He shook his head, rising from the chair, his handsome face resigned. "I know, I know. I get it. This is me trusting you. You go tend to Mitch and his kitchen, and me and Kik will make up a list of things you need from the grocery store." Kiki hopped out of her princess bed and stood on her hind legs to lean on Nikos's calf, stretching against him. He scooped her up and planted a kiss on her nose.

G.o.d, he really did have some gush-worthy moments. "You don't have to shop for me. I can do it . . ."

"When, tomorrow? Your shift starts at seven, Frankie. It's already three. By the time you get there and create and get back here, you're going to be dead on your feet. You go. I'll take Kik for the night if you don't make it home by eleven, okay?" He gave her a quick peck on her lips. "Go. It's okay," he emphasized with a rea.s.suring pat on her backside.

Taking Kiki from Nikos, Frankie gave her a quick snuggle before handing her back. She squeezed Nikos's arm and shot him a smile before grabbing her coat and purse and running out the door.

As she headed out of her apartment complex, she smiled again when she remembered his body pressed to hers.

And then she blushed because she was having carnal flashbacks she neither regretted nor didn't want to repeat. A. Lot.

Add in the fact that while she knew Nikos wanted to throttle Mitch, sick or not, he didn't object to her going. The clench of his jaw and the flash of irritation in his eyes had told her he wasn't happy about it.

But that he had, in fact, not made a big stink of it, and even offered to take Kiki for the night, meant he was beginning to trust her.

Like a flash of lightning, it hit her: Nikos's trust in her had become very important.

She smiled.

To herself.

Like time number two million and two.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

From the "red-eyed, snot-dripping-from-her-nose" journal of ex-trophy wife Frankie Bennett: Recipe for Disaster equals one part dying ex-husband, two parts enraged new boyfriend, and a pinch of paparazzi with telephoto lens. Oh, and Hollywood Scoop is the debil, and all the people who work for that f.u.c.king show are a.s.s-licking, debil worshippers. I have to go now, because I need another tissue and some ointment for my raw nose. And the want ads. In that order.

Frankie glanced at the clock and yawned wide. Wiping her hands on the ap.r.o.n Mitch had provided, she untied the strings and laid it on the countertop, looking in Mitch's direction. "So I think you're good to go. This should get you through to the next-to-last taping and keep the execs happy. I'll email you one more recipe before the end of the week to finish it up."

Mitch's eyes, still so youthful despite his fifty-eight years, crinkled at the corners. "Do you think it could be that meatloaf recipe from the diner?"

Her head c.o.c.ked. "I told you, that's an Antonakas family secret. End of discussion."

His charm turned up a notch. "You know, you're a lifesaver, Frankie. The powers that be would have known something was up if I didn't produce. I just couldn't come up with anything. I can't seem to focus with . . ."

Right. Who could focus with their head in a guillotine? She brushed her hair from her face, ignoring the mess they'd made in favor of digging out her purse from the pile of computer paper on the marble countertop. "I'm an exhausted lifesaver. As it is, I won't get back until almost six, and then I have to go to work. And you should be in bed." Mitch didn't look sick. In fact, he looked better than he ever had. Maybe all that colonic garbage he'd given a thumbs-up to really was the answer: youth in an enema.

As they'd worked, she'd been hesitant to ask too many questions about the doctor he was seeing or his course of treatment for fear he'd consider her interest more than just humane. Too much of the evening, and the intimacy Mitch injected into every other word, had left her feeling uncomfortable.

Though, tonight had been a milestone. No matter how many times Mitch brushed her arm with his, no matter how many warm smiles he shot her way, no matter how many frickin' times he'd cornered her against a counter-he just wasn't Nikos.

Wee and doggie to growth.

Wiping his hands on a linen towel, he cornered her again. "Why don't you just stay here, honey?"

Frankie backed away. "Because I have an apartment I'd like to spend my first night in, not to mention, work in two hours."

"Right. The diner." Oh, the sarcasm those words dripped.

"Yes, Mitch. The diner. I know it's beneath you because the label isn't five-star, but I love it there. I love working there. I love the people there."

"And that Nikos. Do you love Nikos, too?"

"Did you love Bamby?" she countered.

"Not like I loved you."

Hookay. They were traveling into the muddy waters of lying and so much bulls.h.i.t. She was out. What was the point of arguing when he had much bigger issues to consider at this point in his life? "None of that matters anymore. I have to go."

But he took her by the arm, pulling her to him, his body still quite obviously in peak condition due to his personal trainer Gustav. "Don't you miss me, Frankie? Don't you miss us? Like we were tonight? Cooking together, laughing?"

Laughing? Had there been laughter? She'd made it a point to keep this get-together strictly business minus laughter. Frankie pulled back, letting her arms hang loose. "Us? Us? Do you even know what that word means?" She shook her head, trying to remember that the man with the grip of steel was sick. "Look, let's not do this. You're not well."

"Of course I know what it means, honey, and I'm well enough to know I miss you. We had some good times. Great times."

"Before or after I became your b.i.t.c.h?" The words slipped out before she was able to stop them. That Mitch was diagnosed with a terminal illness didn't change the facts. The facts were these: he'd done something awful to her. Then he'd left her broke and a YouTube sensation. But she was letting her old anger surface when it was of the utmost importance she keep it in check.

So checked.

He trailed a finger down her nose. "That's unfair, Frankie. You asked for something to do."

Frankie sucked in a deep, calming breath. "I don't want to have this conversation, Mitch. I want to go home. Let go of me, and we'll forget this ever happened."

"No. I deserve to hear this. Let's clear the air before I leave this earth."

She softened a bit, cringing at the bold acceptance of his fate. "We don't know that you're leaving anything."

"But if I do, I want to know you had your fair shot. Now, go on. Give it to me. We're adults. You asked me for something to do. I gave you something to do on the show, didn't I?"

"Right. Something to do-I didn't ask you to do someone. I didn't ask to become someone you battered with constant demands and endless complaints until exhaustion set in all while your minions fanned you with palm fronds and hand-fed you grapes. I was your wife, Mitch. Not your slave." Wow. Talk about unload.

Mitch heaved an exasperated sigh, as though he'd said this a thousand times before and she was boring him by making him repeat himself time one thousand and one. "We've been through this, Frankie. You know how pa.s.sionate I am about my work in educating people about quality food. That takes hard work and dedication, honey."

Those very words, words she'd heard time and again while Mitch had walked all over anyone he had to in order to get where he wanted to be, were hot b.u.t.tons of long-suppressed anger. "Your work . . . You really are an egomaniac, aren't you? It's food, not the cure for erectile dysfunction. And you're right, we've been through this-you know, when I found out you were banging Bamby. What you claim to be pa.s.sionate about, Mitch, is meaningless in the overall scheme of things. We definitely need food to survive. We don't need pears soaked in one-hundred-year-old brandy to do it. We also need an answer to world hunger. Do you think because you grace people's TV sets every day you're doing them all some sort of favor? Like your humanitarian efforts will make the world a better place? Please. Let's be real. You're a guilty pleasure to your viewers. So stop making it sound like you're the Gandhi of food, saving the hungry one black truffle at a time. I know this will totally blow your mind because it was a real cl.u.s.ter f.u.c.k for me when I found out, too, but there are people in the world who'd eat a Whopper every day if it meant they wouldn't be homeless or they'd have a steady paycheck. But none of that matters. What does matter is you didn't have to treat me like I was the maid instead of your wife all for the sake of your work."

The look he gave her was pained, threading through the light wrinkles at his mouth, and she might have fallen for it if the man standing in front of her wasn't Mitch. "I honestly didn't know you felt that way, Frankie."

This was pointless. "I didn't have the time to know I felt that way until you took every single thing I owned right down to my cashmere socks and skipped off into the sunset with Bamby." She fought not to yell, tamping down her rising anger. "I don't think I ever saw who you truly were until the night of the live broadcast. You did it right under my nose and then you left me with next to nothing, Mitch, and it didn't trouble you even a little. I didn't even get severance pay for time served. I worked just as hard, if not harder, than you to get you where you are at this very second of this career you're so pa.s.sionate about, and oh, look, I got a Nissan Versa and my dog. The dog you never liked to begin with. You didn't know whether I was dead or alive until you needed me to help you."

She'd have given him credit for showing shreds of remorse if he hadn't said what he said next. "I told you, Bamby and I are over."

Her eyes rolled in disgust as she squirmed her way out of his arms and headed toward the door, swinging it open and rushing out, making a beeline for her car. "Yeah, you sure did. Was it her sagging ratings or her sagging implants that did you in? Look, Bamby isn't the point anymore. I don't want to go over this with you. You need to rest. What's in the past is in the past. Let it go."

"I got caught up in the fame, Frankie. It just happened," Mitch called from behind her as his quick steps thunked on the pavement.

Frankie beeped her car door before whirling around. d.a.m.n him. Why couldn't he just let this be? Her words began somber and as calm as she could muster, but they ended up loud and screeching in the chilled night air. "You were always caught up, Mitch. In you. You were self-absorbed long before you hit national television. And nothing just happens when it's about shedding your drawers and sticking your man bits into another woman's special lady. That's premeditated boinking. So spare me the age-old excuse!"

Mitch caught her up against him again. He sure was quick for a dying man. "I'm sorry, Frankie. I've made some mistakes, but so have you."

Whoa. Why was it that when something most excellent happened, it was all due to Mitch, but if something c.r.a.ptacular occurred, she'd had a hand in it?

"Oh, you bet your a.s.s I did! I made plenty of mistakes. I let you turn me into your whipping boy. But my mistakes didn't leave you in poverty, living in your aunt's retirement village. They didn't leave you humiliated and some sideshow freak on national TV either. You, as always, came out of this smelling like a rose. I was the one who was painted unstable and a raving lunatic. I'd bet my ovaries people give you their sympathetic face when I come up in conversation, don't they, Mitch? Poor, poor celebrity chef with the crazy wife. But it isn't you who has to deal with the constant scrutiny when someone recognizes you, is it? They want your autograph. Me? They want to know if my straightjacket's on tight enough to keep me restrained."

Mitch's control was slipping, his patience waning-which meant it was time for him to sound like the reasonable half of this conversation. Like she was the loon in all of this. "Let's be honest here, Frankie. You did that to yourself."

Shoving against his shoulder, she tried to loosen his grip. "I d.a.m.ned well did. I flipped. But let's also be honest about something else. You did me wrong, pal. Not the other way around. There wouldn't have been a scandal if you hadn't created one to begin with. Yet I'm the one paying for it. Well, not a flippin' second longer! I will not be embarra.s.sed for calling you out because you're a lying, cheating bottom-feeder, and I won't be your victim! I like my life now, Mitch. It's a whole lot less complicated when I don't have to chase after you with a roll of toilet paper in hand so I can wipe your a.s.s. I like that I'm in control of what happens to my life. Nay, I love it, and you can't ever have that back. No one will ever control me the way you did again. For any cause, five-star food or otherwise."

His lips thinned-a sure sign he was fighting to keep his notorious temper in check. Yet his next words were a shadow of sincere. "I don't want to control you, Frankie. That's never what I wanted. I just got a little carried away. All I really want is you to consider us getting back together."

"Because you need me to help create recipes for the show."

"No-"

"Oh, yes!" Frankie all but shouted, forcing herself to keep her voice down. "My recipes won't help that. Keeping your d.i.c.k in your pants might. Now go inside before this gets any worse. Go back to your precious multimillion-dollar brownstone with its ridiculously overpriced paintings and marble floors and let this go. Please. Getting you all riled up can't be good for you. You're ill. I'm here for you in the most vague sense. I'll help you in any way I can, but we're never getting back together."

Mitch scooped her up in his arms, then cupped her a.s.s as though he had a right to it, and dying or not, that just wasn't gonna happen. "Are you sure you won't reconsider getting me that meatloaf recipe? It could be a big hit. Think about the business it would bring the diner."

Anger not only at his presumptuous behavior but also at the size of his b.a.l.l.s slithered in an ugly climb from her toes to the tip of her head. With a pinch to his ear, Frankie drew him down to her lips. "Oh, I'll give you a meatloaf recipe-meatloaf this, Mitch Bennett, and take your hands off my a.s.s or I can promise you, you'll need a proctologist as well as an oncologist. Let. Go. Now."

Mitch did as she requested, letting her go so that she almost fell into her car. Frankie cracked the door open and gave him one last glance. "I'll email you. Good-bye, Mitch." It was all she could do not to snarl the words at him before she started the engine, slammed the door, and left.

Terminal or not, there wasn't a shred of guilt left on her plate for finally letting Mitch have it.

Consider the air all clear.

"So you and Chloe are never going to make Mama grandbabies."

Nikos c.o.c.ked his head and gave his mother a sympathetic smile. Running a hand along her cheek, he leaned in to kiss her. "No, Mama. I've told you over and over. I'm not interested in Chloe. I know she's Greek, and in your mind the perfect fit to the family, but you don't want me to be unhappy for the rest of my life, do you?"

She spread her hands across her ample hips. "But you like our Frankie. You can't hide this thing from Mama."

s.h.i.t. "I wasn't trying to hide it from you per se, Mama. We were still testing the waters, so to speak. Feeling each other out, seeing where everything would lead before we made any official announcements about anything. And I know she's not Greek, Mama, but you and Papa will just have to live-"

"Bah," Voula said with affection, cupping his cheek with her weathered hand. "I know Papa and me always say we want you to marry a nice Greek girl, but really, we just want you to marry someone . Anyone. I don't even think she needs to be nice now you're so old," she teased. "We teach Frankie how to be a good Greek. If she can be married to that bad Mitch for all that time, teaching her to make good baklava should be a cupcake."

Nikos barked a laugh. "Piece of cake," he corrected, love in his tone.

Voula shrugged. "Same thing. I just want you and your fresh brother to be happy. If Frankie makes you happy, I'm happy."

"And Papa?"

Voula grunted, making a fist she shook playfully at her son. "He is what your Frankie calls a cranky pants, but he is not mad about you and Frankie. He's mad he does not feel useful anymore. It's time we talk about that Florida you say would be so nice for your Mama's creaking bones. I want to play shuffleboard and sit by the big pool with a tall, pink gla.s.s of silly juice. I know if we leave the diner with you, you will take good care of it."

"You have enough in your retirement fund to last you two lifetimes, Mama. But I don't think Papa will go for it. He's nothing if he can't micromanage the diner."

She shook her chubby finger at him. "You don't worry about Papa. He'll come with me if I tell him Seamus Mavros is there . . ."

Nikos gathered her in a hug. "You are one crafty lady, Mama."

She patted him on the back. "Speaking of my Frankie, where is she today?"

Nikos gave a worried glance at the clock. Frankie, since the first and only time she'd been late, was nothing if she wasn't punctual to the point of early. On most days, she was a half an hour early, but it was already ten till seven.

He'd spent a restless night with Kiki curled up next to him, refusing to give in to his bulls.h.i.t insecurities. It wasn't even Frankie he didn't trust; something just didn't smell right with Mitch. Still, lying about kicking the bucket was a drastic extreme to go to in order to woo a woman.

"Morning, Voula," Frankie called from just inside the kitchen, dark shadows under her eyes.

Voula clapped her hands in delight. "Ah, there she is." Then she frowned, cupping Frankie's chin. "You look so tired, my baby. You don't sleep?"

Nikos watched as Frankie waved his mother off, giving her a quick hug before going to get her ap.r.o.n. "I just had a long night . . . er, unpacking. I'm good to go."

Voula reached for her again, pressing the back of her hand to Frankie's forehead. "You don't feel sick, but you come to Voula at lunchtime break. I make you soup. It feeds the heart."

"Soul," Frankie corrected on a tired giggle, grabbing her favorite knife. "I'll see you at lunch."

More and more, when he observed Frankie with his mother or even his father, Nikos also observed tightness in his gut, an electric tingle in his chest he'd been unsuccessful at pinpointing. His eyes strayed to the woman he'd come to look forward to seeing across from him every day. Her auburn hair was in that messy ponytail, and her amber eyes were indeed rimmed with dark shadows.

Nikos nudged her slender shoulder with his, keeping his ludicrous suspicions and potential outbursts to himself. "How'd last night go?"

Frankie's eyes didn't seek his. Instead, she looked down at the chopping block. "Okay. No big deal."

"Did you come up with anything solid-or are you going to have to go back?"

She frowned down at the carrots she was slicing for the stew. "No, no. I don't have to go back. I think we sewed it all up. Was Kik okay? Is she in the back with Barnabas?"

He nuzzled her neck, ignoring the weird vibe she was giving off. "Yep, she's with Papa, and she spent the night plastered up against me like we'd been surgically attached together." Leaning in closer, he let the tip of his tongue skim the outer sh.e.l.l of her ear. "We missed you."

Frankie waved him away with a gloved hand and a terse giggle. "Stop. Your mother."

He took the knife from her, forcing her to look at him by hauling her close, bringing to mind the lascivious notion of taking her right here and now. "She knows."

When her eyes finally found his, they were weary and hesitant. "Am I in the s.h.i.t because my last name doesn't have an 'opolous' on the end of it?"

Nikos laughed. He loved her sharp wit. "Nope. Mama loves you. She's fine with it. Happy it's you, in fact."

"Really?" Her genuine surprise was evident.

"Really, sweetheart. Why are you so surprised?"

"Because while I'm clearly diner material, I didn't think I was 'big, hunky Greek son' material."