Sweet Tarte (Sweet Enough to Eat, #5) Read online

  SWEET TARTE

  Book 5 in the

  Sweet Enough to Eat Series

  By

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2020

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon

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  1

  Victoria

  IT’S JUST ONE DATE.

  It’s just one date.

  No matter how many times I repeat it to myself, my stomach turns and threatens to toss up the fried scallops with quail eggs and balsamic reduction I just cooked for my Making Magic From Scratch class this morning at the community college with my favorite teacher, Mr. Dudley.

  “He’s a doctor, Victoria. I know it may feel odd he’s so much older. But you know he’s liked you for a long time. Men like him don’t come along more than once in a lifetime. Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry about money for once? I don’t know what that feels like, but for the first time, you could make it happen. For all of us. Think of your brothers. Don’t you want a better life for them? This could be our chance. He will take care of us all if you play this right. The one thing you have going for you is your looks. Your body gets lots of attention, you have to know that.”

  My mother looks so hopeful as the 1989 Buick chugs and coughs as she accelerates from the stop light. I rub my lips together and tug at the hem of my sweater, wishing it was four sizes bigger so I could disappear into it instead of feeling like I’m popping out of it.

  I don’t know why I care how I look. Going on a date with a fifty-seven-year-old anesthesiologist who has a habit of licking his lips whenever I’m around—and has since I was thirteen years old—is not my idea of fun. He’s a bit of a slumlord if you ask me. He owns the house we rent, along with a hundred other dumps scattered throughout Chicago which all magically qualify as Section Eight housing so he gets a nice check from the government every month. I know all about all the assistance programs, because since as far back as I can remember it’s how we’ve lived.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” I snap, looking out the window at the iron gates and manicured landscaping of the houses along Lake Shore Drive. “I agreed to a date, not a proposal.” What I should tell her is the only reason I agreed is because he said he had a table at Sweet Tarte.

  It’s one of the best restaurants in the city, and somewhere I would never be able to go without someone like Dr. Roger Stumps. My dream is to cook somewhere like that, but from my failing grades in my first semester at the community college culinary school—despite my ability to create food that blows everyone else away—my chances are about as good as me being invited to join the local MENSA group.

  My mother, however, seems to think landing a financial whale, so to speak, is our only hope to save her and my four brothers from a life of food banks and welfare visits.

  “Just ask him to order for you. Tell him you trust his taste. Don’t try to read the menu in front of him. He doesn’t have to know...” She gives me a tense, sympathetic look. “You know. At least not right away.”

  “What? That I can hardly read? That for the first ten years of my life I was in special ed? That I’m a retard?” I snap, the venom in my voice more than is called for, but she knows she’s poking at a sore spot—especially since I got my last warning today that if my grades don’t improve I will not be able to take classes next semester.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “You’re not a retard. Don’t use that word, it’s vulgar.”

  The next five minutes, she runs down her list of do’s and don’ts, and by the time we pull up into the parking lot, the hope in her face makes me sad.

  “You should have let him pick you up.” She offers as I grip the door handle.

  “I agreed to the date. Isn’t that enough?” I couldn’t stomach the idea of being in such a closed space with him. Whenever he’s been close, he smells like dirty clothes and Barbasol.

  She reaches over and tries to smooth my hair, but I jerk my head away and open the door. “Just be nice! Cross your legs!” Her last words usher me out into the cold February air, the sun just lowering into the sky, hinting the clouds with pink and orange as I think of what a wonderful evening it would be for someone who actually wanted to be here.

  What my mother doesn’t know, is we are fifteen minutes late. My little rebellion.

  There’s a doorman that smiles and tips his hat with a gloved hand as I approach wearing my thrift store pumps. The sweater and skirt were nineteen dollars off the clearance rack at Fishers, the department store where Mr. Dudley, gives cooking demos, and he gets an employee discount, which he offered to me last week when we had coffee after class. He didn’t make a big deal out of it, but my limited wardrobe must have tipped him off that discounts could be my friend.

  He’s my best teacher, I’m acing his class because it doesn’t require using recipes. Instead, you come in and he has a variety of ingredients set up and you have to make the best dish you can from what’s available.

  I’ve won best dish twelve out of sixteen weeks.

  Inside Sweet Tarte, a tuxedoed man sits playing a black grand piano, and immediately my nose and senses are alive with the intricate combinations of smells coming from the kitchen. This is my church. Food is my muse and it’s the one place I’ve always felt I belong. In the kitchen.

  I swallow hard, looking around. The hostess station is empty, which in a restaurant like this should be a no-no. Seconds move by agonizingly slow as customers and wait staff move past me, looking me up and down with disapproval.

  I brush a curl back from my forehead and hold the thin shoulder strap of my purse as I bite into my bottom lip, wondering if this is all a big joke after all.

  Finally, a blonde that looks like she just jumped from the pages of a Victoria Secret catalog steps out from the hallway and presses a forced smile to her lips.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m meeting someone...” I lean over to scan the dining room, which is open to the lobby but I don’t see Dr. Stumps.

  “The reservation name?” She looks annoyed, tapping a pen on the dark wood counter.

  “Stumps, I think.”

  “You think?” She narrows her eyes at me like I’m trying to crash some sorority party.

  As I open my mouth to reply, I hear the voice from over my shoulder a second later the unmistakable stench, overwhelming the same olfactory pleasure centers which just a moment ago were firing full speed with magical delight.

  “Yes, Stumps.”

  I look to my left and see Dr. Stumps already wetting h
is lips as he gives me an entitled sort of smile, then looks at the hostess who is now standing at attention giving Dr. Stumps her most professional nod. He doesn’t even seem to notice, let alone be annoyed I’ve kept him waiting.

  “Certainly, Dr. Stumps. Pleasure to, um, have you again.” She reaches under the counter and pulls two menus to her inflated chest, her voice quivering. “Follow me please.”

  The good doctor runs a hand down my back, making me wince and shiver as he bumps his body repeatedly into mine as we walk through the dining room to a center table. The hostess places our menus on the tabletop, smiles at the doctor, then sniffs and walks away without giving me a glance.

  When he sits, the room seems to close in around me as I fumble to pull out my own chair and settle myself. Luckily he doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at the menu, scratching his forehead, then running his fingers across the ten hairs that sweep over the shining skin on the top of his head. Money buys a lot of things, but clearly class and good manners are not among them.

  “The tasting menu here is amazing.” He starts, still not looking my way as I hold the menu in front of me and try to make sense of the letters as they seem to shift and move in front of my eyes.

  “Yes.” I agree, struggling to make sense of the words as a trickle of sweat meanders down my spine. “Do you eat here often?” I manage, trying to buy some time and hopefully managing to get him to order and spare my humiliation.

  “Yep.” He answers, not looking up. “I’m a regular.” He finally raises his eyes from the menu, but instead of looking my way, he looks over toward the bar area, then finally at me. “I’ll be right back. Order us the risotto appetizer. They know what wine I like, I’ll tell the hostess to have it sent over, they might not serve it to you...it’s expensive.” He tosses the menu down, shoving his chair back, and without another glance my way, leaves me sitting as he disappears into the bar.

  “What an ass.” I mumble. “At least act like you invited me.”

  Twenty minutes later, there is cold risotto sitting in front of me and a bottle of some big deal wine opened on the table as I push back my chair and head for the bar. I may not be able to read, but I can read the writing on the wall. The good doctor needs a lesson in basic decency and I’m going to deliver chapter one before I make a dramatic exit to the nearest bus stop.

  There are two couples seated at the bar, sipping wine, but no Dr. Stumps. I work my way over there, thinking I’ll ask whoever is tending, but no one is in sight.

  “Fuck this.” I hiss, spinning before turning my head. At the last second, I see the back of Dr. Stumps head as he walks backwards from the hall above, where a sign reads: ‘restrooms’.

  For a split second, I feel horrible. Maybe he’s sick...

  Yeah, no.

  As he turns, stepping out from the hall, just behind him is a tall brunette in a white shirt and bowtie, working her tie back into place with one hand while she tucks her shirt into her black skirt with the other.

  When his eyes meet mine, I see the streak of red lipstick that matches the smear on hers and I roll my eyes at the ceiling as I let out a disgusted groan.

  “It’s not what you think.” He comes over, his belt askew and the fabric on the crotch of his trousers showing the same hint of red on the front.

  “Uhhh...” I narrow my eyes and tug my brows together. “I think...she needed mouth to mouth? Or, should I say mouth to cock?”

  My mother would be horrified, but I don’t give a shit. I may be poor. I may be what some would call illiterate. But what I am not is a fucking doormat for some entitled asshole to wipe his shoes.

  Dr. Stumps glares at me, opens his mouth to reply, but before he’s able to manufacture a retort a hand is on my shoulder, moving me aside as a literal wall of black suit a thousand feet high steps in front of me, broad shoulders like a bull blocking out the doctor as a spicy cologne like a shot of tequila assails my nostrils.

  And all I can think is: See, this is how a man is supposed to smell.

  “Your reservation is no longer honored, Dr. Stubbs.”

  His voice is a rumbling baritone, his words clipped and defined, and something about it makes me giggle. Looking up, his black hair looks as though it’s just been cut, each strand the exact same length, his square jawline closely shaved, and I can see the sinuous muscles under the skin around his throat, rock hard and flexing.

  His stance is strong and dominant, yet his hands are now in his pockets in an off-hand, casual manner.

  “It’s Stumps. And who are you? I eat here all the time, I practically own that kitchen...”

  “I don’t think so. I own this restaurant, and fifty more like it all across this country, and I see assholes like you every day. You own nothing here. You can see yourself to the door, or I’d be happy to assist. Your choice.” He sniffs, taking a quick glance over his square shoulder at me, an odd twinkle in eyes. They’re so blue, it’s both spooky and wildly sexy at the same time.

  Then he steps another few inches forward, his chest in the good doctor’s incredulous face, and growls like some sort of wild animal. “Well. What shall it be?”

  2

  Dimitri

  SHE DOESN’T KNOW I’VE been watching her since she walked through the front door.

  She doesn’t know I’ve been imagining what she tastes like.

  Her mouth.

  Her tits.

  Her dripping cunt.

  I’ve got one of the most refined palates in the world, but I already know nothing will compare to her flavor. Nothing that’s come before her. She will be the perfection my mouth has longed for.

  The length of my cock is thick down the leg of my trousers as I fantasize about what it would feel like stretching her tight little opening as I bury myself deep into her pussy.

  I’m shocked at the thoughts, but the moment my eyes landed on her swooping curves and flawless ivory cheeks, something moved through me I’ve never felt before. The dark waves and curls of her hair cascade over her shoulders like a defiant waterfall of the finest whiskey, falling over the jade green sweater she’s paired with a black chiffon skirt and red heels. Perfectly mis-matched, but the whole only makes the urge to pull her closer to me even stronger.

  I wanted to kiss her glossy pink lips, to run my tongue lower until I find her cleavage. Her tits are round and full, but not obscene, and I thought about gripping them, burying my face in between them and breathing her in.

  Fuck, my dick has never been so hard.

  The red glittery headband that struggles to keep her hair from her face is like the innocent and sexy cherry on top of a mouth-watering dessert I intend to devour.

  A raging sense of possession overtook me before I even knew she needed me. This little girl, who has to be barely even legal, steps into one of my restaurants and I’ve never been so hard. My heart has never skipped beats before. I thought all that sort of rhapsodic romantic drivel was bullshit. Created to reinforce unrealistic expectations to unrealistic, desperate women.

  I could see the glowing green of her eyes from where I stood near the front of the kitchen, where there are several glass walls that allow the guests to see—but not hear—the action in the kitchen. A five-star, fine dining restaurant under my umbrella is a fine symphony of activity, orchestrated by a head chef that knows my exacting standards and my hard-ass approach to running a gourmet kitchen.

  But when I saw who she was with, my entire body was on fire. No way was I going to let this angel sit with the devil and dine in my restaurant. He’d been here an hour already, sitting at the bar, hitting on the barmaid as he drank the most pompous scotch on our shelf.

  When he left her sitting, I nearly came undone. What a fucking ass. But on the other hand, I was relieved; it meant I didn’t have to figure out a way to get him away from the table so I could move in.

  The idea of her sitting there, eating some of the best food in America, with this piece of shit, made me furious. And when I realized where he’d been I wanted to k
ill him. But deep down? There was a part of me that thanked him for the opportunity to be her savior. His misstep is my opportunity, and I intend to exploit it for all it’s worth.

  “Stay right here.” I bark, when I turn and see her wide green eyes hesitant and glancing toward the door where the good doctor made the wise decision to exit. But I have some other business to tend to before I can deal with more pleasant aspects of my upcoming evening.

  I lift my hand, my maître d’, Pierre, nods my way and is by my side in ten seconds.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Prepare my private dining room.” I whisper into his ear and he nods, looking at the cherub to my left, making me clench my jaw. “Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” He nods, looking down as he moves away and I march over to the bar, where Clarice, the barmaid in question, is looking like a deer that knows it’s in the crosshairs. I’m not known for my bedside manner, and from the way the blood drains from her face and she tightens her lips, she’s pretty sure what’s about to happen.

  “Get your shit and get out.” I don’t have time to hold her hand. “Fucking now!” I scream, not caring that the customers in the bar are staring or that there will be no other bartender for the night. I don’t tolerate bullshit, and in my restaurants I run the asylum—otherwise the asylum runs you.

  She’s shaking as she mumbles some half-assed apology and scurries into the back hall, her head hanging.

  I would usually make sure she found her way out into the back parking lot, but I don’t have time for that today. I have more important things on my mind.

  When I move back to where the dark haired beauty is standing, there’s new fear in her eyes and I hate it. I never want to see her afraid again, especially of me.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. But it was necessary. I’m sure you understand why.”

  “Sure, but...you didn’t have to do that. You don’t even know me, I don’t care—”