This wasn't Miss Universe. It was Miss Needs A Job.

Flipping on the water, Frankie let it heat up while she undressed, catching a glimpse of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in the long mirror above the vanity. She cupped them, wincing at how small they were, noting they were also beginning to sag.

How fun.

Bamby had fluffy D-cups.

Maybe she'd been the inspiration for Mitch's comment when he'd said Frankie might consider a b.o.o.b job.

Frankie shook off the memory with a shiver. Mitch was all up in her head today, and she had Maxine to thank for that. If she'd just left her alone, her numb state of denial could have gone on in a blissful haze of her own stench.

Kiki sat beside her on the bath mat, her paws primly in front of her, dark eyes observing Frankie in typical stoic fashion. "Just remember, I'm doing this for you-because kibble costs money. But I don't like it. Got that? If you didn't need to eat, I'd just stay in bed."

That train of thought became a theme for her first day at Greek Meets Eat Diner. Upon her arrival, loud crashes of pots and pans came from the kitchen followed by words, harsh and foreign, mingled with laughter and a lot of yelling.

Frankie winced, pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, unsure where to go, but desperately hoping to avoid the overwhelming chaos by finding a dark corner. It wasn't so much the yelling. G.o.d knew Mitch had yelled at her, more often than not, without her even realizing it, as their relationship disintegrated. It was the overstimulation she found abrasive and jarring. Like small needles puncturing her coc.o.o.n of quiet.

The diner held only one customer, most likely due to the fact that not even vampires were putting on their eye masks and night cream yet.

A man, just an inch shy of Nikos's tremendous build, and almost as handsome, skidded out of the kitchen, his face a mask of anger. Frankie backed up against one of the red vinyl stools lining the long counter. "You're here!" he all but shouted.

She was. Frankie nodded, wincing. "I am, and you're an awesome welcome wagon." She jammed a finger in her ear to stop the ringing.

The man grabbed her by the hand, dragging her back to the kitchen. With a harried look, he dropped her hand and spat, "I can't find my spatula."

Frankie's eyes went blank. "Your spatula."

He nodded like she should know exactly what he meant. "My spatula. Can't find it anywhere. How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to make omelets for the morning rush if I can't find the d.a.m.ned thing?"

"I don't want to sound judgmental, but you only have one spatula?" What kind of cook had one spatula?

"It's my favorite," he reasoned.

No one understood that better than Frankie. Mitch had a favorite everything, too. If Mitch lost or misplaced his favorite anything, she was in charge of making it appear out of thin air. "Am I in charge of spatula recon?"

"I don't know your exact job t.i.tle, but you're in charge of whatever needs taking charge of. You're Frankie, right?"

He didn't recognize her either? Please. Had televisions gone the way of Tears For Fears and ripped sweatshirts while she'd hibernated? "I'm Frankie. Yes. Frankie Bennett." She remembered to hold out her hand in introduction. If nothing else, she'd earn courtesy points on her work eval with Nikos.

The tall, dark man grabbed it and gave it a brisk shake. "Cosmos Antonakas. This here's Hector Louis, our other short-order cook, and he can't find my d.a.m.n spatula either."

Jamming her hands into her jean pockets, Frankie rocked back on her heels. "You said as much, and nice to meet you, Hector."

Hector gave her a brief smile, one that didn't quite meet his eyes, holding up his hands to indicate they were covered in grease as a way to apologize for not shaking her hand. "Hey," he muttered before turning back to what he was doing.

Cosmos flapped his hands to indicate she should get moving. "So let's go. Nik said you were going to help organize the kitchen and do the prep work for the breakfast and lunch crowd."

"Oh, she is here!" A woman with big hair, fashioned in some sort of bouffant, and eyes resembling Nikos's, crowed from the corner of the kitchen. She rushed forward, her white ap.r.o.n fluttering about the tops of her knees, to envelop Frankie in her doughy-soft embrace.

She plucked at Frankie's arm and made a face. Her Greek accent had shades of light and dark when she said, "First things first. You are too skeeny. I make you spanakopita and you eat it. No make with the mouth about it either. It is a miracle you can hold up your head, never mind a whole body all skin and bones like you are. We must fix the skeeny."

Taking hold of Frankie's hand, she led her to the back of the kitchen, lined with ovens and an enormous grill, to a small s.p.a.ce adjacent to the long stretch of steel countertop used for prepping. She patted a lone red vinyl stool. "Sit."

As though she instinctively knew Frankie was going to refuse her invitation, Voula raised one raven eyebrow flecked with gray, daring her to decline. Frankie's lips clamped shut. "I said no mouth about it. Everyone eats to start the day right with Voula. It gives the brain energy and the body gas."

"Fuel, Mama. It gives her body fuel," Cosmos interjected with an indulgent chuckle, planting a kiss on his mother's cheek.

Voula waved her pudgy hands at him. "Fuel, gas, make no difference. Still the same. You fill up the body with both." She pulled a plate from beneath the warming lights used to keep customer orders hot prior to being served, and plunked it in front of Frankie. "I make this just for you, because Nikos said you are too skeeny. We have much to chop today. You need your strength."

Frankie's face flushed at the notion Nikos thought anything of her. Yet, she still planned an uprising. As Voula went off in search of what Frankie figured was silverware, Cosmos leaned into her with a crafty smile. "I wouldn't even consider telling her no. If you're totally opposed, make nice and I'll cover for you while you dump it, but telling her no is like poking her in the heart with a hot pitchfork. You would not believe the drama that woman can generate over the word 'no.' It's not in the Greek vocabulary when it comes to food."

Voula brought her silverware, placing the fork in Frankie's hand. "You eat. Now. I'll get coffee to put some color in your cheeks."

Frankie instantly sat. She might be reluctant, but she wasn't brain dead, and the last thing she wanted to do was embarra.s.s her Aunt Gail, who'd cooed with delight about Nikos and his diner. Lifting the flaky crust, she almost smiled. The pastry was cooked to perfection, filled with gooey feta cheese, eggs, and spinach. Finding herself appreciative of the visual effect of the dish, she placed a piece in her mouth.

Wow. Had she ever underestimated a good meal all these months. The melt-in-her-mouth goodness, the combination of salty cheese and mellow eggs. .h.i.t her stomach with a euphoric sigh of bliss.

Voula put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. She smelled of pastry and spices mixed with floral perfume. Her scent made Frankie's eyes sting with more unwanted tears. "It's good, right?"

"It's delicious. Thank you," Frankie said around another mouthful, hoping to avoid any more "skeeny" conversations.

"Hah! I bet all those pretty television food people you know don't know my spanakopita."

Frankie's stomach sank.

Further sinkage occurred when a now familiar voice boomed, "Mama! What did I tell you?"

Voula yanked the striped towel from her shoulder and swiped playfully at the dark Adonis, er, Nikos. "I think about this last night before I go to bed, Nikos. Frankie isn't a stupid girl. We don't come from the old country where there is no electricity. We have a TV. We saw what happened. If I was her and your papa was Mitch, that dirty, old man would lose more than his pride on the television. He would have lost his olives."

Frankie snorted before a cough erupted from her throat. Cosmos pa.s.sed her a cold gla.s.s of water she downed in two gulps. Though, it didn't help the flame of her cheeks or the tingle of her scalp as Nikos leaned over her to pinch his mother's plump cheek. "Mama, that's not the point. Sometimes, even when you mean well, you dump salt in an open wound with your kindness."

Voula brushed a stray piece of hair back into its nest and made a face. "Bah! You don't put salt in a wound. You put peroxide. It makes everything okay. And I'm not gonna tippy-toe around here in my own diner. My memory is bad. I forget to keep the secrets. So we just let the rabbit out of the hat and get it over with-"

"The cat out of the bag, Mama," Nikos corrected, his grin fond and warm enough for Frankie to feel it.

"Yes, cats, rabbits, groundhogs. That's not the point. The point is we cannot have Frankie here afraid she is not with people who understand."

Voula turned to Frankie, cupping her chin, her dark chocolate eyes warm. "You were married to a bad man, Frankie. Now you are not. We will take good care of you, but we do it without all the pretending and nicey-nice like we don't know you did something people say is crazy. Okay?" Voula directed her question to Frankie, who'd semi-recovered.

She set her fork down, wiping her mouth with the napkin Cosmos provided. "Okay?" She wasn't sure if it was okay, but looking up at Voula, everything felt almost okay. Or if it wasn't, Voula would beat it with a rolling pin until it was.

Voula chucked her under the chin and smiled. "Yes. It's okay now. Would have been better if you married a Greek boy to begin with, but for now, it's okay. So finish and we begin." With that, she strode off to a door at the other end of the kitchen, letting it close with a thunk behind her ample backside.

Nikos eyeballed her, leaving her without much air in her lungs. His sharply planed face and luscious lips made her fingers wrap more tightly around the fork. "So Mama made you spanakopita? She doesn't do that for just anyone, you know."

Frankie's resentment at being so easily fooled seeped over the edges of her manners. "Just for loony-bin worthy women like me who make fools of themselves on television?"

He popped his lips. "And sometimes for loony-bin worthy women who make fools of themselves on a much smaller scale. But only the really loony ones," he teased with a grin.

More with the funny. "You said you had no idea who I was. Imagine my surprise."

Nikos crossed his arms over his wide, hard chest, the dark hairs on his arms making her stomach weak. "Yeah, and I was so convincing, Spielberg called. He wants me to star in his next movie about chefs' wives gone wild."

What little air she had in her lungs fled. "So you lied."

He sighed, making his gorgeous chest expand and deflate, drawing her eyes to it. "Yep, but I just wanted to make you more comfortable. You weren't exactly helping yourself in that interview. I got the impression you would have peeled your own skin off to get out of my office. But I promised Max I wouldn't let you get away with it. No need to get excited or defensive. Oh, and I've held off on the flyers featuring your name as the newest addition to the Antonakas diner family. In case you were worried we'd abuse your celebrity." Nikos winked, his thick, long lashes sweeping across his cheekbone in rakish fashion.

Frankie made a mock roll of her eyes in grat.i.tude. "Well, thank G.o.d for that. I wasn't sure how we'd manage to find a cage big enough for me to fit comfortably in. Plus, there's always the ha.s.sle of the mess all those peanut sh.e.l.ls make when it's feeding time at the zoo."

Hector snickered in the background, but Cosmos laughed directly over Nikos's shoulder. "She's funny."

Nikos nodded his dark head, the sleek shine of it deserving of every woman's envy. "That's good. She'll need her sense of ha-ha for Papa. He's cranky and difficult, and he refuses to retire."

"And I still have no spatula," Cosmos complained.

"Maybe you should have more than one. You know, as a backup," Frankie suggested, pushing the surprisingly half-empty plate away from her and rising to search for Cosmos's spatula. It didn't hurt to move away from the close proximity of Nikos to do it either. He smelled too good. Looked too good. Too. Good.

"She's not your keeper, Cos," Nikos chided, his black eyes gleaming. "Frankie, you don't have to look after Cosmos's cooking utensils. If he'd put stuff back, he'd be able to find it. But he's a slob-a complete pig, and he thinks because he does most of the cooking that he has the right to behave like the Galloping Gourmet and pitch a fit every time he can't find a utensil only he uses."

"I do not," Cosmos denied, his handsome face distorted with mock hurt.

"You do so," Hector agreed before turning his back on them.

Nikos barked a laugh. "Yeah, little brother, you do. He can be difficult at best, Frankie. I'm warning you now. He yells when things get hectic back here because he can never find what he needs, and it's always someone else's fault. He rants about how everything's disorganized, but it's usually him who's responsible for the disorganization."

Her eye caught several glimmers of stainless steel shelves stored under the grill. She knelt to pull out a silver tray and rummaged through it until she located a spatula. "Is this it?" Frankie held it up for Cosmos to see.

A smile lightened his face when he scooped her up and kissed her full on the mouth, making her eyes go wide. "Yes! You're a lifesaver, and I do not yell." His staunch denial made Nikos laugh.

"You do, too. You're a diva, little man. Own it."

Frankie shrugged and looked down at her feet. "It's okay. I'm used to yelling. Mitch . . . Mitch was a demanding . . . well, he was demanding."

Nikos nudged her shoulder. "Don't you worry, Frankie. I won't let Cosmos push you around. You're not his slave. You're mine."

Frankie's chin lifted, her eyes unable to hide her alarm. She was skittish and sensitive, and she knew it. She just wasn't catching her reactions in enough time to keep people from crunching the egg-sh.e.l.l-lined path to her doorway.

Nikos placed a warm hand on her shoulder, bringing ease and unwanted excitement to her tense muscles. "It was a joke. We do a lot of that here. We also eat a lot, and there's always chaos. We're loud, sometimes obnoxious, opinionated, but we love each other. Which means we hug a lot, but I promise in your servitude, I'll keep your chains slack so you can partic.i.p.ate."

Frankie giggled, closing her eyes and running a hand over her tired, grainy eyes. "So what is my job description anyway?"

Nikos took her hand in his to pull her to a long stainless steel island, backing her up against it until her hips were pressed to it and he stood almost between her thighs. Almost. Or was she wishful distance thinking?

His cologne, fresh and clean, whatever its label, wafted to her nose, making her nostrils appreciate the strong scent of man. The tight black T-shirt he wore clung to what looked like a million flexing, sculpted muscles in his chest and stomach. He was almost painful to look at he was so beautiful.

It made her cast her glance away to the far corner of the kitchen where Cosmos cracked eggs on the flat grill.

But Nikos moved into her line of vision. He gave her a sly gaze, his eyes, like a river of chocolate she wanted to jump into and do the backstroke in, smoldered.

She shook her head, repeating the question. "So what's my job again?"

He raised an eyebrow with a lascivious arch to it. "I told you, Frankie. You're mine. All mine."

Super-duper.

CHAPTER FOUR.

From the still reluctant journal of ex-trophy wife Frankie Bennett: I don't care what Mitch says. Meatloaf and brown gravy with fries might well be fit only for cavemen, but the way Nikos Antonakas prepares it makes a girl want to grab her pelt and start a fire with two sticks and the sunshiny rays of high noon. Cavemen rule. Greek cavemen really rule. And oh, d.a.m.n, look. I wrote this entry in pen. Note to self: Next time use a pencil with a big eraser in case of open-mouth, insert-foot emergency, genius.

Nikos's statement sent a shiver of awareness along her arms and up the back of her neck.

Cosmos laughed maniacally like some old horror movie villain.

Clearly catching her anxious dismay, Nikos chuckled. "Another joke, Frankie. I crack wise. You humor me and laugh," he teased, the fresh scent of his breath fanning her heated cheeks.

She gulped. Where had her sense of humor gone? Down the s.h.i.tter when you found out the joke was on you. "Right. Joking. So being yours, all yours, what am I doing?"

Nikos pulled two ap.r.o.ns off a hook on the wall, tying one around his lean waist, leaving Frankie mesmerized by his long fingers. "You're my a.s.sistant."

"What am I a.s.sisting?"

He handed her an ap.r.o.n, then smiled. "Making my day a whole lot easier on my eyes."

She tilted her head to the right in question just as an older man pushed his way through the exit door directly in the back of the kitchen. His gray and black eyebrows knit together in a frown. The thick fall of his hair trailed over his forehead in deep ebony and silver waves as he dumped a bag on the island with a grunt. He brushed his b.u.t.ton-down beige sweater with strong, thick hands. "You." He pointed a finger that might have been Nikos's if not for the liver spots at Frankie. "You chop."

"Papa," Nikos chided with obvious affection in his tone. "Say h.e.l.lo to Frankie. She's our new prep chef."

Nikos's father scanned her from head to toe with a cynical gaze, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deep with hesitation. He lifted his round chin and clucked his tongue. "h.e.l.lo."

Brrrrr. It wasn't just cold outside.

Her hand flew out, hoping to turn this awkwardly strange moment around. "Frankie. Frankie Bennett. Nice to meet you, Mr. Antonakas." She tacked on a smile she hoped came across as genuine without being forced.

His lips pursed in clear skepticism. "Uh-huh. Yes. I know all about the skeeny Frankie Bennett who blew her gasket on the television. I like your dog, Kooky."

There was something to be said for honesty-it so sucked. "Um, Kiki," she offered in bright tones.

Nikos got behind him and pushed his father's arm outward, making his hand take Frankie's to move up and down in a handshake. He mimicked his father's tone of voice and accent perfectly when he said, "Nice to meet you, Frankie Bennett. I am Barnabas Antonakas, the cranky old man who's upset with his oldest son for making him rest instead of standing on his feet for fourteen hours a day. He's a bad, inconsiderate son, my Nikos."

Frankie fought a smile. Now she understood. She was taking over Barnabas's duties as a prep chef of sorts, and he was resentful for the intrusion. n.o.body got downsizing and trading up better than Frankie. "So I'm aiding and abetting, eh?" she teased.

Barnabas yanked his hand from Nikos's and tweaked his cheek. "You are a fresh boy. n.o.body chops like Barnabas. You need me here, Nikos. You will regret the day you kicked me to the gra.s.s," he warned, but his eyes were loving when they gazed upon his eldest son.