He blew out a long breath and went back inside to gather his own things.
The rest of his day felt almost normal—answering emails, placing orders, interviewing a new server—until halfway through afternoon prep, when his phone rang.
“Mr. Vergaras? This is Sheryl from the office at St. Aloysius.”
He’d never really believed you could feel your heart dropping out of your chest, but his had clearly just fallen onto the restaurant floor. He glanced down involuntarily, sure there would be a bloody organ at his feet. “Yes?”
“I have Mia in the office with me, Mr. Vergaras. She’s missed her bus and needs a pickup.”
His brain went utterly blank for a moment. “Ah … I—”
“When can we expect you, sir?”
He swallowed and glanced around at his busy kitchen, the checklist at his own station half-completed. “Thirty minutes.” He was already untying his apron as he hung up the phone and yelled for his sous chef.
Thirty-two minutes later he pulled into the parking lot at St. Aloysius and collected Mia from Sheryl, who looked down her nose at him.
“What happened?” he asked when they got to the car.
“I didn’t know what bus number to go to,” Mia said as she buckled herself in. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he answered. “I guess I should have written it down somewhere, because I don’t know, either.”
“Mrs. Hildebrand said to look at it in the morning and make a note.” Mia shrugged, a movement he caught out of the corner of his eye as he steered the car off of school grounds and onto the road back into River Hill. “I’ve never ridden a bus before.”
Max winced. He’d known Isabel had put Mia in some kind of alternative school, but he hadn’t been clear on what that actually meant. Unbidden, his memory flashed back to Lizzie Teague giving him an extremely dubious look when he’d announced that he’d master this fatherhood thing. He’d been too distracted by wanting to tear her clothes off to notice her distinct lack of confidence in him, but now it stung for some reason.
“We’ll get the hang of this, Mia,” he promised her as he passed the sign welcoming visitors to River Hill, population 10,940. “Want to come hang at the restaurant for a while?”
“Sure,” she said, her voice small in the big cabin of his SUV.
He nodded, glad she’d agreed, since he was just now realizing that he didn’t have a backup plan if she hadn’t.
“I need help,” Max hissed into the phone. “Stop laughing at me.”
Jessica Casillas-Moore’s chuckles faded, finally. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m taking this whole thing very seriously, I promise.”
“I can hear him laughing, too,” Max said grimly. Sean Amory’s howls in the background hadn’t diminished in the slightest, even though his wife had managed to control herself.
“Sean,” he heard Jess hiss. “He can hear you.” She must have put her hand over the phone’s microphone, because everything went a little muffled. All he heard was a yelp and a giggle, and then what might be a door closing, and finally, the voice of the head baker at The Breadery, the bakery across the square from Frankie’s, was blessedly absent from his phone line.
“Doesn’t he have apple fritters to fry, or something?” Max grumbled.
“No, he’s back to Tuesdays for those,” Jess said absently. “Look, how can I help you, exactly?”
Max sighed. “It turns out that nine year olds don’t really do well with a restaurant schedule.”
“I’m shocked.” Her voice was dry.
“Your sister has kids, right? You helped out a lot with them?”
“Yes, my brothers and I all help out Marisol with the boys. Sean, too.” Jess’ voice took on a different note, one of pride mixed with anxiety, and Max winced. Sean and Jess had eloped at the beginning of the year, and her family hadn’t been thrilled about it. Blending the Amorys with the Casillas-Moores was an ongoing challenge.
“So you know more about raising kids than I do.”
“Max, a potato knows more about raising kids than you do.”
Wow. His friends certainly didn’t pull their punches. “Gee, thanks.”
“So what is your plan, here? Are you calling me to ask for free babysitting? Because I’m sure your niece is nice and all, but my filming schedule is pretty intense right now.” Jess was the host of a beauty and lifestyle show, a gig she’d scored due to the popularity of her blog and occasional segments on local morning news shows. She was increasingly in demand these days, something he knew because Sean obnoxiously brought it up every time they gathered for poker night. Sometimes—not that he’d ever admit it out loud—Max wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship like theirs. And then he remembered that he was almost never home, and relationships tended to rely on the people in them actually seeing each other. Which brought him back to his main issue.
“I mean, I wouldn’t complain about babysitting,” he said, just to annoy her. “But honestly, I think what Mia could really use is just… family, you know? You’re good at family,” he admitted grudgingly. “Probably the best I know.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “Well… thanks,” she said. “Let me see what I can do about my schedule. And call Maeve, too.”
“She’s next on my list,” Max said.
Ben’s girlfriend came from a big Irish family, and she was one of the nicest people Max had ever known. She’d once drunkenly propositioned him with a marriage pact when she was regretting her singlehood, but then she’d met Ben. The two of them were made for each other, and Max hadn’t worried at all about not taking Maeve up on the pact. She was far more like a sister to him than anything else. Red hair didn’t do it for him, anyway. Not like blonde did.
And damn it, now he was thinking about Lizzie Teague again. The beautiful caseworker had been invading his brain for days now. He’d exchanged a few emails with her, keeping her up to date with the school registration process, and she was due for another home visit sometime next week. He didn’t like how eager he was to see her again. After all, he was supposed to be doing what was right for Mia, not his dick. And no matter what that appendage thought about it, Lizzie was here for his niece. Not him. And if he couldn’t keep it in his pants, she had the power to take Mia away. Not going to happen.
“All right. We’ll work something out,” Jess said. “Between all of us, I think we can figure out a way to keep you covered, Max.”
“Thanks,” he said, letting a little of the desperate gratitude he felt leak into his voice.
“You’d do the same for us,” she pointed out. “Heck, you already have.” It was the most direct reference she’d ever made to the fact that Max and Noah had once staged an intervention for Sean, who’d nearly succumbed to alcoholism when the demons of his past had been too much for him to handle.
He mumbled something about not mentioning it.
“Oh! I almost forgot—Angelica wants us all to get together. Did you see?”
“I think I saw a text come through, but I haven’t really read it yet.”
“How does brunch sound? Now that you’re a dad, we might have to change our late night partying ways,” Jess teased. “You’ll bring Mia?”
“Will you make mole?” Max countered. Jess’s grandmother’s sauce recipe was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. Sean liked to say it was what had sealed the deal for him, even though they all knew he needed Jess like he needed air to breathe, mole or no.
“I could be persuaded.”
They gathered at The Oakwell Inn, and Mia curled up into one of Angelica’s plush couches immediately, drawing pad in hand. Max introduced her around, and she shyly greeted everyone. When it came to the last person to enter the room, Mia’s eyes widened. “You’re Naomi Klein?”
Naomi raised her elegant eyebrows. “You know me?”
“Your work,” Mia blurted. Then she looked around the room, realizing that she was the focus of everyone’s attention, and turned bright red. “Ne
ver mind.”
Iain Brennan, Naomi’s partner, frowned thoughtfully at Mia, then turned to the rest of them. “I’m hungry,” he announced. “Why is nobody in that beautiful kitchen back there?”
There was a brief silence, and then everyone filed obediently out of the room, chattering nonchalantly as though nothing had happened and they were all starving and in desperate need of mimosas. Which was probably true.
Max stayed behind, lounging in one of the upholstered chairs near the fireplace, as Naomi sat down on the couch next to Mia and somehow drew her into conversation now that the audience was gone.
“My mom’s friend—” Mia glanced at Max, her expression as close to worried as he’d ever seen it. “Dave Murdoch. He showed me your work.”
“Oh! I know Dave,” Naomi said. “We worked together years ago.” She frowned. “That’s right, he’s been spending time in Arizona at an artist’s commune.”
“My sister managed that commune,” Max said.
He wondered if this Dave person was the rich boyfriend who’d recommended Isabel make a will. Naomi might like to pretend she was a starving artist, but she was quite popular in her own right, and she came from a high society family. She didn’t pal around with nobodies. He made a mental note to ask Naomi more about the man in private, to make sure Isabel had been happy.
“Can I see your sketches?” Naomi asked.
Mia shyly agreed, and soon the two of them were leaning together on the couch, heads touching, talking a mile a minute about line technique and shading and pencil pressure and other things Max didn’t understand.
Huh. Of all of his friends, Naomi was the last one he’d expected to get through to Mia. She’d developed a reputation as a little bit cold, a lot weird about her personal space, and deeply committed to never getting married or having children. But then again, she’d somehow wound up with Iain Brennan, who was a gentle, warm soul behind his beard and boxer’s build. He was Maeve’s older brother, after all. Kindness must run in the family.
His thoughts were interrupted by the return of most of his friends. Noah handed him a glass of champagne, and he frowned down at it, then up at his tall friend. “What’s this for?” He got only an enigmatic smile in return, and he rolled his eyes.
“Does everyone have something?” Angelica asked. At the low chorus of assent, she beamed. “We have news.”
Max waited, watching her. She had a glass of champagne herself, so she wasn’t pregnant. Which must mean—
“We’ve picked a date for the wedding!” she exclaimed. “March fourteenth.”
“Angelica, that’s less than six months away,” Maeve said, her Irish accent softly burring the words.
“I wouldn’t want you all to get bored waiting for me,” Angelica said, ignoring several snorts from the men in the room.
Noah had spent years trying to persuade Angelica to marry him, and then once she had agreed, finally getting her to commit to a date. He was a master at waiting for her, and they’d all heard about it quite a bit at poker nights and football games. He had her now, though, and he looked extremely smug about it. Must be nice.
Where had that stray thought come from? He banished it, just in time, because Angelica was turning to him like some sort of wedding-brained steamroller.
“Max, you’ll cater, right?”
“Of course,” he answered quickly. Then he glanced at Mia, who was shrinking into the couch, clearly attempting to be invisible. His schedule had just gotten even busier. And so had everyone else’s. There went his help. Lizzie Teague was not going to be pleased.
4
Lizzie tried not to pre-judge a situation. She knew better than most that when it came to raising a child who’d been thrust upon them without warning, sometimes uncles could resort to some pretty creative forms of child care. She’d worked the cash register at Uncle Horatio’s antiques store more than once. Of course, that was only after her babysitter had broken both her arms in a lacrosse game a couple of hours before she was scheduled to come over. And then there was the time she’d joined Uncle Jonathan at his office for three days in a row when that same babysitter had gone to look at colleges while Uncle Horatio was in Paris scouring flea markets for his shop.
But both those times were the exception to the rule, and if the complaint that had been called into her office was to be believed, this was not. Max was incredibly lucky she had intercepted the message before her boss had. Hopefully, though, things weren’t quite as dire as the concerned citizen had made it seem, and she could avert a disaster waiting to happen. She knew Max cared about Mia—and vice versa—so she was going to do her damnedest to prevent the girl from being placed in foster care.
But first, reconnaissance.
Lizzie checked her watch. If she’d timed her visit correctly, Max should be coming through the front door with Mia any second, and she’d be able to observe their interactions with one another undetected.
Like clockwork, the bell over the front door of the restaurant chimed, and the handsome chef and his sweet niece stepped inside, laughing at something Mia had just said. Lizzie’s heart stuttered in her chest at seeing her appear so happy. After their heart-to-heart back at Max’s house, she knew that more than anything Mia craved stability—a warm, loving environment where she could be a carefree, happy child instead of forever worrying about conforming to the ideas the leaders of the commune foisted on her.
During their hours-long discussion, Mia had confessed she was afraid to start her period. A friend of hers at the commune had, and the subsequent chanting and dancing around a fire under the light of a full moon had frightened Mia terribly. Not that Lizzie could blame her. Starting your period was scary enough; being forced to celebrate it in such a way had Lizzie thanking her lucky stars that her uncles had had a much more practical approach to the subject. Namely, taking her to the family doctor and having the kind old nurse there explain everything to all of them.
Lizzie smiled fondly, recalling the look of horror on Jonathan and Horatio’s faces as Nurse Taylor had described, in explicit and excruciating detail, exactly what happened to a woman’s body each month. By some failure of education—or possibly willful ignorance—neither of the two middle-aged men had known it was a regular occurrence that lasted decades.
That was probably something she should also mention to Max, though she had a sneaking suspicion he knew a bit more about women than her gay uncles. Assuming, of course, he retained custody of his niece. At that thought, her stomach pitched with anxiety, and she told herself it was the same reaction she’d have for any family. After all, her job was to keep them together, not tear them apart. Her concern for the handsome man on the other side of the room had nothing to do with the fact that she had been fantasizing about what he looked like naked.
Across the way, Max ruffled Mia’s hair affectionately as she settled into a booth, shyly lifting her hand in greeting to one of the servers waiting tables in that section of the restaurant. Lizzie continued to watch as Max departed through a swinging double door, leaving his niece unattended. A few seconds later Mia and the server exchanged some verbal pleasantries—she couldn’t hear what was being said from where she sat—and then the girl smiled and nodded as she reached into her backpack and pulled out a folder and several sheafs of paper.
Not too long after, the server dropped off a pink, bubbly drink and a plate of what looked to be hummus and pita chips. The next hour followed a similar pattern. Every ten minutes or so one of Max’s employees would stop by Mia’s table, share a few words with her, and then go back to work. Every so often, someone would spend a couple of minutes with her, checking over what Lizzie assumed was her homework.
Sometime during the second hour of her observation, a tall, willowy brunette entered the restaurant with a large rectangular satchel swinging against her hip, making a bee-line directly for Mia’s table. Her hair—while pulled into an elegant bun—was caked liberally with mud, and her clothes were splattered with paint.
Lizzie sat
up in her seat, ready to act. Mia had told her that most of the artists who spent time at the commune had begrudgingly tolerated her presence, but one of its full-time residents had been kind, looking after her when Isabel was otherwise occupied. Lizzie had no reason to think the woman had driven from Arizona to California to try to take Mia back there, but her senses were on red alert anyhow. She’d heard—and seen—worse in her line of work, and as sad as it was, she didn’t trust anyone she hadn’t personally vetted.
It turned out she needn’t have worried. Mia smiled and gathered her homework up into in a neat pile and then pushed it all to the side. As the woman slid into the booth, Mia pulled a notebook and a set of pencils from her backpack and set them out on the table. Lizzie watched as the woman pulled her own supplies out of the satchel and arranged them alongside Mia’s. She notched her head toward Mia’s work and said something that made the girl blush before picking up a pencil and adding a few strokes of her own to the paper. When she was finished, Mia’s head shot up, then back down to the paper, and up again, her face split in a wide grin.
“That’s my friend Naomi,” came an amused voice from directly behind Lizzie.
She jumped in her seat, turning to find Max staring down at her, his hands planted on his trim waist and his lips quirked to the side in a wry grin.
“Oh, hi. Umm …” Flustered at being caught spying, Lizzie sputtered out a few nonsensical words and then took a deep breath before starting over. “Hello, Mr. Vergaras.”
“I thought we agreed that you would call me Max.” He grabbed the back of the chair across from her, showing off a dusting of dark hair over tan skin peeking out from beneath the rolled up sleeves of his red checked flannel shirt. Without invitation, he pulled it out and dropped down into it, linking his fingers together on the tabletop between them. “Or are we back to using formalities?”
The Chef's Cutie (The River Hill Series Book 5) Page 3