa.

  Her plating is simple. No careful pours. No garnishes. Nothing. Just simple food piled up.

  I pick up one of the croquetas and give it a little squeeze. It’s crisp on the outside, but has a soft give that promises a tender bite.

  “Shit.” I was hoping there would be something magical about Momma’s food. Some easy-to-spot rea
son she is so popular.

  So I could find a way to do it myself.

  I bite into the fritter. It’s filled with tender ground ham. The slightly-sweet flavor of the meat offsets the bite of garlic and onion. It’s crispy, and soft, and savory, and a little sweet.

  It’s fucking perfect.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I stare at Pinky with wide eyes and a full mouth, unable to tell her no without looking like I’ve got no manners.

  And I would never do that to Jill. She’s worked too hard to beat them into my head.

  Instead I point up at the PRIVATE sign hanging from the tent.

  But Pinky doesn’t look deterred. She smiles and marches inside with her plate of food, sitting down in the seat right across from mine. “Thanks.” She lets out a soft sigh, her shoulders lifting and dropping. “It’s nice to be out of the sun.” Her smile doesn’t fade when she looks at me. “How’s your lunch?”

  I don’t know what in the hell to say to this woman.

  She’s got to be a little off. Grown-ass men don’t walk up to me like this.

  They definitely don’t do it twice.

  I force down the bite of Momma Rosa’s perfect croqueta. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  The woman leans across the table to look over the food in front of me. “The same thing you’re doing.” Her eyes come back to mine. “Eating lunch.”

  “I don’t mean here.” I wave my hands around. “I mean here.” I point to the table between us.

  Her brows come together. “I don’t think I understand the question.”

  I can’t make it much clearer, but I’m going to try anyway. “What in the hell are you doing sitting here with me?”

  “Oh.” Her smile is back as she straightens in her seat. “There’s no place to sit out there, and I saw you come back here, so I followed you.”

  “You followed me.” I say it again just to be sure I heard her right. Pinky. The woman with rosebud earrings and a sweater set, followed my tattooed ass behind the food trucks to an isolated spot.

  Where anything could happen.

  Her brows lift as she forks in a bite of shrimp and grits. Instantly her eyes widen and she looks down at the bowl in front of her. “Holy cow.” She scoops up another bite, this time one with chorizo and roasted poblanos. “Oh my.”

  I stare at her. No way does she realize how she’s coming across right now. Pinky can’t possibly understand the way her soft moans and oh-mys could shoot straight to a man’s dick.

  Not mine though.

  Because Pinky’s not my type.

  She’s too sweet. Too sheltered. Too naive. It’s the only way to explain what’s happening right now.

  And I’m not stupid enough to ever think a woman like that could put up with my bullshit.

  “Did you come up with this all on your own?” Pinky takes another bite, still making those noises I know better than to notice.

  But then what she asked me registers. “What?”

  She stabs her fork in the direction of the food remaining in her bowl. “This. Did you come up with it on your own?”

  It never occurred to me Pinky might know who I am.

  Because why in the hell would she?

  One hand slides across the space between us. A single, pink-tipped finger reaches out to stroke along the FrankenFood logo tattooed on my arm. “That’s you, right?”

  I’m not sure how to deal with this situation. I want her to leave. Walk away from me and take her soft voice and shiny hair with her.

  Leave me be.

  But she knows I own FrankenFood, and I will do anything to protect my business.

  Even pretend not to be the asshole I am.

  I dig around for an answer to give her. One that might satisfy whatever weird curiosity has brought her here today, but also help her find her way back where she came from.

  But Pinky doesn’t wait for my answer. She leans in, the hand that was just resting warm and gentle on my skin moving over to snatch away one of Momma Rosa’s croquetas. Before I can blink she bites it in half. “Oh. This is good too.”

  The woman just stole food off my plate. And doesn’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with it. She’s just sitting there, enjoying her thieved snack like we’re old friends.

  But we’re not friends. Women like Pinky aren’t friends with men like me. Not ever.

  “Who are you?” Asking why she’s here got me nowhere, but I’ve got to do something. I can’t just sit here and watch her eat my lunch all day.

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” She dusts her hands together and holds one out to me. “I’m Carly.”

  I don’t have any desire to shake her hand. Knowing how soft her skin might be isn’t worth the wrong idea it will give her.

  And this woman is already full of wrong ideas.

  “Do you usually go around following strange men into deserted places?”

  She doesn’t take her hand back. “Are you usually this rude to people who’ve been nothing but nice to you?”

  “You stole my food.”

  “You could have stopped me.” Her hand is still out, and the quiet tone of her voice has never changed. It might have the tiniest edge, but never once has it gotten louder or meaner.

  Probably because this woman doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. One more reason she should get her ass as far from me as possible.

  Her head barely tips. “What if I tell you I like your food better than Momma Rosa’s?”

  “Then I’d call you a liar.” I know my food’s good, but Momma Rosa outsells me at every venue, every time.

  Carly’s lips pull into a smile. “That’s not the worst thing anyone’s ever called me.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her. “Right.”

  No way does anyone have anything bad to say about this woman. She’s the epitome of what society deems good and pure. Her skin is unmarked and smooth. She’d fit perfectly in an ad for the Gap, with her tapered khaki pants and loafers. She doesn’t raise her voice, and she definitely doesn’t cuss.

  “That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called in the past hour, actually.” She scoops up the last of her shrimp and grits, licking her fork clean. “And I’m not lying. I really do like your food better.”

  “All you had was a fritter.” I cross my arms and lean back in my seat. “Not much to compare there.”

  “I’ve eaten Momma’s a bunch of times. She’s an icon.” Carly scoots her empty bowl to one side and leans against the table. “It’s why people line up the way they do. It’s nostalgia.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Never occurred to me that I might not be fighting with food. “Thanks for your input. I’ll be sure to take it under advisement.”

  Carly gives me a bright smile full of straight white teeth. “You’re welcome.”

  I think maybe she’s finally done with me, ready to move along and leave me to enjoy my lunch in peace.

  But Carly doesn’t make any move to get up. Her butt stays parked in the plastic seat, fingers fidgeting just a little as her brown eyes stay on me.

  “What?” I say it sharp, not even trying to hide the bite of frustration climbing up my spine.

  It’s what will make her leave. Letting her see what I am. I hate to do it. FrankenFood’s reputation means everything to me.

  But I can’t handle her being here much longer.

  Her chin lifts just a little. “You act like I’m bothering you.”

  She is.

  The barely-there smell of roses I can’t seem to stop noticing, even over the scent of Momma’s food right in front of me.

  The smooth glide of her voice.

  The pale pink tipping her long fingers as they twist the napkin in her hands.

  All of it is crawling under my skin, making it burn in a way that I can’t ignore much longer. “You are bothering me.”

  I expect her to be offended. At least a little pissed.

  But Carly barely purses her lips, making everything tha
t much worse.

  I can’t let myself go there. Can’t let the thoughts creep in the way they want to.

  “Alright then.” Her head tips, the shiny strands of barely-brown hair swinging with the movement as she studies me in a way that makes me want to shift in my seat.

  I’m not the one who should be uncomfortable in this situation.

  I never am.

  But she’s doing it to me. Making me feel the way I make everyone else feel. Only Carly’s approach is much different from mine.

  It’s her calm. A sort of quiet I’m not used to facing down.

  “I’m here because I have questions about someone you know.”

  Of all the reasons I might have expected this woman to be here, us having a common acquaintance was not one of them.

  She’s clearly from a world I’ve never been a part of, and my world would chew her up and spit her out.

  “I doubt we know the same people, Pinky.”

  Her lips barely quirk as one hand smoothes down the arm of her sweater. “And here I thought you weren’t even looking at me.”

  My eyes snap to hers. “I’m not.”

  But it’s too late. Carly might look all sweet and innocent, but the woman can jab a sore spot with sniper-like precision.

  And I need to get her back on track. End this while I can still shove her to the back of my mind and forget her easily. “Who the fuck do you think we both know?”

  The small smile she had fades, and the softness in her expression is gone, blanked in a way that surprises me.

  Her eyes don’t leave mine as she takes all I thought I knew and lays it low with a single name.

  “Herbert Wallace.”

  2

  I’M NOT SURE what I expected when I came here today, intending to chase down the easiest to spot of the men on my list.

  It definitely wasn’t this.

  I’m used to dealing with anger as a defense mechanism, and the man in front of me is an expert at it. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so sad.

  Because no one acts like he does without a good reason.

  He leans back, crossing his colorful arms over the broad expanse of his chest. “Don’t fucking know him.”

  Cook clearly thinks words like that will fluster me, but I’ve heard that specific one countless times already today.