by Terri Osburn
Tipping up her own beer, she finished the bottle, and then stood, leaving the empty on the sand.
“As for the farmer’s market, I would have found those connections with or without you. As you mentioned, small island. Now don’t bother getting up. I can see myself out.”
She’d reached the edge of the house when he said, “Chef.”
Lauren stopped, bracing for whatever insult would come next.
“I’m rooting for you,” he said.
No sarcasm.
No parting dig.
No warning of imminent doom without him.
Head up, she said, “Thanks,” and continued walking.
“I thought I’d find you back here.”
Nick closed his eyes. Though Lauren had been gone at least an hour, he remained on the beach replaying their conversation. His professional opinion of her remained the same. She was in over her head. His opinion about her as a person, however, had shifted. She was tough and she believed in herself. That was half the battle right there.
“Let me guess,” he said to his sister. “Nota sent you.”
“Alex, actually.” Mia sat down in the chair Lauren had vacated. “He didn’t give me the details, but I get the impression you two had a disagreement.”
“If you mean he crossed a line into private family business, then yeah.”
She spun in the chair, tossing her legs over the arm to face him. “What family business are you talking about?”
“Dad and Grandpa’s death records.”
“Oh.” After a brief hesitation, she asked, “What do they say?”
Nick turned to see if she was serious. “You don’t know?”
“Grandpa died before we were born. Before Mom and Dad even met, for that matter. And I was ten when Dad passed. No one told me anything.”
He couldn’t believe she’d never asked. “Mom didn’t tell you?”
Mia shook her head. “She just said that Dad was gone and I’d need to help out more because we were on our own.”
That sounded like Mom. Her idea of facing life head-on had been to walk into a closet and wait for the storm to pass. She’d grown up in a violent household, and that was how she’d learned to cope, though not until the last few years had he come to understand that.
“Dad died of a heart attack,” he told her. “According to Alex, there had been no genetic cause for it, though the doctors never could say why it happened. The guess is that he’d been having smaller ones for a while and didn’t know it, but each left a little more damage behind.”
Mia rubbed her chest. “How do you have a heart attack and not know it?”
“Alex says they can be mistaken for heartburn.”
“That’s some serious heartburn. So Grandpa was the same?”
Nick hated talking about this stuff, but after all these years, she had a right to know. “No. He died of a brain aneurysm from high blood pressure.”
Her feet hit the sand. “I thought they both died of the same thing. You’ve been freaking us out all this time and there isn’t even a consistent family history?”
“Death is the history, Mia.”
Staring as if he’d grown a third eye, she mumbled, “Unbelievable. I’ve seen pictures of Grandpa. He was overweight, and according to Grandma, ate red meat every day of his life. Of course he had high blood pressure.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Look at you.” She waved a hand up and down in his direction. “You’re the most in shape person I know. You eat healthy, you work out, you’ve never smoked a day in your life, and you could probably run a marathon tomorrow. If you’re on the brink of death, then the rest of us are living on borrowed time.”
“Dad was healthy.”
“Bullcrap. He ate at the restaurant every day, and not the salad. He also smoked.”
Collecting his empties, Nick corrected that statement. “He quit ten years before he died.”
Mia picked up the bottle Lauren left behind. “That doesn’t matter. The damage was done.” Before Nick could argue further, she said, “Wait a minute. Someone else was here.”
“Lauren Riley.” He shoved the empty bottles into the pack with the full ones.
“You were drinking here with Lauren Riley?”
Nick stood up. “Yeah. So?”
“But you don’t date chefs. That’s your rule.”
“I’m not dating her. We had a beer and talked about her restaurant.”
“In the spot where you bring women to charm them into your bed?”
So maybe he’d created this cozy little area for that purpose, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t sit out here with a friend. Or an enemy, as Lauren probably considered them. Would he try to get her into bed if she wasn’t a chef? Hell yes. She was beautiful, challenging, and sexy as hell when those blues eyes snapped with anger.
He could only imagine how they’d looked filled with desire. But she was a chef, so none of this made a difference.
“Don’t read into it,” he said. “There’s nothing going on.”
“If you say so, but if you were ever to make an exception to that stupid rule of yours, this would be the time.”
Mia popped the last empty into the pack as Nick said, “No exceptions. Besides, for all I know she could be more interested in you.”
“She isn’t,” his sister said without hesitation.
“How do you know?”
She sighed. “I just know.”
On their way into the house, he asked, “What about Henri?”
He felt her tense up beside him. “What about her?”
“Why haven’t you asked her out?”
That earned him a smack on the arm. “You know why.”
“She’s let you know she’s interested. Go for it already.”
“I can’t ask her to sneak around like that.”
Nick stopped at the edge of the porch. “Mia, just tell Nota already. She loves you. She deserves to know who you really are.”
Ignoring him, she marched up the stairs. “You worry about your love life and I’ll worry about mine.”
Joining her at the top, he bumped her with his shoulder. “Neither of us has a love life, remember?”
As he’d hoped, she laughed. “At least I have a good reason.”
Not wanting to start this again, Nick motioned toward the door. “Get inside. I’ve got leftover shrimp alfredo in the fridge.”
“Oh, I am on that.”
By the time Nick tossed the empty bottles into the recycle bin, Mia had the alfredo warming in the microwave. No one on the island would probably believe that his sister and grandmother were the only women who’d stepped foot inside his house in months. So long as he maintained the playboy reputation, no one asked any annoying questions about finding a wife or starting a family.
Two things Nick was in no position to do.
7
Lauren’s day with Jackson had gone better than she’d hoped. They’d chosen three dishes from the Marina menu, keeping them as close to the originals as possible while adding small touches that elevated them to the level of the rest of the Pilar’s menu. Two included seafood while the third, a roasted beet and butternut squash concoction, would appeal to their vegetarian customers.
The best part of her day had been the revelation that was Jackson Moore.
Despite the changes she’d made to the kitchen, the man moved through the space with a casual ease. There was nothing rushed or intense about him—unlike other chefs she’d worked with—but he also didn’t move too slowly either. He was a font of knowledge about flavors, especially anything involving seafood, and was an expert on the subject of the islanders.
They discussed what the locals preferred versus the tourists, while exploring what might be lacking on the island that they could provide. If all went well, Pilar’s would fill those gaps and become the place to eat for both natives and visitors alike. Jackson also suggested they add a few kid’s menu items, since Anchor was a family d
estination and many parties would include the little ones. That was something Lauren hadn’t considered, but the more she learned about Anchor, the more her vision shifted to accommodate her new surroundings.
The next two days had been spent finding ingredients for when the full cooking staff arrived on Wednesday morning. A day that did not prove as positive or productive as those before it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Roxie. They were standing at the hostess station reviewing the menu design now that the offerings had been finalized.
“I’m fine,” Lauren said through clenched teeth.
On a normal day, the sounds of an active kitchen—the tap, tap, tap of a knife on a cutting board and the sizzle of oil in a hot pan—were like a symphony to her. But today, after four hours of having to correct and discuss and debate every damn thing, she wanted nothing but silence.
“Fine enough that you’re going to grind your teeth to dust.” Roxie took her hand and led Lauren to a nearby table. “Sit and tell me what’s going on.”
Desperate for a confidant, she lowered her voice and whispered, “If I hear the words ‘But that’s not how we’ve always done it’ one more time, I’m going to start stabbing people.”
“Ah.” Roxie nodded in understanding. “That is one downfall to hiring the old staff. They’ve been together for a long time and are set in their ways, I’m sure.”
Lauren had believed their teamwork and experience would be a benefit, not an obstacle.
“I have to give Jackson credit,” she said. “He’s reminded them three times that this is my kitchen now, but I only have ten days to make this work, Roxie, and I can’t fight them every step of the way.”
“I guess you could replace them,” she whispered. “But that would be kind of mean now that they’ve started.”
She could just imagine Nick flying through the door in a rage if she tried that. Not that it was an option. They’d received few applications outside the established staff, and most of those had little to no experience. She couldn’t launch her menu with a kitchen full of rookies.
“I don’t want to replace them. I just need to get them to trust me.”
Lauren knew her way around the kitchen, and she knew her food, but people skills had never been in her repertoire. Damn it, this wasn’t supposed to be so hard.
Roxie leaned back and crossed her arms. “Most of my jobs before moving to Anchor were temp work or retail, and no one in retail cares enough to argue how to do anything. Do you have any chef friends back home that could give you tips?”
No one from Lauren’s past was likely to take her call. Ironically, she had a reputation for not being a team player. Nothing like karma coming around to bite her in the ass. Running her own kitchen was supposed to be her dream come true. Her team. Her food. No one to tell her she didn’t belong. Yet on the first day in her own kitchen—she was once again the odd one out.
Unwilling to share the details of her past, Lauren shook her head. “I’ll figure it out.” Tapping the sample menu on the right, she said, “Let’s go with this, but I like the font on the cream one better. It’s easier to read.”
They were ordering simple card stock menus so they had the flexibility to add and delete dishes as the seasons changed.
“You’ve got it.” They both rose from the table as Roxie said, “What about Nick Stamatis? He was the new guy at Dempsey’s not that long ago. He must have ideas for how to run an established team.”
Lauren nearly groaned at the idea. After repeatedly telling him to stay out of her business, there was no way she would go crawling to him now.
With a noncommittal shrug, she said, “I’ll think about it.”
Roxie left and Lauren returned to the kitchen, catching the conversation inside before pushing through the swinging door.
“Why can’t we do things the way we’ve always done them?” a voice asked.
“Because this is Chef Riley’s kitchen and she says to do it her way,” Jackson answered.
“Her way just makes it way more complicated. She needs to let us do what we know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with learning a new way. If she wants us to do things differently, then she must have a good reason for it.”
Lauren made a mental note to give Jackson an immediate raise.
“And why are you all up her ass?” asked a different voice. This one sounded like Mona. “You ran this kitchen for fifteen years, and we were a team already. We don’t need her coming in here and changing shit. We know what we’re doing.”
“I need this job, Mona. Nobody else on the island is hiring full time and if I don’t make this work, Denise and I will have to leave Anchor for good. I don’t like her any more than you do, but I don’t have a choice.”
Like a bullet through the door, his words knocked the wind out of her. Anger, hurt, and utter defeat sent bile into her throat as she braced an arm against the wall to hold herself up. None of them wanted her here. None of them wanted to work for her. They just wanted a paycheck and were willing to stomach the new bitch of a chef to get one.
After several deep breaths, Lauren lifted her chin and pushed through the door. “That’s all for today. Everyone can go home.”
All eyes turned her way as Mona said, “We have another four hours to go.”
“No, you don’t,” Lauren corrected. “We’ve done enough for today.”
“But we just—”
“I said go home,” she snapped. After clearing her throat, she added in a more level tone, “We’ll start again tomorrow.”
The crew exchanged glances ranging from confused to concerned, but they slowly followed the order. Aprons were removed, knives were sheathed, and not another word was said.
Once Lauren was alone in the kitchen, she braced her hands on the stainless-steel prep counter and concentrated on keeping her emotions in check. She hadn’t cried since Mom died, and she wasn’t going to shed a tear today. Once her breathing steadied, she straightened, knowing what she had to do.
If Nick told her to fuck off, it would be her own damn fault.
He’d been home long enough to shower and dive back into his current car show on Netflix when the knock sounded at his door. Assuming it was Mia, Nick swept it open, saying, “What?”
But the person on his doorstep was not his sister.
Lauren held a six-pack out in front of her. “Peace offering. Can I come in?” Temporarily stunned, he stared at the beer in silence until she said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” She spun on her heel and Nick snapped out of his daze.
“No, it’s fine. Come on in.”
She lingered on the porch. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He stepped back to let her enter and the scent of vanilla filled his senses as she passed. “Have a seat.”
There was no fancy foyer in his house, so the entrance opened into the living room. Nick padded around her and snagged the remote off the coffee table to press pause on the show, then he turned to find her standing at the end of the couch.
“Anywhere is fine.” Pointing to the beer, he said, “Are those to share?”
“Oh, yeah.” Lauren set the pack on the coffee table and perched on the edge of a chair.
His furniture—the sofa and two bulky leather chairs—created a U-shape around the coffee table and he settled back where he’d been before on the couch.
“What’s up?”
“First, I owe you an apology.”
He nearly made a joke about where the real Lauren might be, but the tension in her eyes stopped him. “Okay.”
“You’ve been trying to help me, and I’ve been too proud to let you.”
Since she’d taken nearly all of his advice, that wasn’t quite true, but this didn’t seem the time to point that out. As a group, chefs were trained not to show weakness, and few liked to admit when they were wrong. Points to her for doing so.
“Like you said, you didn’t ask for my input,” he replied. “I should have given you more credit.�
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Lauren snorted. “If today is any indication, I should have shut up and listened.” She whisked a bottle from the cardboard pack, twisted off the top with one smooth motion, and tossed it onto the coffee table. “They hate me.”
“Who hates you?” he asked, following her lead and snagging a bottle for himself.
“All of them. Even Jackson. He’s just being cooperative so he can keep living on the island.”
Curious, Nick asked, “How do you know that?”
She took a long swig before answering. “Because I heard them in the kitchen. They didn’t know I was on the other side of the door to overhear their enlightening and honest conversation. Though I suppose I knew even before that. They pushed back on everything I said today.” Tapping the bottle in time with the words, she added, “Every. Fucking. Thing.”
He couldn’t say he was surprised, but he’d expected the first rifts to start a week or so in, not on the first day.
“What were you wanting them to do?”
“Normal prep,” she said, dropping back in the chair. “But this station was over there before. Why did I have to move it over here? And the line ran that way not this way. And why did the bins have to be over there when before they were over here?” The bottle jerked through the air as she ranted. “I don’t give a damn where this shit was before. Why can’t they just put it where I tell them?”
Seeing the problem, he asked, “Would the way they had it before work for the flow you need?”
“What?” she said, squinting his way. “Are you saying they’re right?”
This was delicate ground and if he didn’t want to wear that beer, Nick would need to tread lightly.
“I’m just trying to get the whole picture. Are you having them change what they’re used to because it’s a better setup, or because the old way isn’t your way?”