right for him to dismiss the possibility so easily.
“Fold,” he said, and she realized he’d laid out another strip of the delicate dough and spooned out a dollop of chocolate. They worked together in silence for a few minutes until the first pan was filled with neat rows of the triangles. Now and then, their elbows bumped or their hands brushed and Sabrina got more and more peeved that Kit had no reaction at all when she was struggling not to make cheesy analogies about oozing filling and hot home cookin’.
One of the servers, Charmaine Piasceki, stepped through the stainless-steel swinging doors that led out to the dining room. “Sabrina, your sister’s here.” She looked at Sabrina’s buttery fingers, then over at Kit. “Should I tell her you’re greased up with one of the chefs?”
Out of Kit’s range, Sabrina made a menacing face at Charmaine, who’d become a friend as soon as they realized they both had smart mouths, food tattoos and opposite tastes in men. Despite kooky pink hair and a Persephone’s pomegranate on the small of her back, Charmaine went for uptight lawyers and investment bankers. She liked to turn them on to their wild side.
Sabrina wiped her fingers on the towel keeping the phyllo dough pliable. “I’ll be there as soon as we’re finished with the filling.”
Charmaine pushed backward through the doors with her rump. She looked at Kit and laughed, flashing the silver stud in her tongue. “Sure thing. We wouldn’t want you two to skimp on the filling.”
Sabrina’s gaze skidded across Kit’s face. He was grinning at her again. She gulped, too aware of the heat flushing her cheeks. “Umm. Well, that was fun, but I have to get back out there.”
“I’ll bring you and your sister a sample, fresh from the oven. Well-filled.”
“Great.” She meant it. Maybe if Mackenzie saw Kit in the flesh—the living, breathing, warm, rippling flesh—she’d let Sabrina out of the “no men” part of their deal. Mackenzie was reasonable. She’d understand that there was only so much she could expect her sister to resist.
The quiet, clean public area of the restaurant was a relief after the hot zone of the kitchen. Sabrina stopped at the bar and got a couple of bottled waters from a small fridge. She uncapped one of them and took a long swig of the icy liquid to soothe her parched throat as she surveyed the activity in the front room. Servers moved from table to table in their stark white-and-black uniforms, doing the final prep work before they opened for the lunch trade.
Mackenzie had been seated at a table by one of the windows that overlooked West Broadway. The prime Tribeca location went hand in hand with the restaurant’s gourmet menu, hip reputation and a parade of well-heeled patrons who liked to rub shoulders with the funkier creative types. Word was that although a real working artist might actually starve on the minuscule portions served at Decadence, they could never afford them.
“Hey, sis.” Sabrina set the blue bottles on the table and slid into one of the Danish modern chairs. “What happened? Your hair’s still long.” She’d made an appointment for Mackenzie at a Madison Avenue salon recommended by one of the restaurant’s owners, the famously stylish Dominique Para.
Mackenzie looked up, guilt written across her face. “I’m sorry. I backed out at the last minute.”
“No! Do you know I had to give Dominique my favorite flea-market boots as a bribe for your appointment? I won’t mention how hard it is to find authentic Victorian lace-ups in my size.” Sabrina’s feet were long and thin, like the rest of her. Dominique, a former model, was a perfect match, size-wise.
“I just couldn’t go through with it,” Mackenzie said, blinking puppy-dog eyes.
“Do I have to go with you to hold your hand?”
“Yes, please.”
Sabrina wagged her head. “What’s the hang-up with your hair? You’ve managed everything else. You quit your job, the new candy store is opening on schedule, Mr. Dull has been given his walking papers…” She caught Mackenzie’s blank look. “He is gone, isn’t he?”
“More or less. It’s not my fault that he keeps sending flowers.”
Sabrina flipped a hand. “Jason has no imagination. He wants you back because you’re easy.”
“Ah, no, I think that would be you.” One side of Mackenzie’s mouth curled into a dimple as she twisted off the cap of her water.
“Touché. But you know I meant easy as in comfortable.” Sabrina moved restlessly in her chair, flinging one arm over the molded bird’s-eye maple backrest and tossing her hair over the other shoulder. “I’m not easy any longer, you know. And, man, is it killing me.”
Mackenzie was busy looking around the restaurant. Decadence was as polished and chic as Dominique Para herself, filled with a striking combination of mid-century design and trendy art-house accessories. Partial walls made of woven maple planks separated certain areas for privacy. Sculptural sheet-glass mobiles doubled as lighting. Swivel chairs in purple and acid-green, paired with steel ashtray pedestals from the ’50s, made the wait in the lounge for a table more of a pleasure than a bother. At first, Sabrina hadn’t been sure that she fit in at Decadence with a wardrobe that was primarily made up of jeans, sweats, tanks and bandannas, but Dominique had passed along a selection of designer dresses that were so perfectly simple and well-fitted they had to be couture.
Mackenzie returned her attention to her sister. “I thought the restaurant would be keeping you so busy you wouldn’t have time to think about men.”
“That would be the goal,” Sabrina said, “except I haven’t told you about Kit Rex yet.”
“Kit Rex? Isn’t he a rock star?”
“Not Kid Rock,” Sabrina started to explain, before she saw that Mackenzie was teasing.
“Super. There would have to be a man in the picture.” Mackenzie affected a put-upon sigh. “Okay. How bad do you have it?”
Sabrina fanned her face. “Very, very bad.”
Mackenzie didn’t speak for a long minute. Sabrina could see the cogs grinding beneath the mass of pinned-up hair. Her sister had a solution for every problem, if she was given enough time to think it over.
Mackenzie’s eyes slitted. Sabrina shifted under the scrutiny, examining her manicure, then flicking a dot of chocolate filling off the front of her hand-me-down dress. It was lilac, sleeveless, A-line—very Jackie O.
Finally Mackenzie lifted a finger. “Chocolate,” she announced.
“Chocolate? Chocolate is what’s getting me into this predicament.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sabrina leaned over the table, lowering her voice. “Kit is our head pastry chef. He specializes in chocolate desserts. Several times a day, I’m drawn into the kitchen by the force of his sheer animal magnetism to watch him work. He’s…well…he’s charming on the surface, but kind of quiet and deep underneath. He’s got major sex appeal without trying at all. I’m having fantasies about tying him up in apron strings and drizzling chocolate over his naked chest.” Sabrina stopped and sucked in a breath to steady herself. “So trust me, chocolate is not the answer.”
Mackenzie snapped her mouth shut.
