by Farlow, LK
A small smile graces my lips. “Yeah, Alden, we’re good.”
He eyes me, then his gaze flits to the window. He almost seems nervous, but I can’t fathom what he has to be nervous about. It’s not like he has some fifty-ton secret crushing his chest. “Wonderful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping deliciously low. “So, since we’re good, you’ll let me take you to dinner one night so we can catch up some more?”
“Dinner? Let’s just catch up now.” Seriously, who goes to dinner?
Alden makes a big show of checking his watch. “Well, I’d totally be down for that if I didn’t have to be at the café at noon.” Holy shit! Noon? That means we’ve been here for almost half an hour! “So, like I was saying, dinner…”
“I’ll probably be busy,” I say, deflecting.
He shoots me a sly grin and places his hand on my knee. The contact heats me straight through. I want to wiggle and shrug his touch away, but at the same time, it is the sweetest kind of torture. “I haven’t even said when, Natalie.”
“Oh, right.” I look down to my lap, far too embarrassed to meet his eyes “When?”
“How about next weekend? That should be plenty of time to request off and secure a babysitter, right?” The corners of his mouth tip up. He knows he has me. I’m but a fish on a line, and he is reeling me in.
Dammit! He’s thought of everything; I don’t really have a way to say no! “Yeah…sounds great.”
He stands and extends a hand down to help me up. “Great. It’s a date.”
I yank my hand back from him so hard that I slam back down into my chair. Alden quirks a brow at me. Gah, somehow this only serves to make him look hotter. “Nope! Not a date!”
Yet again, my outburst has Alden in stitches. “Easy there, tiger. It’s not a date.”
“Promise?”
He shakes his head back and forth. “You’re bad for my ego, Nat, because gotta say, I’ve never had a girl beg me not to take her out on a date.”
Ugh. The thought of all of the girls between Mia and now makes my stomach churn. Not with jealousy, but with…well…something. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. And I’m betting your ego can handle it.”
11
Alden
While I wish I could say taking over Bayside has been a breeze…I’d be lying. Truthfully, it’s been more of a hail storm—as soon as I think I’m in the clear, another chunk of ice pelts me. With the way good old Don was running things, it’s honestly a miracle they’re still open.
As if serving bland, basic recipes made with second-rate produce wasn’t bad enough, the dumbass didn’t enforce any type of written disciplinary policy, and he allowed the staff to set their own schedules. Luckily, I’m well on my way to fixing the first issue with a total menu overhaul.
Which leads to an entirely different issue. Yesterday I promised Natalie her schedule would stay the same. If I make everyone else change theirs and keep her as is, will it look like favoritism? But, if I change hers, I run the risk of severely pissing her off, maybe even losing her as an employee, and undoubtedly losing my date with her next weekend.
How much of a shit does it make me that the date is what I’m most worried about? Even if it is only as friends. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere, and I have no qualms about working my way up from the bottom.
I’ve been holed up in my office all day sorting through the mountain of unorganized paperwork. Applications are mixed in with invoices, the schedules are handwritten and barely legible. This is a veritable shitshow. Of epic proportions.
Three hours later, I have ninety percent of the papers sorted—wouldn’t have taken quite so long if my staff would stop interrupting me for shit they should be able to handle on their own. Speaking of my staff, I don’t have applications or tax information on file for half of them. I’m talking no contact information, no emergency contact, no W2—nothing. Seriously, how the fuck did Don keep the doors to this place open?
Fed up and in need of a break, I slip my phone from my pocket and dial Nate. He answers on the third ring. “ ’Sup? How’s the café?”
“A headache. It’s a headache.”
He chuckles. “C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”
“You’re right. It’s worse. At this point, banging my head into the wall sounds more appealing than dealing with all of this.”
“Gonna be worth it, though.”
“If I can get everything straightened out.” I fill him in on all of the bullshit, hoping he’ll have some advice for me. Luckily, he does.
“All right, listen. You already know you’re going to have to thin the staff. Have everyone fill out an application—that way you have their contact information and whatnot. Once you figure out who you’re keeping on, take care of tax forms. It’s that easy.”
“Easy for you,” I grumble.
“Hey, this is your dream—man up and put the work in.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “You’re right. I just…” I trail off, debating whether or not to mention the debacle with his sister. “Here’s the thing: I promised Natalie her shifts could stay the same. But…”
Nate lets out a slow exhale. “You know I can’t really be objective here, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll figure it out. Drinks again soon?”
“Actually, I was thinking…why don’t you come out to the house this weekend? We can invite a few people over, celebrate your ass coming back home.”
I turn his idea over in my head for all of two seconds before agreeing. “Yeah. That sounds great.”
* * *
It’s finally Friday, and I’ve spent the past two days re-interviewing my staff. At this point, I’m legitimately wondering how some of these people were hired. I’m ninety-nine percent positive two of them showed up high. And I don’t mean like a few tokes high, I mean a few blunts and a couple of bong hits high. The smell was so strong, they may as well have lit up in my office. And FYI, Axe Body Spray doesn’t mask the scent—it intensifies it.
Don’t get me wrong—I don’t give a shit what my employees do in their own time, as long as it doesn’t adversely affect business. They wanna party…go for it. They wanna dance with Mary Jane…not my business. Real talk: every restaurateur has had an employee or two like these guys.
It is, however, my business when they show up so high that instead of answering my questions, they cackle like fucking hyenas. How in the hell can they provide exceptional service when they can’t even remember their own fucking names? And don’t even get me started on their droopy-ass, bloodshot eyes.
Now, I’m down to the final three interviews—Carlos, who is more of a formality than anything else, that dude’s not going anywhere; some dude named Steve, who I don’t think I’ve even met; and Natalie, who I saved for last.
Not that his position was ever in question, but Carlos will definitely be staying on here at Bayside, only he’s been promoted from the daytime manager to the general manager. The well-being and success of Bayside runs through his veins just as it does mine.
Turns out Steve is a standup guy. He is an older gentleman who busses tables because, as he so eloquently put it, retirement is a fucking snore. I told him bussing was better suited for teens and asked him how he felt about a promotion. Steve is now our expeditor—which really couldn’t be a better position for him, seeing as how he used to write for a foodie magazine back in the day. So, dude knows quality food when he sees it.
For some unexplainable reason, waiting for Natalie to step into my office has me feeling anxious. Even though I’ll be able to keep her schedule mostly the same—thanks to some insider info from my best friend—my posture is rigid, and my jaw is tense. Not because I think things won’t go well, but because…hell, I don’t even know why.
Maybe it’s the fact that the sound of her voice lights me up from the inside. Or maybe it’s the way the sound of her laughter erases all of my worries. More than anything, though, it’s probably the fact that I want her in ways that would have her brot
her kicking my ass—especially if he ever realized that she was still in high school when she caught my eye.
But hell, I pretended for years that she was more like a sister to me than anything else…so why am I struggling now? Because she’s a grown-ass woman now, my mind counters, fucking with me.
I’m about to tell my mind to eff right off when there’s a knock at the door. “Alden?” Natalie’s honeyed voice sounds from the other side of the door.
“Come in,” I call out, my voice deeper than usual.
She steps through the door, smiling bright, and it’s like a shot to my gut. She’s so damn beautiful. “Having a good day?”
I nod. “How about you?”
“Yeah, um, yes.” I smile at her rambling. I can’t put my finger on it, but I like the way I make her nervous.
“I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, Nat. Your schedule is going to have to change—but only a little and only temporarily.”
“Change how?” she asks, sounding mildly irritated.
“I’m going to need you to close at least one night a week.”
She blinks at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. I was thinking Wednesdays?”
“That’s actually perfect. I have online classes on Tuesday and Thursday nights—well, I mean, those are the days I set aside for it—but Nate is off early on Wednesdays, so he should be able to get Tatum.”
I nod, like this is all news to me, when really, I chatted with Nate a few times to make sure everything would work. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?
“Oh! Wait,” she murmurs. “I guess I should actually ask Nate first. Is that…is that okay?”
“Of course, Natalie. Why don’t you go ahead and give him a call?”
“My phone’s in my purse in my locker, since I’m on the clock. May I?” She glances down at the office phone sitting in the cradle; I lift it and slide it her way, flipping open my laptop to give her a little privacy to call her brother. Thankfully he answers, and like I knew he would, he tells her he is absolutely fine with picking up Tatum on Wednesdays. She breaks out into a brilliant smile and thanks him. She’s in the process of saying goodbye when her brow quirks.
“Uh, well. Um.” Her words stop, and she listens for another beat. “That’s j-just really short notice, Nate. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get a sitter.”
A quick glance her way shows me she’s nervously wringing her fingers in her lap. Obviously, I can’t hear his side of things, but she follows up whatever he says with, “Oh, are you sure? I…I guess that’ll work. I’ll see you then.”
She ends their call and places the phone on my desk. “We’re good to go, and apparently Tatum and I will s-see you at Nate’s this weekend!”
“Glad to hear it,” I tell her, leaving her to assume I’m referring to Wednesdays when really, it’s the thought of seeing her two weekends in a row out of work that’s got me feeling some kind of way.
12
Natalie
When Nate asked—no, demanded—that I come out to his place tonight for Alden’s welcome home party, my insides basically melted like an ice cream cone—a freaking emotional ice cream cone—on a hot, summer day. And now, that sticky, feely-feels mess has me cycling through a riotous mass of emotions. At the forefront of them all is apprehension.
Coupled with a whole lot of reluctance.
Followed by a healthy dose of hesitation.
Pretty much, I’m nervous as fuck and have transformed into even more of a hot mess than usual. Which is saying a lot, because most days I feel lucky to leave the house in one piece. I was such a wreck heading into work this morning that even my mom picked up on it when I dropped Tatum off with her. I could tell from the major side-eye that she wanted to ask what had me wound so tight, but mercifully, she didn’t.
I managed to calm down a little when I realized Alden wasn’t there, but still, every worst-case scenario raced through my mind all day, leading me to make simple mistakes and mess up some orders. Finally, after the lunch rush, Carlos cut me early, and I rushed to pick up my little girl, seeking the comfort only her sweet toddler scent and cuddles can give me.
After eating a snack, we watched Trolls—again—before taking a nap together in my bed. Well, Tatum took a nap. I laid there and worried.
I mean, what if Tatum doesn’t like him? Hell, what if he doesn’t like her, because, holy shit, I don’t even know if he likes kids, much less wants one!
That would certainly make telling him the truth a whole lot harder. It wouldn’t stop me—made that mistake already—but gah, it would suck. At this point, my biggest concern is panicking and spilling the truth at his feet in front of everyone in some horrible nerve-induced word vomit.
I’m in the kitchen starting an early dinner—because Nate’s food is rarely edible—when Tatum yells out for me from somewhere in the apartment.
That’s her new thing. Hollering loudly enough for me to hear her instead of stopping what she’s doing and coming to speak to me. I’ve told her countless times that’s not how we talk to people. So, instead of replying, I go on about my business as if I hadn’t heard her at all. Mean, maybe. But…
Not even two minutes later, the sound of tiny feet padding across the carpet meets my ears. And then, a tug on my shirt tail. “Mama! Did you heard me?”
I pivot to face her, and when she extends her arms up toward me, I reach down and pick up her, depositing her into the countertop. “I did hear you, Tater Tot.”
She pouts. “Then why you not answer?”
“Why do you think?” I ask, with a smile in my voice. I don’t want her to think I’m scolding her when I’m only teaching.
“A’cause I didn’t come to you?”
“Bingo.” I boop her on the nose, and she giggles. “What’d you need?”
“I not remember,” she mutters, displeased to no end.
“It’ll come to you. Why don’t you go play while I cook?”
“I help?”
“Absolutely.” I set her back down onto the floor before pulling her step stool out of the laundry room. “Wanna help me mix?”
“Yes! I’m a good mixer! Da best!”
She stands patiently in front of her stool as she waits for further instruction. “You are. Let me get you something to stir with.” I grab her pink and red whisk that came in a Mommy-and-Me set I saw at Target. She also has her pint-sized apron and oven mitts. Yeah, I might’ve gone a little overboard the second she showed an interest in cooking—so much like her daddy.
I add our ingredients to the bowl: one cup of shredded, skinless rotisserie chicken, one cup of mixed garden veggies, and three-quarters of a cup of cream of chicken.
“All right, get to mixing!”
She hops up onto her stool, and I stand behind her, bracing her while also supervising her mixing. Once she has everything mostly folded together, I sprinkle it all with poultry seasoning and pepper and instruct her to give it one last stir.
Then I sprinkle a little flour onto the countertop, which Tatum thinks is hilarious. Through stitches of laughter, she informs me I’ve made a big mess, but I only smile. Once she gets her wits about her, she helps me roll out the store-bought crescent dough. I grab a glass down from the cabinet and use it to cut out six perfect circles of dough. I lay each one in its own spot in the muffin tin.
“Hey, can you do Mama another favor?”
She nods.
“In the drawer right next to the fridge, there’s an ice cream scooper. Can you grab it for me?”
Another nod.
With the scooper in hand, I guide her through adding the creamy chicken goodness on top of each circle of dough. “What’s we do with those?” Tatum asks, gesturing to the little leftover strips of crescent dough.
“Ah!” I exclaim. “Those are the most important part.” We place two strips on top of each scoop of chicken and then step back to admire our handiwork. “Well, Tater Tot, nothin’ left to do but to bake it now.”
&nbs
p; With the fun part over, Tatum retreats to her room, and I slide the pot pie muffins into the oven, setting the timer.
I decide to make the best of wait time and paint my toenails. Anything to keep me busy—to keep my mind occupied. And when I’m done, I paint my daughter’s too.
The timer goes off right as I finish polishing Tatum’s little piggies. “Stay here,” I tell her, knowing she’d be sad if she smeared her polish. I walk to the kitchen mostly on my heels, with my toes spread apart—I’m sure I look nutso, but hey, I don’t want my pretty pink polish to get messed up either.
After dishing up one muffin for Tatum and two for myself, I cut up an apple and grab us each a piece of cheese. Dinner of champions, y’all. I carry our plates to the table and then make the short trek back to the living room to grab my girl.
Once we’ve both joined the clean plate club, as my mother would call it, I tell Tatum it’s time to get dressed to go to Uncle Nate’s. She pumps both of her little fists over her head and squeals, her excitement palpable. If only I were confident in tonight going off without a hitch. If only I had her childlike naivete. If only, if only, if only…
* * *
We go through the same song and dance of getting dressed like we always do…I lay out an outfit for Tatum, and she dresses herself anyway. Then, we compromise. Tonight, that leaves her wearing a rainbow tulle skirt and a neon pink graphic tee proclaiming a little kindness can change the world—and Lord knows that’s true. Her hair is styled into pigtails, with the right one sitting a smidge higher, with mismatched bows. Which is all too fitting when you take in her mismatched Converse as well.
Compared to her, in my white skinny jeans, casual gray knotted-front top and nude flats, I’m plain Jane and boring. In an effort to spice things up, I tease the crown of my hair and gather it into a messy, high ponytail. I coat my lashes in mascara, swipe some berry-colored gloss over my lips, and grab my olive-green slouchy cardigan because Nate keeps his house roughly the temperature of a walk-in fridge.