Don't Touch

She looks perfect.

“Let me take you out to dinner tonight,” I say.

“Tonight? How will that work with the restaurant and dinner service?”

“Cheryl can handle it. I've got a few people that work per diem if I'm ever in a bind. It'll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't.”

“All right,” she agrees with a bashful smirk. “Dinner it is.”

I look at my watch. “We better get this all cleaned up, the rest of the crew will be here in about forty minutes.”

We work side by side, cleaning the dining room and starting the morning prep for today. There's something about her working with me that just feels right. It's like we can read each other.

And as we move in tandem, following unspoken cues and cute little smirks and side eye stares, I find myself falling for her. Falling for her beauty. Falling for her perfect mouth and dazzling eyes.

I'm falling, and I honestly don't care.

7

Arisa

The taxi pulls up to the restaurant. Monroe is standing outside, resting back, with a foot pressed against the brick wall. His hands are in his pockets, and his hair is slicked back against his scalp.

He's wearing a black suit with a bright white tie. The suit hugs his bulging muscles perfectly as if it was tailored around his naked body. As the taxi comes to a stop, he smiles and walks to my door, pulling it open.

“Thanks,” he says to the driver and hands him some money. Monroe holds out his hand for me to take, and helps me out of the car. “Wow,” he says, spinning me in a full circle. “You look incredible.”

After trying on everything in my closet, I settled for a knee length blue dress with a lily pattern all over it. There's a little bit of cleavage pillowing out the top and the straps come up over my shoulders and cross around my back.

“You don't look so bad yourself,” I say, giving the inside trim of his jacket a soft pull. “Very fancy.”

Our eyes lock on each other and he starts to lean in like he's about to kiss me. My lips are primed, parting as he grows closer.

“Monroe,” a man says from behind me, causing him to jerk his back straight. “I haven't seen you in ages. How are you?”

“George, it's good to see you. I'm doing pretty good. How are you?”

The man splits us apart, filling the gap between us as he gives Monroe a fatherly hug. “I'm wonderful my old friend.”

The man is older, maybe in his late sixties. He has gray lines streaking dark black oily hair, and a thin mustache that traces his top lip. He's round, very round, with a pot belly that's barely hidden behind his suit jacket.

Thick crow’s feet crinkle at his eyes as he grins. “And who is this beautiful lady?” he asks as he turns to face me.

“This is Arisa St. Germain,” Monroe answers.

“Arisa, what a lovely name for such a beautiful face.” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of my palm. “George Deligato, and welcome to my restaurant.”

“Thank you, Mr. Deligato. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

I'm trying to keep my composure and not seem too thrilled to be here meeting another restaurant legend. George Deligato, owner of the five-star Italian cuisine restaurant Onirico. This place is the top of the top when it comes to Italian food. He's been in every food magazine I know, and he’s even good friends with Gordon Ramsey.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says. “Come, I've got the perfect table for you two.”

I look up at Monroe and he wags his brows and smiles. We follow George inside. He stops at every table we pass, making sure the diners are enjoying their food and thanking them for coming.

He's amazing. The way he works the room, making people smile and ladies blush with his charm.

“Here we are,” he says, pulling out my chair for me and pushing me in. “This table is reserved for only my closest of friends. Monroe, your father and mother used to eat here years ago, long before you were even born.”

“Really? This table?”

“Exactly as it is now. I've never changed it. Even the chairs are the same.”

“Wow, I feel even more humble now. Thank you, George.”

“Please, don't thank me. It's an honor to have the son of Jacques Martisse dining in my restaurant.” George glances over his shoulder and snaps his fingers, then points down at us. “Monroe, you're creating quite the name for yourself. I almost feel challenged.”

“Almost,” Monroe says. “My restaurant isn't even close to the status you've built for yourself.”

“Not yet, but from what I hear, you're on your way.” He reaches out and squeezes Monroe's shoulder. “Your father would be proud. If you need anything, just ask. I'll be around.”

Monroe nods as George's attention shifts to the new group of diners about to sit down. He marches off, adjusting his jacket and straightening his back. I can hear his blusterous voice as he greets them with his signature smile.