Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  “Why are you even here?” She stalked over to him. “Why would you want to work in a tiny hotel in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I have my reasons, and I haven’t agreed yet.” His guarded reply poured gasoline on her temper.

  “Oh. So you’ve not decided whether you’ll lower your standards to work here? Nice.”

  A muscle in Del’s jaw ticked.

  Touched a sore spot, had she? Hah! This was her job, her career, her pride on the line. People considered her a pushover because she strove to be nice, strove to keep harmony between those she loved.

  But those people were wrong.

  Her blood boiled so hot she could’ve served it as chili sauce. “Couldn’t you hack the LA pace anymore?” she asked. “Or maybe they fired your ass?”

  Del’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he stepped so close she could’ve stomped on one of his black and white Converse sneakers. “Are you always this unprofessional when your employers make decisions regarding the future of their business?”

  Her heart slammed into her throat, choking off her air supply. Her fingernails dug sharp crescents into her palms. At nine years old, she’d slapped Ben for deliberately breaking the head off her favorite Barbie, but since then she’d never hit another person in anger. Right this second, though, Del’s face resembled a big-ass neon target. His choice of words stung her pride even worse—she bloody well knew she was acting unprofessionally—but she just couldn’t get control of the hurt rampaging through her system.

  “Shaye, c’mon now. Pull your head in.” Bill’s voice sliced through the red haze, the resignation in his tone draining a fraction of her temper away.

  Bill was a proud man—letting anyone take over his kitchen was tantamount to admitting he was beat. A bitter pill for both of them to swallow.

  She gave Del her back and appealed to her mentor one last time. “You don’t need him; the two of us are doing fine. He doesn’t know Due South the way we do.”

  “So you’ll teach him. Working together, the pair of you are gonna keep this place alive until I’m well enough to kick both your miserable butts into shape.” Bill chuckled, but the sound rattled in his throat like gravel crushed in a blender.

  Her inner temperature gauge dropped out of the red-zone. “I won’t work under him.”

  Vince’s muffled snicker dropped into the sudden silence, and she froze.

  Shoot. That came out wrong. Had the men noticed? Of-freaking-course they had.

  Men—such children.

  “I’m sure working under me won’t be a problem,” Del said. “Unless you make it one.”

  “Oh, go to hell, Hollywood.”

  The man had the audacity to flash a grin at her, showing off the cute crooked tooth and all. Jerk.

  Lani, one of their servers, pushed through the kitchen doors. “Table three wants his steak cremated and a—” Glancing up from the order pad, she skipped her gaze around the room, her brown eyes widening as they settled on Del.

  At nineteen, Lani probably wouldn’t remember Del from when she was a kid, but the resemblance between all three of the Westlake men was unmistakable. Del switched on his mega-watt smile and aimed it at the young Maori woman. Incredibly, their often sullen but hard-working server returned the expression.

  He’d won another ally. Super.

  “Enough chit-chat.” Bill flicked his fingers at Lani. “We’ve got customers waiting. We’ll sort this shit, and you”—He paused to glower at Del—“out tomorrow. Staff meeting at eight.”

  “Shaye, let’s go to my place and talk this through,” said West.

  A group roasting by the two brothers and her big sister, all of them insisting Shaye’s objections were unreasonable? Hah. Thanks, but no thanks. She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, hoping it’d flick Del in the eye.

  “Let’s not. Let’s see if your brother can even handle a few days on Stewart Island without going stir crazy.”

  And with the shreds of her dignity intact—she plain refused to let that man provoke her temper again—Shaye swept out of Due South.

  Chapter 3

  Well, that went about as smoothly as his first conversation with the feisty brunette. Which was to say, he’d come off like a complete douche—muscling in on Shaye’s territory and stomping all over her dainty feet. Letting her needle him into losing his cool.

  Again—attaboy, Del.

  He yanked his gaze from the back door and met his father’s speculative stare, the old man’s caterpillar eyebrows almost touching his hairline.

  “Eight sharp, not a minute late.” Bill clipped an order to the rack. “Now get out and go see your mother, since this whole damn thing was her crazy idea.”

  Crazy idea being the understatement of the century.

  With another quick glance around the kitchen, which would almost fit into one of Cosset’s restrooms, Del shrugged. He could point out that at twenty-seven he was too old to be ordered about, least of all by a man who was his father in name only. But frankly, he wanted to get the hell out of this kitchen.

  West clapped Del on the shoulder, and he jumped.

  “Let’s go. A quick fuss-over by Claire and we’ll head to my place.”

  “Aren’t you going after Shaye?” Del asked.

  “It’d do more harm than good at this point.” West shook his head. “She needs to work off that head of steam—she’ll be on her way to trash-talk about us to one of her friends. I’ll speak to her in the morning.”

  “Great start to our working relationship. What a total fuck up.”

  “You’ll feel better after a beer and a good sleep after your long flight.”

  Del sighed. His brother had no idea. “I’m whipped, but yeah, I’d better say hi to Mom.” He jerked his chin toward the back door. “She in the cottage?”

  “Last I saw.” West grinned. “Nothing much has changed here, Delly. You’ll fit right into the groove again.”

  “Don’t call me Delly, butthead.” He managed a returning smile.

  Although he’d rather catch the next ferry to the mainland and pretend this whole trip was a hallucinatory episode brought on by determined sobriety, he wouldn’t. He was stuck at Due South, in the shitty position of ousting Shaye as head chef. He could fool West, he could fool Bill and his mother—he could even fool Shaye by pretending he had options. But he couldn’t fool himself.

  Claire was mixing cookie dough when he and West walked into their old house, but Del didn’t have the heart to tell her he no longer had a sweet tooth.

  West had been right. His mom fussed a little, scolded him for not letting them know his arrival plans, and made up a container of cookies for him. Painless in comparison with his brief interaction with Bill.

  He hadn’t always gotten on so well with his mom. He’d been a right shit to her for the first year in LA, convinced if he made her miserable enough, she’d return him to his father and brother. Didn’t happen.

  Claire had moved in with Lionel soon after Del had turned fifteen, and he’d decided to hate his new stepfather and thirteen-year-old stepsister. Fortunately, Lionel, a former Air Force officer, believed in crack-of-dawn, five-mile runs and brutal—but not physical—disciplinary actions. He also took Del and Carly on camping weekends in nearby state parks and showed up at every high school baseball game and parent-teacher conference. Hard to keep a hate campaign going when pitted against genuine tough love, especially as his stepsister turned out to be his greatest ally.

  Then last year, Lionel died after a nightmarish battle with malignant Glioblastoma, a nasty type of brain tumor. The big, don’t take crap from anyone, let alone a punk kid, fly-boy had been decimated, turning into a transparent ghost of the man Del loved. Yeah, he’d loved him. Took him until his stepfather lay on his deathbed before Del called Lionel “Dad”, but Del had meant it when he’d said it.

  “Don’t be too hard on Bill.” His mom passed over the container of cookies. “Just give yourselves some time to adjust to each other.”

  “
Sure. Don’t worry.”

  Like he intended to take a swing, verbal or actual, at the old man. Bill Westlake warranted only a small part of Del’s energy, no more than the energy it’d taken to have him shipped off so many years ago.

  Del stepped outside and crossed the gravel parking lot separating the hotel buildings from his parents’ cottage. West had already left five minutes ago to organize a ride to his place. A white van with Due South sign-writing on the panel parked with its engine running, a dread-locked dude in coveralls hoisting Del’s luggage inside.

  “Hey, buddy!”

  He didn’t believe the man would bail with his suitcase—because where could you escape to on Stewart Island, which was eighty percent frickin’ wilderness? He just didn’t want the little camera and laptop in his sports bag damaged.

  The man spun around, aiming dark sunglasses, and a slight scowl in Del’s direction.

  Del squinted, and as he strode closer his eyes popped wide. “Ford?”

  Scowl transforming into a lazy-cat smile, Ford Komeke shoved his shades up into his dreads. “Heard you were here.”

  “From your mom?”

  Ford snorted. “Mom? Listen to you. Yep, my mum came over to the shop and said you’d rolled into town.”

  “Still working for your dad? Thought you’d be outta here like Harley years ago.”

  “Nah. This is my turf; I’m not going anywhere. And somebody’s gotta stay and maintain people’s shit with Dad, otherwise it all falls apart.”

  “Mr. Fix-it man and his pet grease monkey.”

  Ford shot him a wide, teeth-bared grin. “Wanna walk up to West’s lugging your own suitcase?”

  From behind him a hand ruffled Del’s hair and knocked his head forward. “Stirring up the locals already, brother?”

  West sauntered over and opened the van’s passenger door. “I’m calling shotgun. Del—you ride in back. Piper’s making you up a bed downstairs.” He climbed in and glanced over his shoulder. “And she’s cooking dinner. We’ll stop for a pie at Russell’s on the way. Hope you can wolf it down then act like you’re starving.”

  Del hopped onto the first row of seats, and Ford slammed the sliding door. Del jumped, pent up nervous energy sparking up and down his spine. After the day he’d had, he needed to let loose in a kitchen. He needed the concentrated focus of being in the weeds during a busy dinner service. Backlogged orders and utter chaos kept his mind on a singular track with no room for anything else. Working a crazy shift, sex, or a long run were his go-to methods of burning off the fidgets. As sex wasn’t on tonight’s menu, he’d go for a run later—he sure didn’t want to listen to West banging his fiancée upstairs.

  They drove the short distance to Russell’s grocery store, and West disappeared inside, returning a few moments later with three brown paper bags, small spots of oil already soaking through in places.

  Del took the offered bag and bit into the steaming pastry. “Fuck!” he spluttered, fanning his open mouth and burned top pallet.

  Laughter erupted from the front seat.

  West passed him a water bottle. “Blow on it first, idiot. The Russells keep their pies thermo-nuclear, remember?”

  No, he did not fucking remember. The last time he’d eaten the Kiwi tradition of a hot, savory meat pie, he’d been a different person. He’d been a kid whose greatest worry was if he’d ever be good enough to play for Southland’s Under 16’s rugby team. Or whether the pretty, blonde Bree Findlow smiled at him, or if he and West would end up sleeping at the Harland’s yet again, since their parents were fighting.

  He wasn’t a naive kid anymore. He was a professional chef who shouldn’t be soiling his taste buds with ground beef, gravy and golden pastry. Like everything on Stewart Island, it looked good on the surface, but underneath lurked things which burned.

  Del unscrewed the bottle cap and gulped water. “How can you put this kind of shit in your body?”

  “That shit you’re eating cost me four bucks. If you don’t want it, Ford’ll eat it.”

  “Hell, yeah.” Ford finished blowing on his pie and took an enormous bite.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  West grinned at Del over the seat. “Maybe you should save room for dinner.”

  Ford gave a low snicker. “I’d pay to be a bug on the wall after your bro insults Piper’s cooking.”

  “I’m not going to insult her damn cooking.” Del ate the last chunk of pie, refusing to lick the buttery crumbs of pastry off his fingers, because that would make it look as if he’d actually enjoyed it.

  “You haven’t tried it yet,” Ford muttered and started the van.

  They drove along the waterfront and wound up a steep hill, turning into the driveway of a two story house overlooking Horseshoe Bay. West crumpled his paper bag and stuffed it into the coffee holder. Del and West hopped out of the car and unloaded the bags.

  Sliding the van door shut, West banged on the panel. “Poker tomorrow night.”

  “Better save my cash for the stripper we’re hiring for your stag do,” Ford yelled out his window. “Shit. Uh—hi, Piper! Just kidding.”

  With a quick wave, Ford revved the engine and took off.

  Del turned to the woman leaning against the open door frame. Taller than her sister, Piper still had the Harland family brown hair, hazel eyes and athletic build. Shaye’s eyes were more green than hazel, and although still a tall woman, she had softer curves.

  Dressed in khaki shorts and an It’s not that time of the month, I just hate you tee, Piper picked her way in bare feet over the driveway.

  “You’re not going to hug me, are you, Stubby?” Her old nickname popped into his head and slipped off his tongue.

  That gave her pause. She slapped a hand on her hip and studied him. “Nope.”

  Piper moved closer—way closer—grabbed either side of his face with both hands, and planted a solid, smacking kiss on his lips. She pulled back and smiled a Cheshire-cat grin, hazel eyes sparking. “A hello-my-hawt-brother-in-law kiss, instead.”

  “Don’t you know never to tell a woman not to do something?” West dragged Piper close for a kiss a lot friendlier than a hello one.

  Before Del could suggest they take it upstairs, Piper stepped out of West’s arms and jabbed a finger at his stomach. “Have you been eating a pie?”

  West held up his hands. “Blame your new brother-in-law. He insisted on having a Russell’s pie on the way home. I tried to tell him—”

  “Yeah, right. What am I, stupid?” She slapped West on the ass, and they grinned goofily at each other.

  Del shifted his sports bag from hand to hand, cleared his throat and glanced at the house. “Nice place you got here.”

  “Not fancy, like your bachelor pad in LA, I bet,” Piper said. “But we’ve got a killer view.”

  His old Venice apartment looked out over an alley dumpster, that often doubled as a sex-club for stray cats.

  “Can’t argue,” he said mildly.

  Not gonna mention he’d give up this postcard sunset and endless green in an instant for his old life in LA before everything turned to garbage.

  He tagged along into the house, West lugging his suitcase and Piper his sports bag, since they both seemed determined to play happy hosts.

  West directed Del through a door inside the ground floor’s hallway. A contrast wall painted a deep purple dominated the big bedroom/living area, with contrasting feminine touches of a frilly comforter and some of those little pillows women seemed to love cluttering up the beds. On the opposite side of the room, an open door revealed a white tile floor and the corner of a shower cubicle—thank God he wouldn’t have to go upstairs to the main house when he wanted the bathroom.

  Piper placed his sports bag on a two-seater couch angled toward sliding glass doors and the view beyond. “Hope it’s not too girly. We had it repainted after Ben moved back to his place. He broke his ankle earlier in the year and stayed with West awhile—and oh, I’m babbling.” She touched her fingers t
o her lips.

  “It’s kind of you to offer me your spare room on such short notice.” Look at him, being all affable and polite.

  She tilted her head, small wrinkles appearing on her brow. “You’re family. Of course you’re staying with us—long as you want.”

  “Or for as long as he can stomach your cooking.” West hauled his suitcase over to a large chest of drawers.

  “He’s such a funny guy.” Piper rolled her eyes at Del. “I’m going to go check on dinner—homemade pizza. I was gonna throw on a frozen pizza, but I didn’t want you to go all Gordon Ramsey on me.”

  “Oven on one-eighty, babe?” said West.

  Piper strode out the door, saying, “Leave Del to try out the shower. Dinner’s in twenty.”

  Del pretended to continue his examination of the bathroom as Piper’s footsteps faded along the hallway. Hoped West would get the hint and follow.

  His brother huffed out a sigh. Nope. West never was great at picking up signals.

  “You okay? With being back here, Dad, Shaye, and all of it?”

  Like Del could admit the truth to anyone. He hadn’t been okay in a long time. “I don’t require hand-holding and a group hug, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Anything less than sarcasm and West would suspect.

  West folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Always were a proud little bugger—too damn stubborn to ask for help when you needed it.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “Maybe not. But there’s stuff you’re not telling me about why you took a leave of absence to come work here.”

  Del leveled a stare at his brother. He’d need to work more on his poker face because West wasn’t buying it. Maybe a partial truth would convince him rather than an outright lie.

  “I didn’t take a leave of absence. Me, the owner, and the head chef had different ideas on where Cosset should be heading, so I walked.”

  “You quit? You told me you fought like a bloody lunatic to get a job there.” West’s surprise changed to a frown and a speculative eye narrowing. “When I told you I was getting hitched, you mentioned a woman you were seeing—Jacy? Julia? The owner’s daughter. Is she the reason?”