A cocktail of affection and nostalgia welled up in Wes’s chest, spiced with sadness and cut with a generous shot of wary caution.
“Be careful out there,” he said, avoiding his dad’s question. Thomas Murphy had, indeed, taught his son well—but the lessons Wes had learned, about himself, his limits, and the kind of life he wanted for himself, weren’t exactly the lessons Pops had meant to instill.
Pops looked down as he shrugged into his slate-gray cashmere sport coat, pulling at his shirt cuffs until they peeked out from the coat sleeves. “Phooey,” he said, flashing his trademark grin and heading for the door. “Careful is for fools and weaklings. Be bold, my Weston! Come on, give your old man a hug good-bye.”
Strong, skinny arms around his back, a breath of menthol and tobacco in his lungs. Wes squeezed his dad once, hard, and stepped back shaking his head.
He smiled at his father’s dramatic flourish as he knotted the light black scarf around his neck, the twinkle in his whiskey-colored eyes just before he slipped out of the apartment and down the stairs, leaving the room feeling extra empty. Thomas Murphy lived so big, he tended to suck all the air out of any room he occupied—after even a mere half hour in his presence, Wes felt his absence like a void.
Wes collapsed on the futon, trying to summon the energy to toe off his shoes and skin out of his jeans. When he finally managed to flop onto his back and get his stubborn button fly undone, he hooked his thumbs in his pockets to pull the denims down and discovered yet another absence.
The money he’d palmed and hidden in his front pocket was gone. A hundred and twenty bucks.
“Shit.” But Wes had to laugh. That fucking hug good-bye. He should’ve known.
Well, it was vintage Pops, that was for sure. He could only hope the fact that his father got one over on him would be enough for the guy, and this would be the last he’d see of him. At least until things were a little more stable with Rosemary.
He didn’t fool himself that if they stayed together, he’d be able to hide her from his father indefinitely. Obviously, that was a fantasy.
Or maybe a goal—something to shoot for.
In any case, it was good that he’d managed to put Pops off. And yet, as Wes dropped into sleep, he was aware of a slight, niggling fear that he hadn’t seen the last of his father.
Chapter 22
It had already been a bitch of a night—and the restaurant wasn’t even open yet.
First Jess went into the Market locker room—after wedging the door open with an aluminum folding chair; he’d learned his lesson—only to discover he’d run out of clean dark green button-downs, and had forgotten to take a load to the wash-and-fold down the block. He found a shirt from a few days ago that wasn’t too badly wrinkled or obviously stained, only a minor coffee spot on one cuff, but still. Gross.
He went upstairs, checked the schedule to see what section he was working—automatically checking to see if Frankie was on tonight, which of course he was, but force of habit kept Jess aware of every move the stubborn, gorgeous, maddening asshole made—and groaned when he realized Grant had stuck him with section C.
Section C was Grant’s clean, orderly, front-of-the-house code for the chef’s table.
Serious foodies, restaurant regulars looking to impress out-of-towners, small groups celebrating special events—those were the kinds of people who booked the chef’s table, a six-top set in the actual kitchen in full view of the hustle and bustle of the line cooks, where a diner could observe the preparation of every course from soup to nuts, and get the “authentic kitchen experience.”
Part of said experience involved being served, not by waiters—the trained professionals who knew which side to clear from and what silverware to provide for every course, oh no, that would be way too easy—but by the chefs themselves. Jess’s job, as table captain, was to explain each course and make sure the cooks didn’t flub the service too terribly as they rushed to keep food flowing from their stations to the slammed main dining room. Jess would be smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen, all night.
Okay, off to the side in a corner, but still.
Jess might have whimpered a little. Grant patted his shoulder sympathetically, saying, “I’m sorry, kiddo.”
Jess shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I know, I’ve got more hours in than anyone else who’s on tonight. Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
He checked the reservation book to see if it was one of the regulars he knew by name. Party of six, under Drew Gallagher.
“This name doesn’t ring any bells,” he said. “You know who they are? If they’re celebrating something in particular?”
Furrowed brow betraying his annoyance, Grant said, “No, the reservationist didn’t ask. Which she now knows better than to forget again, but that won’t help us tonight.”
“We’ll play it by ear.” Jess rolled his neck, shrugged his shoulders up and down a couple times like a prize-fighter, trying unsuccessfully to release the tension. “We’ll be fine.”
Of course he’d be fine, and the additional tips from the added service charge plus whatever the satisfied guests slipped him at the end of the night were extremely welcome.
But this would be the first night in a while that he and Frankie would be face-to-face. Ever since that awful day in the locker room, when Frankie wouldn’t quit needling him and Jess had told that ugly lie about sleeping around, they’d done a decent job of mutual avoidance.
It helped that Grant had scheduled Jess for the private side dining room all weekend, which limited his contact with the kitchen—with private parties, they used runners to ferry the food and dishes back and forth, while a seasoned campaigner like Jess oversaw the whole operation.
Sort of a similar setup to the chef’s table, actually, except a single chef’s table party could last hours, what with all the special courses and tastings—and tonight Jess knew he wouldn’t be overseeing back servers and runners, he’d be directing the line cooks.
Including Frankie.
Who gave Jess one searing glance when he entered the kitchen a few minutes after Grant opened the doors to their first diners, then immediately turned his back and hunched over his beloved grill. The red and orange glow of heat as Frankie stoked the flames cast his thin, angular face in demonic planes, his coal-black hair licking up around his head in a nimbus of horns and spikes. It would make an awesome photograph.
Jess wanted him so badly, he could hardly breathe through the longing.
“Everything look okay?” The voice came from the pass, jerking Jess out of his masochistic Frankie-watching fugue state.
He turned to Adam, who regarded him with his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side in that inquisitive way he had, sympathy turning his brown eyes soft. Jess dredged up a smile. “Yeah, the table looks great. The reservation is for five-thirty—the party should be here soon.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before a shell-shocked–looking Grant pushed open the kitchen door and ushered in a gaggle of six talking, laughing guests.
One of whom was Eva Jansen.
Darkly elegant in a navy blue sheath dress, New York’s highest-powered restaurateur handed Jess her wrap and waited for him to pull out her chair as if she didn’t even notice that the entire kitchen had ground to a complete halt.
But as he helped her into the best seat at the table as if she were a queen mounting her throne, Jess caught the gleam of pure feminine satisfaction in her large, almond-shaped eyes. This was a woman who always knew the effect she was having on the people around her. And clearly, she got one hell of a kick out of the intent stares from the Market crew.
Jess glanced around the kitchen as he helped the rest of the party get settled. Billy, the fish cook, and Quentin, the saucier, were exchanging wide-eyed looks, while Violet, the pastry chef, actually left the pastry board at the back of the kitchen and came up to get a better view. Only Frankie seemed unaffected, a glowering monolith towering over the grill.
Even Wes k
ept sneaking peaks, Jess noticed, from his new spot on the line. He’d been moved up to sauté a few nights ago, to his great pride and joy, but apparently the novel thrill of running one of the busiest stations on the line paled in comparison to the drama playing out at the chef’s table.
Everyone looked to Chef, to see how he’d play it, but Adam was cool as a lick of ice cream on a hot day as he went into his standard welcome speech. Jess was proud of him, especially since he knew the guy hated public speaking of any stripe.
Wishing them all a pleasant meal, Adam hurried back up to the hot plate and started calling out orders, which pushed the chefs back into gear.
Jess swung around, pasted on his best and brightest smile, and started his own spiel describing the two tasting menus, both seasonally based, one around butternut squash, with the squash featuring in various, creative ways in each course, and the other around beets. Jess also explained how they asked that the whole table agree on which one to order, to ensure smooth, perfect service.
His first indication that there might be trouble, right here in River City, came after the chefs jumped off their stations and huddled up to get his instructions on how to deliver the first course.
Eva had politely left the decision up to the group, which led to an amusing spate of wary debate and cautious backtracking as her entourage scrambled to figure out what she wanted. At least, Jess was pretty sure Eva was amused by it, if the tiny curl of her perfectly lined and glossed upper lip was any indication.
Finally her assistant, whom Jess recognized as her companion from the other day, made the call for the butternut squash menu. Everyone kept referring to him as Andrew, which was the name Jess remembered, although he assumed the young guy was the Drew from the reservations book.
Pretty tricksy of Ms. Jansen and Co., if what she wanted was to stage an ambush.
And as the chefs circled the table, ready to lay down the first course, Wes’s updated chicken and dumpling soup, on Jess’s mark, it became clear that “tricksy” was a serious understatement.
Satan’s Bride was more like it.
Or possibly Satan’s Mistress, because the frankly assessing once-overs Ms. Jansen gave each of the male chefs were anything but blushing and bridal.
She gave silent, hulking Quentin an appreciative glance, and short, wiry Billy got more of a grin than a leer, but Frankie had to bend over to place his portion of soup in front of the guest opposite Eva, and the way she perked up at the sight of him made Jess’s blood flare white-hot with insane jealousy.
Frankie, who Jess remembered with a sudden pang was actually bi, not gay, winked at her.
Jess had to take a step back from the table to stop himself from dumping that bowl of steaming hot soup right in her lap.
Or over Frankie’s head. Right at that moment Jess wasn’t particular about who received the third-degree burns. So long as someone suffered a horribly disfiguring accident, he wasn’t going to be picky.
From his position by the pass, Adam caught his eye and shook his head once. That was enough to halt the scalding torrent of aggression racing through Jess’s veins, but as he glanced back at the table where Eva Jansen was watching Wes now, with a speculative expression on her beautiful, predatory face, Jess sighed.
It was going to be a long night.
“Find out what she’s doing here,” Jess hissed, shoving Wes toward the bar.
If ever the Market crew deserved a night at Chapel, their favorite dive after-hours bar, it was tonight.
Wes, however, was having a hard time getting his chill on what with the way Jess was not-so-quietly freaking over the fact that Frankie had invited Eva Jansen to go to Chapel with them after closing.
Oh well, he needed another beer, anyway.
Bellying up to the bar next to Adam and Grant, Wes slid a casual glance over to where Frankie’s dark head was bent close to Eva Jansen’s elegant coiffure.
“What’s that all about?” he asked.
“Oh, come on.” Adam rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer. “You know he only did it to piss off Jess.”
Adam tilted his beer bottle, pointing out the sneaky slide of Frankie’s gaze to the young man in question. “This whole thing with the two of them is getting stupid. I mean, it’s been stupid, but now it’s approaching fatally moronic. Maybe I should sic Miranda on him—she’s meeting us here.” Even the mention of Miranda’s name made Adam light up from the inside like someone just flipped his switch.
Grant huffed. “Adam. You are missing the point. Why was Eva Jansen even there again tonight? With her assistant and a bunch of other industry types—I’m pretty sure one of the men with her was Rufus Rigby, the restaurant designer.”
A subtle tension entered Adam’s frame; if he hadn’t shrugged his shoulders in a rough, jerky movement, Wes might not have caught it.
“Let it be, man. Do we have to talk about this now?” Adam sighed.
Wes tapped his fingers on the bar in a rapid tattoo and wished like hell his beer would show up. When these two got going, they sounded like an old married couple.
Before he could make a graceful getaway, a smooth, husky female voice broke in. “If you want to know why I came back to Market for dinner, it’s because I was very impressed with the food when I had lunch there a week ago.”
They all swiveled toward her. Eva Jansen raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow and said, “But if you want to know what I was doing back in the neighborhood in the first place, just ask.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I know what you were doing on the Upper West Side,” Grant said.
Adam groaned, dropping his head to the bar with a thunk. “Aw, man. Just let it go.”
Frankie tore his attention from his ex for long enough to say, “Yeah, mate, what’s the problem? If Eva here wants to start up a slap-bang operation next door to Market, I don’t see why she shouldn’t. Better foot traffic to the neighborhood means more punters for all of us. Plenty to go around.”
Even knowing he’d get slapped down, Wes couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “But if we have a chance to take all the customers for Market, why wouldn’t we go for it?”
Into the silence that followed Wes’s contribution came a clear, amused voice.
“Hmm. What did I miss at dinner service tonight? Grant’s drinking bourbon, Frankie’s bristling like a hedgehog, there’s suddenly another woman in the middle of this testosterone fiesta, and the love of my life looks …” A redhead, Jess’s sister and Adam’s one true love, put her slim hand on Adam’s stubbled cheek and turned his face up to hers for a kiss. “Mmm. Looks better now.”
“I am better now,” Adam breathed, tugging her down for another quick smooch.
“And I’m Eva Jansen,” the restaurateur said, holding out a manicured hand with an interested smile. “You must be Miranda Wake. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Who hasn’t?” Miranda gave a self-deprecating laugh, squinching her eyes shut in a wry cringe to acknowledge the extremely public nature of her relationship with Adam. When they first got together, months before, Miranda had been researching Market for a tell-all exposé about the dirty secrets of a professional kitchen. She fell in love with the chef and decided to cancel the book, but part of it leaked anyway, setting off a whole chain of events that culminated in her offering a heartfelt and exceedingly humiliating apology on Devon Sparks’s hit Cooking Channel show.
Things had calmed down since then, according to Jess. At least for Adam and Miranda. Their biggest disagreement lately was over whether or not to get married—Adam was all for it, Miranda was staunchly opposed to any institution that wasn’t available to her brother, Jess, as well.
“What you missed,” Grant said loudly, gesticulating with his bottle of Jack. “What you just walked in on, Miranda, was yet another session of me nagging your heel-dragging man about the empty restaurant space next door. This time, with bonus high-powered restaurateurs sniffing around the place! Yay!”
“Mother of God,” Adam said, squirming on
his barstool. “You are wiz-asted, man.”
But Eva Jansen looked impressed. Her eyes sharpened on Grant’s face like multifaceted sapphires, all cutting edges and sparkling color. “I heard you were the brains of the Market operation,” she said silkily. “I didn’t realize you were the guts, too.”
“Hey,” Adam protested. “I resemble that remark.”
Grant shot him a look and Wes stifled a laugh. There were appropriate times to reference the Marx brothers, but this probably wasn’t one of them.
“What do you mean?” Wes asked Eva, hoping to move things along.
She tilted her head back and drained the last of the cocktail Christian had created for her, an update of a Tom Collins with gin, lemon juice, and a dark-red cherry liqueur. “I mean, everyone in this bar can see the advantages in Market snapping up the space next door for a sister restaurant, but the sous chef is too busy tying himself in knots over the wait staff to bother with it, and the chef owner seems both too worried to overextend himself, and too stubborn to ask for help.”
Eva slid from her barstool in the ensuing shocked silence, a feline smile on her scarlet lips. “The restaurant manager and this handsome line cook appear to be the only ones ready to snap at this golden opportunity. With the possible exception of Miss Tell All.” She cocked her head at Miranda. “I haven’t spent enough time with you to assess your backbone. If you have one, think about injecting some spine into these two.”
“Oi,” Frankie protested, finally tearing his stare from Jess sitting alone at his table, and tuning in to the conversation.
“Yeah, I think I second that ‘oi,’ ” Adam said, brows lowering. “Where the hell do you get off, lady?”
“Right about here,” she said, shrugging her light wrap around her slim shoulders.
A seething morass of tension had descended over their corner of the bar, but Wes felt frozen. It was beyond disconcerting to have an outsider assess their situation so directly and brutally. What on earth did she hope to gain by it?
Just One Taste Page 20