by Terri Osburn
“Yeah, I did.”
“Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-six,” Nick corrected. “Can we get to the point? I have to get back to the restaurant.”
Alex sighed. “Nota says you think you’re going to die soon.”
He should have known. “There’s nothing you can do about my family history, Fielding. If you’re doing this just to make Nota feel better, then fine. We talked.” Nick rose from his chair but Alex wasn’t finished.
“How old was your father when he died?”
Jaw locked, he replied, “Thirty-seven.”
“Was he a relatively healthy man?”
“He ran a restaurant so there wasn’t much time for working out, but he was fit.”
“Smoker?”
Nick returned to his seat. “He quit ten years before he died.”
“I see.” Alex tapped a finger on his desk. “How about you? Do you smoke?”
“I never took up the habit.”
The doctor opened a manila folder. “Per Nota’s request, I looked up your father’s and your grandfather’s death records. What were you told about their deaths?”
Pissed now, Nick said, “You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“She’s worried about you, Nick. Stress affects her health and her health is my business.” Lifting a paper from inside the folder, he said, “Your father died of a heart attack caused by damage brought on by what was most likely a series of silent heart attacks. He may have thought he had indigestion or a pulled muscle.” He flipped to another page and continued. “Your grandfather died of a brain aneurysm brought on by high blood pressure.”
Nothing Nick didn’t already know. “And they both died before they were forty. What’s your point?”
Alex leaned his elbows on his desk. “My point is that their deaths were wholly unrelated and unless you’re ignoring some severe heartburn or headaches, there’s little chance that you will share their fate.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t.” He let out a long sigh. “Contrary to what some physicians like to believe, we are not higher beings. You could walk out of this office and get struck by lightning. Or keel over in your bathroom from a major heart attack there was no way to predict. But that’s the case for all of us, Nick. Your chances of dying in the next few years are no higher than mine.”
“Again, this is none of your business.”
“Is Nota right?” he asked. “Are you so busy waiting to die that you’re refusing to live?”
Nick rose again. “Your job is to treat my grandmother. Stick to that and keep your nose out of my life. If you can’t do that, I’m sure we can find another doctor who will.”
Furious, he left the office to find Nota waiting at the front. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off.
“Don’t. Just don’t.”
Her lips snapped shut as she nodded. She knew she’d crossed the line.
He escorted her to the car as gently as ever, and together they rode in silence. Once he’d gotten her home and inside, Nick had only one thing to say.
“Your meddling in my life stops today. Do you understand?”
“I just want you to be happy.” When Nick stayed silent, she said, “Yes, I understand.”
At the door, he turned. “I love you, Nota. But today you went too far.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.”
Eyes on the floor, he said, “Me, too,” before closing the door behind him.
Lauren preferred to do her workouts first thing in the morning, but she’d opted not to hit the gym before the interviews, deciding instead to spend extra time on her appearance. She wasn’t a makeup person and kept her hair just long enough to pull up in a ponytail. Today, however, she’d attempted a blowout and applied mascara. There was a truth to dressing the part and for the day she would hire her first-ever kitchen staff, she’d needed the boost of confidence.
To her relief, the interviews had gone better than she’d hoped and come Wednesday the crew—her crew—would be in the kitchen. The rest of the day had been spent working on the menu while waiting for the stove delivery, which miraculously arrived as scheduled. Everything was falling into place easily enough that she couldn’t help but feel a sense of imminent doom.
That was the problem with being a pessimist—even when things were good, Lauren still expected the worst.
By eight in the evening, she’d finished the menu except for whatever dishes would be added from the Marina options. Too excited to call it a day, she visited the gym to work off the adrenaline. When she’d arrived, a man and a woman she’d never seen before were the only others using the facility. Most likely nighttime regulars.
Ten minutes into a light jog on the treadmill, with Beyoncé belting a female empowerment anthem through her earbuds, Lauren had worked up both a plan for the week ahead and a good sweat.
She upped the pace to a steady run and as she glanced up from the control board, she noticed Nick Stamatis stepping onto the next treadmill over. There were eight machines in the row and all but hers were empty. Could he not have picked one of the others?
He offered no greeting and skipped the warm-up levels to go straight to a near sprint. Lauren couldn’t help but notice the set of his jaw and the white-knuckled fists pumping forward and back. The man was pissed off about something.
If this was about their last encounter, then he’d just have to pout because she wasn’t interested in arguing again, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to apologize.
Another minute passed with Nick pumping away like a man trying to outrun a bear and Lauren pretending he didn’t exist. Though she was competitive enough to increase her speed just to prove she could handle the higher pace. Not in the manic way he was, but her pride refused to let him think she couldn’t keep up.
Beyoncé rolled into Ed Sheeran and Lauren kept her pace, eyes on the mirror ahead. She told herself not to watch the man beside her, but Nick was difficult to ignore. The white tank, now covered in sweat, revealed well-defined arms and a healthy tuft of dark chest hair. He had great form so he’d probably run track at some point in his life. For a moment she found herself wondering what he’d look like without the shirt on.
Of course, that was the moment their eyes caught in the mirror and Lauren nearly lost her balance. To save her dignity and put space between them, she decided to move on to another machine, but as she cut the treadmill back to a walk, Nick did the same on his. She pretended not to notice.
Normally, she’d do a full five-minute cooldown, but something told her getting away from the Greek god next door was the only way to lower her temperature. She may not have liked him, but she wasn’t dead. Roxie had been right. The meddling cook was gorgeous as hell and even hotter when soaked with sweat.
Lauren took the machine down to zero and stepped off to grab a spray bottle and a paper towel. When she returned, Nick was standing still, seemingly waiting for her. He said something she couldn’t hear thanks to the music playing in her ears, so she cleaned her machine, ignoring him.
To her surprise, he tugged an earbud away and said, “I know you see me.”
“What the—” Lauren fought the temptation to spray him with the cleaner. “What is wrong with you?”
“Let’s get a drink,” he said.
He could not be serious. “Why would I ever get a drink with you?”
“I hear you hired a staff today. That’s your first one, right?”
Of course he knew that already.
“What about it?” she replied.
“That’s something to celebrate.” Nick pulled a towel off the arm of his machine and wiped his face before wrapping the terry cloth around his neck. “I’ll hit the shower and meet you outside in ten minutes.”
Before she could refuse, he strolled off toward the men’s locker room, leaving her gaping at his back. His wide, muscled back. As if coming out of a trance, Lauren shook her head and said aloud, “There’s no way I’m going to do th
is.”
She caught her reflection in the mirror and had another thought.
I can’t go looking like this.
Returning the spray bottle and tossing the paper towel, she grabbed her water and phone, then hurried into the locker room to change.
6
Lauren was waiting outside the gym entrance when Nick walked out. He had no idea why he was doing this. He just wanted someone to share a drink with who didn’t care enough about him to blow sunshine up his ass. It was safe to assume Lauren Riley fit that description. She’d changed into black jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt under a gray sweat jacket. Her hair was down and wet, so he assumed she’d also taken a quick shower.
“Follow me,” he said, breezing past her to reach his truck.
“To where?” she asked, holding her ground.
Nick opened his door. “I know a spot.” As he climbed in, Lauren lingered by the entrance, clearly debating whether to join him. Rolling down the passenger window, he said, “It’s not a date and I’m not going to attack you. It’s drinks on the beach. You in or not?”
Because she couldn’t make anything easy, she asked, “What are we drinking?”
“I’m stopping at Louis’ Liquor for beer. If that isn’t your thing, you can get whatever you want.”
“Beer is fine.” She strolled to the black GMC parked two spaces down, climbed in, started the vehicle, then glanced his way with a “What are you waiting for?” expression.
He couldn’t help but appreciate her no-nonsense attitude. No frills. No artifice. Just you get what you see. Nick liked that.
Louis’ wasn’t far from the gym and despite it being nine o’clock on a Friday night, traffic was light. Then again, traffic was always light on Anchor except for Sundays when tourists were either arriving or leaving. Lauren parked her Terrain beside his truck, and he walked around to her door. She stared at him for a few seconds before finally rolling the window down.
“What?”
“Are you coming in?”
“You plan to get some fancy-ass beer?”
“Do I look like the fancy-ass beer type?”
She looked him up and down. “I guess not.”
He took the assessment as a compliment. “I’ll be right back.”
With a nod, she rolled the window back up. Minutes later, he returned to his truck with beer in hand and they hit the road again. Nick led her to his cottage and parked in his regular spot. Leaving the vehicle, he noticed Lauren’s still sitting on the road. Jogging to her door, he said, “Pull in next to me.”
Ignoring the directive, she said, “What is this place?”
“My house,” he replied.
“You live here?”
The home was a simple cottage like many on the island. Nothing too fancy for a cook, yet not derelict or run down enough for the look of concern on her face.
“Yeah, I do. We aren’t going in though, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she snapped. “My cottage is on this street. I didn’t realize we lived near each other.”
He hadn’t either. “Small island, remember? You pulling in?”
“If we’re drinking, I might as well park at my place and walk. Give me two minutes.”
Nick stepped away to let her pass but stayed on the road so he could see walk back. Crime on Anchor was virtually nonexistent, but that didn’t mean he’d let her walk in the dark without some sort of protection. The main roads in the village had streetlights, but not these side roads closer to the water. He couldn’t tell how far down she went, but he was willing to wait as long as necessary for her to return.
When she reached the edge of his property, she noticed him. “Have you been there the whole time?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not a child, Stamatis. I can probably defend myself better than you can.”
“You some kind of self-defense expert?”
She drew closer, hands in her pockets and eyes on his cottage. “Something like that. So if we aren’t going inside, where are we going?”
“Around back.” He headed for his truck to get the beer. “Come on.”
Nick led her around the left side of the house, triggering the motion-activated floodlight. He followed the path he’d walked hundreds of times, turning at a rough patch to say, “Watch your footing through here.”
“I’m fine,” she said, then slipped and snatched a handful of his jacket.
He fought the urge to say I told you so. Twenty feet later they reached their destination and stepped onto the moonlit sand. Nothing but water stretched as far as the eye could see and Nick led her to the Adirondack chairs he kept on the sand not far from his back door.
“Have a seat.” He pulled two longnecks from the six-pack. The goal was to have a drink, not to get drunk, as much as he’d rather do the latter. Once she sat, he handed her a bottle and said, “Do you ever wish people would mind their own business?”
Lauren did a spit-take, spewing beer onto the sand. Once she’d wiped her chin, she said, “Did you really just ask me that?”
Nick laughed for the first time in hours. “I guess I have been sticking my nose into your business, but I have good intentions.”
“And those are?” she asked.
“What happens with Pilar’s affects my friends,” he pointed out. “I can’t sit back and let it fail when I can do something to help.”
Alex’s comment about Nick’s life affecting Nota’s replayed in his mind. He and the doc had similar motives, it seemed.
Shoving her beer bottle into the sand, Lauren rose to her feet. “If you brought me here to talk about how I’m going to fuck up this restaurant, I’m not interested.”
“Who said you were going to fuck anything up?”
“You just said you can’t let it fail. Like without you the place is doomed.” Lauren stormed back toward the path. “Heaven forbid a woman know what she’s doing.”
“Hold on,” he said, catching up to her. “Let’s be clear about something. You’re a chef. Period. Man. Woman. That’s all bullshit. Ingredients don’t care what you are. It’s what you do with them. About the failing shit, you and I both know how many new restaurants close within the first year, if they make it that long. You’re doing this for the first time in a unique place where you have no idea how anything works. All I’m trying to do is give you the knowledge you need to be successful. I’d be doing the same if you were a guy. And if you’d get that damn chip off your shoulder, I wouldn’t have to fight you every step of the way.”
They stared in silence broken by the waves crashing on the beach.
Lauren broke the stalemate. “Why?”
“Why what?” he said. “I just told you this affects my friends.”
“You said yourself, the Marina ran for over thirty years. If I don’t make this work, they can fire me and bring in another chef. So why are you so determined to help me?”
Time to fess up.
“Because you remind me of someone.”
“Please don’t tell me I look like some long-lost love of your life.”
Nick couldn’t help but laugh. “No,” he assured her. “I meant myself. If I’m going to tell this story, then I need more beer. Come back and sit if you want to hear it.”
Seconds after taking his seat, he heard sand shifting behind him before she joined him once again.
“This better be good.”
The only reason Lauren was still on this beach was Nick’s comment that chefs were chefs regardless of gender. In thirteen years of trying to earn her place in the kitchen, she’d never heard anyone say those words. Especially not a man.
“Before I could walk my dad opened his own restaurant,” Nick started, his gaze locked on the distant waves. “It was his dream, and he loved every second he spent in that kitchen. Once he started taking me along, I fell in love as well. The smells. The sounds. The speed and choreography of the whole thing. He was my hero and I wanted to be just like him.”
/> Lauren could guess what came next but asked anyway. “What happened to him?”
“He died when I was fifteen.”
She’d never known her father, but after losing Mom six months ago, she understood the loss. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. My mom was left with two teenagers and a restaurant she had no idea how to run, but she found some good people who kept it going until I insisted on taking over.” After a long swig of his drink, he sat back in his chair. “I ran it into the ground within nine months.”
Guessing this is where he saw their similarities, she asked, “How old were you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“I’m not twenty-one,” she pointed out.
“No, but you are stubborn as hell.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “So I’m going to run Pilar’s into the ground because I’m stubborn?”
Nick shrugged. “You might make it work. After a few mistakes. Some turnover in the kitchen. But the odds are against you. That’s just a reality of the business.”
He had no idea what she was capable of, and his assumptions, while accurate in many ways, were also insulting. Lauren may have been a pessimist, but she had confidence in herself and her abilities. She had to because no one else ever had.
“I really am sorry about your dad,” she said with sincerity. “And I’m sorry that you weren’t able to keep the restaurant going. But I’m not a kid, and I wouldn’t have taken this job if I didn’t believe that I could do it. So as I’ve said before, you run your kitchen, and I’ll run mine.”
“It’s funny,” he said, turning her way, the half grin clear in the moonlight. “You opened the interviews to the former staff and you’re adding dishes from the Marina menu to the new one. Both suggestions that I made.”
“I—” she started, but he cut her off.
“You also didn’t mind my help at the farmer’s market. Seems like you’re willing to take what I offer while at the same time telling me to stay out of your kitchen. You need to make up your mind.”
The man went from feminist to jackass in less than a beer. “I never asked you for any of those suggestions, though that isn’t the word I would use for storming into my restaurant and making demands. As for the menu, yes, I took that one because it’s a good idea when the staff who created them would be handling the dishes. Otherwise, I never would have considered it. If you want a ‘suggested by Nick Stamatis’ added next to each Marina dish in the menu, I’m sure I can have that arranged.”