Page 1 of Hungry Hearts

CHAPTER ONE

“CELEBRATING SOMETHINGspecial tonight?” I ask the couple who take a seat at my bar and set two coasters in front of them.

“It’s my wife’s birthday,” the husband says.

“Happy birthday. Thirtieth?” I ask.

She blushes and shakes her head in embarrassment. “Sure, twenty some-odd years ago.”

“Well, bottle up whatever it is you’ve been doing for the past few decades and sell it on the Internet. You’ll be millionaires in no time.”

The woman laughs and squeezes her husband’s hand. “You could take flirting lessons from this nice gentleman.”

I inwardly snort. If people only knew. Polite, charming, funny, and a fucking rockstar in the kitchen and in bed? Yes. The gentleman act is purely for my restaurant, Red, and when I want to hit on a woman. Once I get them naked, like the alcohol in my bourbon sauce, my gentleman persona reduces to nothing.

I’m not an asshole, but there’s nothing gentlemanly about the way I like to talk and fuck. I please my women, more than once, then take them for the ride of their lifetime. It’s great fun for all.

The couple places their order, and I make their cocktails.

Slinging drinks in my upscale bar is fun on occasion, but I’d much rather be in the kitchen grilling a T-bone or porterhouse steak. I prefer simple, but I know my patrons expect something fancier when coming to my five-star restaurant. Red is known for its top cut of meats, sophisticated atmosphere, and, well, me.

The attention my restaurant gets as not only the best in the casino, Four Aces, but the finest restaurant in all of Boston, keeps us booked out a solid four months in advance. I love the media attention my steak and three signature sauces get. My classic red wine reduction with garlic, pearl onions, and shitake mushrooms; the butter, thyme, and tarragon sauce; or my bourbon reduction that has three secret ingredients I won’t even share with my sous chef.

And, not gonna lie, I love the media attentionIget. Not that I need help attracting the ladies, but one of the added perks—or burdens, if I’m pretending—is the swarm of women who want a piece of my meat. A Ryder Benton special.

Does it get old? I mean, sometimes. My three best friends have settled down with three awesome women who aren’t quiet about wanting me to follow suit and be done with all the wild oats I keep sewing.

Settling down isn’t on my radar. It could be because of the women I surround myself with, or it could be something more, but I don’t waste my time on overthinking and psychoanalyzing myself.

A lone woman takes a seat at the far end of the bar away from the small crowd that sips on drinks waiting for their table. I keep the occupancy level at a minimum to maintain the ambiance of the restaurant.

Even seats at the bar book up months in advance, and rarely do I have a lone patron. I check on my current customers and make my way to the woman. She’s staring down at the glossy mahogany bar top, not on her phone, not glancing around doing the people-watching thing so many love to do here.

It’s not uncommon to have a celebrity sighting. The Four Aces casino draws a lot of high-end rollers in Boston and is a popular place for those celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, girls' nights, bachelor parties, and such.

There are casual eateries scattered among the twenty-three floors that range from family friendly to a party atmosphere, but Red is reserved for those who have no problem shelling out thirty bucks for a drink and triple that for a meal.

It’s not often people come here alone. I set a coaster in front of the woman. “What can I get for you tonight?”

She lifts her head and her long curtain of dark waves parts, revealing the most exquisite chocolate eyes I’ve ever seen. So dark they look black in the dim lighting of the bar. Big and wide, and sad.

Her mouth is every man’s wet dream. Full, pink lips that my dick wants wrapped around it. My fitted dark gray Tom Ford slacks are shit for hiding my wood, so I pull my gaze from her mouth and meet her eyes with mine.

After a quick glance at her left hand, I bring out the Ryder Benton charm. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this?”

“Felt like slumming it, I guess.”

I don’t expect the comeback and bark out a laugh. Damn, that’s sexy. I love when a woman can dish out snarky remarks.

“Slumming alone tonight or are you waiting for someone? If you tell me the latter, you’ll need to excuse me for a few minutes while I go out back and drown myself in a bucket of steak sauce. Unless you tell me your girlfriend is as beautiful as you, but I think God pulled out all the stops when he made you, not leaving anything left for the rest of the female population.”

She tilts her head to the side and quirks her lip. Her eyes turn from sad to almost happy. My dick is proud of its accomplishment without even having to show itself, not that it would mind.

“You’re telling me you have steak sauce?”

“Busted. I made that up.” When I was a kid, it was like fancy ketchup. I’ve refined my taste since I was a kid. In more ways than one.

She chuckles. “Slumming alone.”

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