Page 76 of Purrfectly Kissed

She was still wiping the greasy residue he’d transferred to her skin from the food he ate sans utensils. This was too much. Elissa was beyond uncomfortable with all the leering and bad attempts at innuendo.

Plus, she was starving. One look at the dump he’d taken her to, and she knew she could never eat there. The chef in her wouldn’t allow it.

To think they drove two hours for this! She’d practically frozen to death in his maroon Cadillac, listening to a CD of the Rat Pack, while Gianni crooned loudly, and off key, to the music.

Normally, she was a fan of the famous group of legendary singers. Having grown up in Hoboken, she couldn’t not be a Sinatra fan. Though, to be honest, Dean Martin had always been her favorite.

Still, Elissa was a firm believer that there were just some people you did not try to imitate. Especially not if you were Little Gianni. While he was belting his heart out, he’d been trying to get his right hand on her thigh. She’d asked him politely to stop.

Twice.

Then she’d been forced to try something a little more drastic. Like spilling her hot tea on the offending hand the third time he’d tried it. Finally, he’d removed his hand from her leg. Not making a fourth attempt, which she was grateful for.

Elissa should’ve taken that behavior as a sign and gotten out of the car. But no. She’d wanted to do Gretchen a solid. So, against her better judgement, she gave the creep another chance.

Idiota, her grandmother’s voice echoed in her brain again.

The old woman had loved her. Elissa knew that without a doubt. She’d raised her after her own parents had passed on in a tragic automobile accident when Elissa was just twelve.

Her grandmother was a no-nonsense kind of lady who dished out priceless wisdom with brutally honest insights. It was the same way she dished out huge bowls of pasta with her amazing meatballs and homemade sauce. Not to mention a side order of back-breaking hugs that Elissa still missed.

Nonna cooked like that all the time. She made a huge pot of sauce every weekend, and she was happy to serve it to Elissa and her teammates and friends, especially after games and tournaments.

Soccer had been her sport of choice, and cooking had soon become her favorite hobby. Her grandmother had encouraged her in both pursuits. Guiding her in one and cheering her on in the other. Elissa still missed her terribly.

“Hey babe, ain’t you gonna eat nothin’? You know they charge twenty dollars just to sit down,” Little Gianni interrupted her train of thought.

Elissa was forced to turn her mind back to the present, which unfortunately included watching,and hearing, him as he sucked on his teeth and stuffed another breaded shrimp down his throat.

“I’m fine,” she answered with a polite smile plastered on her face.

Just get home, Lissa. Just get him to take you home.

Elissa closed her eyes when he looked back down at his dish. Thank God for small favors, she mused. At least he was more interested in eating at the moment.

He’d taken her to the rattiest looking hotel and casino she’d ever seen in her life. And the buffet room?

Ew.

Seriously, the place had to be violating at least a dozen health codes. When Gianni had said Atlantic City, she’d thought at least the atmosphere would be exciting. But they were so far from the real glitz and entertainment, they might as well be anywhere else.

She sighed, looking at the plate she’d made for herself. Elissa couldn’t even fake an interest in the food. As a chef, it was hard enough to dine out.

She was always judging the food, the service, the ingredients. How could she not? It was her business. And that was when the food was good!

This was not good. Not at all.

She’d been to hospitals that served better food. Old yellow lights buzzed and blinked around the buffet, giving it an abandoned kind of feel. The menu was made up of mostly frozen then fried or baked cuisine.

Reheated actually. It was like a giant TV dinner buffet where every item was previously frozen when already cooked and warmed up in an oven.

It was the kind of food sold cheap at restaurant supply stores in bulk. Yeah, this was much worse than hospital food, in her opinion.

There was a worn carpet on the floor, a handful of scattered tables in the dining room, elevator music on in the background, and the entire place smelled like canned soup.

Not to mention not one of the five people there besides them was under sixty years old.

“Gianni,” she said, leaning forward so as not to hurt his feelings.

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