Henry could never survive the harsh working conditions, not with the plush background that had spawned him.
The boy reminded Vito of himself at that age, even though Vito only had about ten years on him. Henry was eager to please, ready to learn—hell, he seemed just happy to be there in the kitchen, doing grunt work that might be some other folks’ idea of hell.
Vito needed to get back to the black cod he was sautéing in butter with fresh thyme. He tilted the pan so he could bathe the fish in the herb-infused butter.
And you need to stop thinking about that boy. He reached over to grab a sprinkle of kosher salt from the wooden box to his left and pondered his feelings. The boy, Henry, stirred something in him. He had since he’d first walked in the door two weeks ago and Carmela had introduced him around. Those blue eyes, so different from Vito’s dark ones, captivated Vito in a way he thought was long since dead. And the way Henry held his gaze a little longer than what might be considered normal spoke volumes about which way the kid swung. And, if the eye lock wasn’t enough to broadcast Henry’s feelings, he had held on far too long when they shook hands. Vito finally had to pull his hand away and turn back to his stove.
Vito didn’t like it. Here, in front of this stove, was his sanctuary. What he loved about the restaurant, at least in the past few months, was the fact that he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to talk. He could work like a machine, muscle memory directing his hands, making recipes he’d prepared hundreds of times. He was safe.
The kid changed all that. He had penetrated Vito’s defenses, the wall he had erected when he’d lost—well, he didn’t want to think about that. Ever.
Vito was getting to the point where the scars he bore inside were just that—toughened and thickened, insensitive to the touch. Beyond his dogs, work, what to put in his belly, and when to go to sleep, Vito didn’t allow himself time for much of anything else.
Including pretty boys who seemed too eager to please. Vito allowed himself a glance over once more, and a grin creased his features in spite of himself. It wasn’t just that the kid was hot—although he was, with a tight little ass, broad shoulders, and the kind of Nordic beauty that drew Vito like a moth to a flame—it was more than that. Even in just two weeks of working alongside him, the kid was in his element. He seemed happy.
Vito both envied that and was drawn to it, although he didn’t want to be.
He would have to be careful around this Henry. He didn’t want him getting too close.
H ENRY WIPED the sweat from his brow with his arm and then shoved another tray full of dishes into the dishwasher. His shirt was soaked, both from the spray of the faucet as he rinsed dishes and from his own perspiration. His back ached, right there at the base, and it made Henry want to pause to just rub it, to knead out the kinks and the pain. But there was no time!
When he was little, he’d loved the movie Fantasia , and his mother would allow him to watch it over and over. Looking back, he realized she wasn’t being indulgent. She was using the DVD as a babysitter, as a way to avoid interacting with him.
What made him think of the Disney film right now, though, was not a dysfunctional family memory but Mickey Mouse. He was in the segment called “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” and he lost control of his magic when he tried to have a broomstick carry buckets of water for him. The brooms multiplied and got out of control, flooding Mickey’s castle.
Henry didn’t feel like a magician, but he did understand now, better than ever, what it was like to have overwhelming work just keep coming at him, like some sort of tsunami. The plates, the knives, the forks, the spoons, the drinking glasses, the wineglasses that had to be hand washed, and more just never seemed to stop coming once service began. Henry was afraid that if he paused to take a
The boy reminded Vito of himself at that age, even though Vito only had about ten years on him. Henry was eager to please, ready to learn—hell, he seemed just happy to be there in the kitchen, doing grunt work that might be some other folks’ idea of hell.
Vito needed to get back to the black cod he was sautéing in butter with fresh thyme. He tilted the pan so he could bathe the fish in the herb-infused butter.
And you need to stop thinking about that boy. He reached over to grab a sprinkle of kosher salt from the wooden box to his left and pondered his feelings. The boy, Henry, stirred something in him. He had since he’d first walked in the door two weeks ago and Carmela had introduced him around. Those blue eyes, so different from Vito’s dark ones, captivated Vito in a way he thought was long since dead. And the way Henry held his gaze a little longer than what might be considered normal spoke volumes about which way the kid swung. And, if the eye lock wasn’t enough to broadcast Henry’s feelings, he had held on far too long when they shook hands. Vito finally had to pull his hand away and turn back to his stove.
Vito didn’t like it. Here, in front of this stove, was his sanctuary. What he loved about the restaurant, at least in the past few months, was the fact that he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to talk. He could work like a machine, muscle memory directing his hands, making recipes he’d prepared hundreds of times. He was safe.
The kid changed all that. He had penetrated Vito’s defenses, the wall he had erected when he’d lost—well, he didn’t want to think about that. Ever.
Vito was getting to the point where the scars he bore inside were just that—toughened and thickened, insensitive to the touch. Beyond his dogs, work, what to put in his belly, and when to go to sleep, Vito didn’t allow himself time for much of anything else.
Including pretty boys who seemed too eager to please. Vito allowed himself a glance over once more, and a grin creased his features in spite of himself. It wasn’t just that the kid was hot—although he was, with a tight little ass, broad shoulders, and the kind of Nordic beauty that drew Vito like a moth to a flame—it was more than that. Even in just two weeks of working alongside him, the kid was in his element. He seemed happy.
Vito both envied that and was drawn to it, although he didn’t want to be.
He would have to be careful around this Henry. He didn’t want him getting too close.
H ENRY WIPED the sweat from his brow with his arm and then shoved another tray full of dishes into the dishwasher. His shirt was soaked, both from the spray of the faucet as he rinsed dishes and from his own perspiration. His back ached, right there at the base, and it made Henry want to pause to just rub it, to knead out the kinks and the pain. But there was no time!
When he was little, he’d loved the movie Fantasia , and his mother would allow him to watch it over and over. Looking back, he realized she wasn’t being indulgent. She was using the DVD as a babysitter, as a way to avoid interacting with him.
What made him think of the Disney film right now, though, was not a dysfunctional family memory but Mickey Mouse. He was in the segment called “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” and he lost control of his magic when he tried to have a broomstick carry buckets of water for him. The brooms multiplied and got out of control, flooding Mickey’s castle.
Henry didn’t feel like a magician, but he did understand now, better than ever, what it was like to have overwhelming work just keep coming at him, like some sort of tsunami. The plates, the knives, the forks, the spoons, the drinking glasses, the wineglasses that had to be hand washed, and more just never seemed to stop coming once service began. Henry was afraid that if he paused to take a
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