I nod yes, as I pick up the towel he tossed me from off the floor. I’ve never been good at playing catch.
“Of course. You wash. I’ll dry.” I smile, maneuvering my way next to him, forming our two-person dish washer / dryer assembly line, standing shoulder to shoulder—well, head to shoulder is more like it. Jonathan is much taller than I like to think I am.
“Anyway, like I mentioned, I visited last week—”
“Last week, when?” He interrupts handing me a few forks to dry.
“Thursday, I believe. It was in the afternoon. Olivia greeted me—”
“Wait,” he interrupts, yet again, “what made you visit? Were you trying to assess us or something?”
“Yes, exactly. My intention was to view operations firsthand, as a visitor—not as a consultant.”
“Makes perfect sense. Please, proceed,” he softly demands as he passes over a mug.
His hand grazes my own during the somewhat intimate transaction and I flat out lose my train of thought.
Why the heck does he have this insatiable affect on me?
“Um, okay,” I stammer, trying hard to regroup, “I walked in and Olivia—”
“Was she rude to you?” he readily interjects, once more, blocking my effort to complete a sentence.
Is this a bad habit of his?
“Yes, she was a bit on the unfriendly side. She seemed distracted, as if she had somewhere else to be. I felt as though I was an interruption to her day,” I reveal, drying the last of our breakfast dishes.
Knowing what I know now, poor Olivia had good reason to be distracted.
With a damp towel, Jonathan wipes off the counter top in slow circular motions, as he stares pensively into thin air. It is almost like watching a slow-motion video.
Should I have waited to bring up Olivia? And what about the rest of the visit—the food, in particular? He should know about my total experience.
“You okay, Jonathan?” I ask, causing him to break loose from his thoughts.
He chucks the towel into the sink, pivots to allow his backside to lean against the counter, and stares at me with his arms expressively folded. Uncertainty beams through his darkened eyes like a crescent moon against a pitch-black sky.
“I am at my wits end when it comes to her. And I honestly don’t know where to focus my efforts. Do I lay off of my seventeen-year old sister and divert my focus to the restaurant? Or do I lay off of the restaurant and focus on my sister? It’s one or the other. How in the hell am I supposed to choose?”
Cautiously, I approach Jonathan, this time invading his personal space.
“What would your parents want you to do?” I ask, my voice low and shaky.
My simple query seems to shock our atmosphere, like a resounding sonic boom, and for a minute, I think perhaps I’ve crossed the line.
Who the fuck am I to dig so deep?
Jonathan looks down, avoiding eye contact, and I take his body language as a telltale sign that it’s time for me to move on.
“I apologize. This is all none of my business,” I say, stepping away from his personal space.
He grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
“No. This is your business. You’re here to help me, remember? I need you, Kennedy.”
Chapter 15
“Y-you need me?” I say, feeling as though I’ve been thrust into a ‘Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling type’ romantic movie scene.
All Jonathan needs to do now is pull me close and kiss me long and hard.
“Well, yes. I need your consultant expertise,” he asserts—his clarifying statement uproots me straight out of my Hollywood moment like a category-four hurricane. “I expect you to ask questions, no matter how annoying, difficult, or challenging they are for me to answer.” He winks and smiles generously at me. “It’s the only way to help me meet my goal.”
“Right. Your goal.”
Back to life, back to reality. “So then, let’s return to my question…what would your parents want you to do?”
“They’d want me to make a decision that’s best for everyone,” he answers without reservation, taking a few steps over to the barstool, claiming his seat.
I follow and sit on the stool beside him, all agog for anything else he may divvy up.
“So, what decision is best for everyone?”
“Hell, if I know.” He swivels slowly, back and forth, in the barstool. “I’m not good at this kind of shit. Did you know, before they passed away, the only role I played in the restaurant was Executive Chef? I didn’t run the entire restaurant. We all had our roles—including Olivia.” He surveys the kitchen and then quickly comes to a stand. “Come on, let’s take this conversation to the living room. It’s a bit more comfy in there.”
He leads us to the living room, and I follow close behind him, observing the way his pants hug and draw emphasis to his firm backside.
Damn.
Since when did I become such a borderline nympho?
Jonathan motions for me to take a seat on the couch as he steps over to a towering wall cabinet, opens one of its bountiful compartments, and retrieves a large envelope. He parks himself beside me, close enough that our shoulders rub.
I decisively conclude this guy cares nothing about personal space.
He opens the envelope, peeping inside, seeming to carefully examine the contents. With a quick flip of the envelope, he begins pouring out snippets of newspaper and magazine articles that fall loosely on top of his lap.
Sifting through the papers, he begins to pass them over to me, one by one.
“Look, it’s all here. Life at Knight and Daze before and after my parents died. You can see how thriving we were. A classic story of a strong family-owned business.” He smiles unreservedly as he reflects. “We had a systematic method of operations—the roles I mentioned before. Mom often worked the front, always greeting and seating guests as if she were welcoming them into her own home. Dad was everywhere…the front thanking guests as they entered and exited, the bar mixing up new cocktails with the bartender, the kitchen coaching the team through busy rush periods, or in the dining room chatting with guests, easily striking up all sorts of amusing conversation. The two of them also did the hiring, firing, scheduling, payroll, etcetera. They ran the business. I took on the role of Executive Chef right after I came back from culinarily school, and Olivia worked weekends alongside Mom in the front.”
He leans his head back and shuts his eyes, as if doing so will be the sturdy roadblock needed to jam a barrage of tears.
I divert my attention to the selection of articles, many of which showcase Knight and Daze’s delectable menu, elaborate service, ‘best of’ awards, and five-star ratings from worthy critics. There is even a feature magazine article on Jonathan himself with the headline that reads TriBeCa’s Sexiest Executive Chef Stirs Up The Heat In The Kitchen.
I sift through more articles and come across one with a picture of a man and woman standing arm in arm in front of Knight and Daze. The gut wrenching headline—Max And Sadie Knight, Owners Of Knight And Daze Grill And Bar, Killed In A Tragic Plane Crash. The article is an in-depth summary about how the two of them opened the restaurant, determined to share their love of food and passion for serving the community they’d grown to cherish. In the beginning, Max was the head chef, dazzling patrons with an array of gourmet-inspired dishes, while Sadie’s comfort zone was that of main hostess, charming folks with her charismatic and magnetic personality. It notes the many successes the restaurant had over the years, recognizes celebrities who frequently ate there, and at the end, announces Jonathan as the restaurant’s new owner.
And then there is the article dated a little over two years later, straight out of the Hudson News Bee written by none other than yours truly. Headline: Knight and Daze Grill And Bar - My Less Than To Be Desired Encounter.
I try to hide it amongst the others before Jonathan spots I’ve come across it, but I’m not at all quick enough.
Shit.
I brace myself for the absolute worst.
“Oh yes, you’ve discovered the all too infamous, kick-me-in-the-nuts and leave me to die, restaurant review.” He releases a sinister chuckle. “I haven’t read that crapshoot since the day my sous chef ran into my office simply mortified at the shit-fest, that woman, Penelope Monroe wrote.”
He grabs a hold of the review, scanning over it briefly while I watch his mood switch from calm to highly agitated.
“Would you like to read it?”
“No thank you,” I say, my voice low, accurately mimicking how I feel right about now.
“I wish I had never read it,” he mumbles under his breath, crumbling the article into a ball, tossing it to the floor just a few inches away from the couch. “Mind if I share something with you?” he asks, unexpectedly.
“Not at all.”
“The truth is, she was right. Every damn word Penelope Monroe wrote in that scathing review was undeniably accurate. It took me a long time to be able to finally admit that.”
His confession is a hard pill to swallow, and as I wait for it to completely digest, I can’t help but wonder how or why he could hate someone he just admitted was right all along.
“Well, if she was so right, why do you hate her?”
He scoffs, “Well, it’s pretty simple, Kennedy. I hate her because she told the whole world how fucked-up my restaurant was. I felt defenseless, like a tough kid knocked down by a ruthless bully—all captured on a stupid-ass video gone viral.” He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “You see, I knew the restaurant was in trouble. Sales were declining, employee morale was low, and I couldn’t keep up with the competition.”
He gets up and walks over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and continues to divulge, seeming to be scanning the prodigious view, with his hands resting in his pants pockets.
“It took time for me to learn the ins and outs of what my parents did and, in that process, I discovered the restaurant was not as profitable as it should have been. The two were barely breaking even. I wanted to hire a manager and another chef, and put time and effort into revitalizing the menu. But the money just wasn’t there.”
He turns back and makes his way back to the couch, finding his place next to me again.
“So, I dipped into some of the inheritance which allowed me the capital needed to hire another chef, a manager, and a few more employees. I trained them all myself. Business definitely began to pick up. Late nights, I started to play with new menu concepts—some of which I introduced you to yesterday.” He looks at me and smiles, going silent, seeming to gather his thoughts.
He reaches down, retrieving the crumbled article he had earlier tossed to the floor. “Then, this happened. This ugly-truth review. And the timing could not have been worse. My inclining sales went on a swift decline and I began to slowly go into debt. I was out of dough because I couldn’t dip into money I set aside for Olivia’s college fund. She needs to go to college. She’s got her heart set on becoming some sort of journalist.”
“A journalist? No interest in delving into the family restaurant business, huh?” I ask, even though, during my brief encounter, it was blatantly obvious Olivia takes little to no interest in the family business.
“Nope. No interest at all. Frankly, I don’t blame her. She needs to get out on her own—find herself and what life has to offer inside the realm of her own interests. As it is now, it’s a struggle to keep her engaged and focused long enough to get her through high school.”
I sit back and watch Jonathan as he morphs into this noticeably vulnerable man and realize it has to be an arduous task for him to share all of this with me—a mere outsider looking in.
He steals a glance at his watch and jumps up, grabbing my hand in his.
“Come on, time got away from me. We’ve got to head to the restaurant. Employees and perhaps vendors are probably waiting for me.”
Chapter 16
The short walk from Jonathan’s loft to the restaurant is filled with effervescent small talk centered around the weather, public transportation, and puppies…anything to eschew a horrifically awkward silence.
By the time we arrive to the restaurant, a handful of employees I recognize from yesterday, along with a few vendors, are waiting for Jonathan.
“Sorry, guys, we simply lost track of time,” Jonathan says, unlocking the back entrance door.
Once inside I find my way to the restroom as I need to put on the chef coat Jonathan provided yesterday. I reach into my bag and—
Crap. I totally forgot to wash it last night. I can’t possibly wear a chef coat that looks like a raiment of toxic waste.
Ugh.
I’m starting to think I should have just stayed home today. Besides the lack of sleep last night, I’m feeling pretty lousy about things Jonathan spoke about today. Perhaps, it’s not at all too late to go home? I mean, I could very well come up with a highly credible excuse like an onset of stomach flu, a sore throat, or even the mumps although mumps would be far less convincing than the other two cop-outs.
Stop being a whiny diva and get out there and tell Jonathan you need another chef coat. There. Problem brilliantly solved.
And…there goes Captain Obvious, making an unwelcome appearance…again.
Just as I make my way from the restroom toward the kitchen to locate Jonathan, my eye catches him sitting in one of the booths. He appears to be on the phone, involved in a heavy conversation—only perceptible by the grumpy expression that’s taken over his face, albeit momentarily, I hope.
Would walking over and sitting next to him until he ends his call be overly intrusive?
Probably.
But, not likely more of an intrusion than I was while at his loft earlier.
As I get closer, Jonathan ends his call and stands.
“Hi,” I say with a hesitant smile. “Sorry to, uh, bug you, but I sort of forgot to wash the chef coat you gave me yesterday and it’s extremely—”
“I have to leave,” he gruffly announces, pacing back and forth as if he’s trying to bring calm to his nerves.
“I’m sorry, um, leave? We just got here.”
“Yeah. Well, you can come with me if you’d like. In fact, it’s best if you do come with me. It’ll give us more time to talk about the business and my goals.”
I stare at Jonathan, confused.
“Go with you where, exactly?” I ask, deciding it is a reasonable question.
“Back to my place to pick up the black purse Olivia left there, then take a ride up to The Island to give it to her.”
I do remember seeing the black purse today at his loft. I totally theorized it belonged to a girlfriend, assuming he probably has several of them.
Several girlfriends. Not purses.
“The Island, as in Long Island?”
“Yep. Long Island. Olivia’s at my aunt and uncle’s house at the moment—look, I can explain everything later. Are you coming with me or not?” he asks, with his eyes fixed on mine.
I look around the restaurant and decide I’d be lost here on my own—without him. I could go home, and risk missing out on the chance to learn more details about Jonathan—to help with his restaurant image improvement goals, of course.
“Yes, I’d be happy to join you.”
“Great. Let’s go,” he says, looking thoroughly pleased.
Back at his place, he grabs the purse and hands it over to me. “Can you hold on to this for a sec? I need to change my clothes,” he explains, headed toward the stairs.
“Sure. And uh, you look fine in what you have on,” I say, hoping he doesn’t think I mean that in a flirtatious way.
He laughs softly, and I watch him peel off his shirt like it’s edible candy, as he reaches the top of the steps—even his back looks perfectly toned and sculpted. Like the type of chiseled yumminess I’ve seen on late-night workout DVD informercials that Sebastian and I sometimes watch. “Thanks, but I like to be comfortable for the ride to Long Island,” he says be
fore disappearing from sight.
He returns, wearing dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and plain white socks. In other words, he looks pretty damn hot.
“You ready?” he asks, flashing a smile that’s fit for an Orbits’ gum commercial.
“Sure am. But what about your shoes?”
“Oh. They’re in the garage…Ms. Nothing Gets By Me.” His sarcastic bite is irritating and alluring all at once and when he blatantly winks as he slowly walks past me, I can’t help but conclude he’s actually flirting with me.
“Come on, the garage is right through this door.” He directs, motioning for me to follow.
I step down into the garage that is lightly illuminated by three small garage door windows, as Jonathan kindly holds the door open for me. After opening a narrow cupboard, he removes a pair of black boots and a small black German-style half helmet that he passes to me.
Wait. A helmet?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the hell is this?”
“It’s a helmet, Ms. Prescott. Have you never laid eyes on one before? Perhaps you should get out more.”
“Of course I’ve laid eyes on—never mind. What I mean is why are you giving this to me?”
“Well, I’m a law-abiding man. The state of New York requires a helmet be worn by motorcycle rider…and passenger.”
His sarcasm is annoyingly…hot.
“Wait. You have a motorcycle? We’re going to Long Island by motorcycle?”
“Yep. I hate Uber and I sold my car last year, downsizing to my Harley.”
He briefly passes a coy expression to me while flashing that smirky smile before he pushes a button on the wall, signaling the garage door to roll open. He pulls on his boots, one white sock-covered foot at a time, and I stand here, helmet in hand, not knowing what to do.
Sure, a ride on the back of a hot guy’s Harley sounds fascinating, to say the least. But I’ve never in my life been on a motorcycle and I am a tad uneasy about it.
Jonathan approaches, removes the helmet from my hand, positions it on top of my head, and fastens the strap. “It looks like it was made for you,” he renders in a spine-tingling tone that causes me to shiver like when I first dip my foot into a cold swimming pool, or when I heard his voice for the first time…just yesterday.
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 9