by Marina Adair
Deliberately, he took his time cutting into it, loving how her mouth opened when his did and how she was moving her lips as though the simple act would hurry him along.
The first bite exploded in his mouth, and Marc groaned, he actually groaned, over a piece of meat and cheese with a red sauce drizzled on top. All that crap he’d said a minute ago was exactly what a-holes like Trey would say when trying to impress some chick. Marc didn’t know julienne from mandoline. Hell, pretty much all he knew about food was what he liked, meat, and what he didn’t, anything with bell peppers, green shit, and french toast. But this, this was…
“Jesus Christ, Lexi. What’s in this?” He took another bite. Groaning again, this time louder.
“A rolled pork loin stuffed with sautéed figs, gorgonzola dolce, and pistachios, basted in a balsamic and red wine reduction and served with a wild mushroom and truffle oil quinoa.”
“So there’s no unicorn hooves or leprechaun blood in here?”
She pressed her lips together as she shook her head, but he could still see her smile. It was too big and honest to hide.
It took a glass of wine and him eating half of his dinner before Lexi took her first bite. Another half glass of wine later and she finally started to relax. By the time he was refilling her glass for the second time, she had slipped off her shoes and tucked her bare feet up under her legs until everything but her pink-tipped toes disappeared under the skirt of her dress.
Figuring that this was the portion of the evening where he got to charm and delight her with his business prowess, Marc pulled out two files, one explaining exactly where the bakery was, financially speaking; the other was his plan for how she could save her company. Too bad she couldn’t get past how bad the first one was to even get to the part where he got to beat his chest and revel in his brilliance at the second.
“So then expanding right now isn’t the smartest decision,” she said, looking down at the spreadsheet of Pricilla’s current financials. She was no longer smiling, and Marc was pretty sure she was about two seconds away from crying. The numbers were bad, but not bad enough that they should make one of the toughest women he knew cry.
He closed the spreadsheet and leaned forward on his elbows. “What’s going on that you aren’t telling me, Lexi?” When she looked up at him with those big green eyes, full of embarrassment and guilt, he felt his chest tighten. “I can’t help you unless I know what you’re up against. No judgment, Lexi. Just a friend wanting to help, I swear.”
And just like that, her entire body deflated like a popped balloon. “Last summer Pairing was having some money problems.” Yeah, that much Marc knew. The shithole that was the restaurant’s financial state had been a big concern of Monte’s. And Gabe’s. “We changed suppliers, picked a bad one, and lost a lot of money.”
“How much money?” Marc asked, although he already had a good idea. He had known that Jeff was having financial difficulty. Had told Jeff that the only way the deal would go forward with him as the restaurateur was to take out a loan, buy Lexi out, and get his company back in the black.
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Marc gave a low whistle. That was a hell of a lot more than Jeff had admitted to needing. And a hell of a lot more than the loan was for. And suddenly Marc knew exactly where the other hundred thousand had come from. “All on changing suppliers?”
“Yeah, we had to secure six months of orders to become a new client. Plus lost business.”
“Is that normal?”
“No, but Jeff said that if we wanted to play with the big boys, we had to fake it—”
“Till you make it. Yeah, yeah.” It was one of the fundamental differences between them. It was also a big reason Marc had been hesitant to go into business with his friend. Marc was all about presenting your best face, even if that meant taking a calculated risk. But regardless of what his brothers thought, Marc was not the kind of guy who placed perception over the bottom line. That was just bad business.
“Wait,” Marc said. “Jeff went with the new supplier?” That was so far from what Jeff had told Marc. Problem was, Jeff’s story had always struck Marc as odd. Why would he buy Lexi out of the restaurant and give her all the equity in the house? Even worse, Lexi’s side of the story not only rang true, it also sounded exactly like Jeff.
She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s your friend, and I shouldn’t have said anything. Plus, it doesn’t matter whose idea it was. We made a bad move and lost a lot of money. We almost lost the restaurant.”
“So you borrowed money from Pricilla.”
She nodded and polished off the last of her wine. He filled up her glass. “Thank you.” She took a sip, stopping midswallow. “How did you know? Did Jeffery tell you?”
He had to be careful here. “About borrowing money from Pricilla? No. There are three identical withdrawals from the bakery’s account right about the same time.” He flipped through the folder that held all of Pricilla’s statements and account records. He turned to the first dog-eared page and pointed. “One under supplies.” He flipped to another page. “One under petty cash, and one under utilities. And then small payments came in over the past year, were put into petty cash, and all marked LM. At first I couldn’t figure out where the money was coming from, but then a large deposit went in the week you came home for seventy thousand.” He pulled out a bank statement showing the deposit.
“It was most of what we made selling the house,” Lexi said, taking the statement and studying it. “But this doesn’t make sense.”
What didn’t make sense was why Lexi would be willing to borrow money from her grandmother to keep a restaurant going that she had already walked away from.
Jeff had come to visit Marc right around the time they started having money problems, right around the time, he now understood, that their supplier went under. He stayed for a few weeks, licking his wounds and claiming he needed time away to think because Lexi wanted out, out of the restaurant, out of their marriage. Out. Period.
Marc had met with Monte a few weeks before and saw the potential for not only his family, but for Jeff as well if they partnered. As expected, Jeff had been on board. But before Marc would even bring Jeff in on it, he made him promise that he would wrap things up at home. Meaning that he would get his restaurant back in the black and end things with Lexi, which was a big deal breaker, because, separated or not, they were still married and Jeff had been talking a lot about his sous chef Sara.
When after a few months there had been no progress in finalizing the divorce, Marc pushed. Jeff said he and Lexi had been unable to come to terms on, well, anything other than that they were terrible together, and she wanted more money than the restaurant could afford. Since she was unwilling to sell the house, Marc suggested Jeff take out a loan and buy her out of the restaurant. Their next meeting with Monte was just a few weeks out, and his brothers were pushing to go with another restaurant, a local one that wasn’t at the center of a divorce.
Two weeks later the loan was secure, Lexi filed for divorce, Jeff moved in with Sara, and the deal went forward. Yet no matter how many times he played over the order of events, Jeff’s timeline didn’t match up. And suddenly, Marc realized just how many other things Jeff had said that didn’t match up.
“She said she was lending us money from her retirement, not out of the bakery.”
This situation was so messed up it took Marc a full minute to get out of his head and understand what she was asking. “As far as I can tell, her bakery is her retirement, which is why I think she kept two sets of books. There’s no way you’d agree to a loan that came from the bakery’s account, and she also knew that at some point you’d sneak a peek at her records.”
“Oh God. I screwed up so bad.”
Marc knew by the way her face crumbled that he wasn’t going to like what he heard. And that he was going to like his best friend even less. And he was right. After Lexi spilled the entire story about the loan and Pricilla using the bakery as collat
eral with the bank, Marc understood why she’d given up on the recipes so easily.
“When did you leave Jeff?”
Lexi fiddled with the stem of her glass, and Marc wanted to change the topic. This was awkward and it was none of his business, but if Lexi’s timeline was accurate, then the son of a bitch had been with Sara while he was still married.
“If you are politely trying to tell me about Sara, no need. I already knew. I kind of walked in on…” She looked away, her eyes suspiciously shiny, and it was like a fist to Marc’s gut.
He had to come clean. He had to tell her about Monte and the deal. He had to tell her that it was his decision to bring Jeff on, and his decision that had cost her the recipes.
Marc reached out and rested his hand over hers. “Look, Lexi, about Jeff—”
“Don’t,” she whispered, tears thickening her voice. “I don’t want to talk about my divorce or Jeffery anymore. Not tonight. Not with you. Okay?”
No, it wasn’t okay. Nothing about this entire situation felt okay anymore. But outside of his sudden need to punch something—Jeff’s face, to be exact—Marc just wanted to make Lexi’s world right again.
“All I can handle right now is figuring out how to fix this mess.” She dropped her head to the table with a soft thunk. “God, what if Abby is wrong? The last thing I should be doing is spending the last of my money on a new kitchen. I should put it into the bakery until we are on solid ground again.”
“No, Abby’s right, and if you ever tell her I said that I will deny it.” He waited for her to smile. When she didn’t even lift her head, he laced his fingers with hers. This was not how he’d expected tonight to go. “The best plan would be to move forward with the new kitchen. This idea of phasing out the bistro build is brilliant. The kitchen will allow you to generate income faster, while keeping your debt low.”
“There’s no way I can make enough to pay everyone back.”
“You can and you will. Look.” Marc pulled out a new file and opened to the projected financials sheet he had put together. Lexi scooted closer, her knees bumping his under the table. “By catering you are diversifying your income, not to mention opening yourself up to a whole new clientele base. If you and Pricilla team up, you can cross promote and increase both of your customer bases.”
And that got the first smile of the night. Lexi was slowly forgetting about Jeff and focusing on her business. “You mean Pricilla and I would both cater events. Like for the Daughters of the Prohibition menu, I should serve her cakes for dessert. And instead of just pastries for the librarians’ meeting, we could offer a full breakfast menu?”
“Yup.” God, she was smart. He’d been thinking of merely using Pricilla’s pastries as a way to gain a recognizable name in the community, but Lexi was thinking that the benefit could go both ways. “By partnering with Pricilla, you’ll get immediate branding and name recognition within the community, and you’ll increase Pricilla’s bottom line at the same time. A lot of these numbers I had to estimate, but if you look here you’ll see that by taking on two medium-sized catering jobs a week, which you could price competitively, and selling Pricilla’s desserts at an elevated price, you would be able to pay Pricilla back entirely, start paying down the bank loan, and still have enough money to hire her some kitchen staff.”
“This says I could do that in ten months.”
“Yup.” He speared the last bite of pork loin and smelly cheese off Lexi’s plate and leaned back in his chair, knowing that this was the part of the evening when he got to beat his chest and save the day like a freaking hero. “You’d also have built a solid customer base for the bistro’s opening next summer and—”
A loud crash erupted from downstairs.
“Son of a bitch,” Marc mumbled while pushing back his chair and standing. “Wingman!”
By the time they made it down the back steps, her front door was wide open, the handle covered in drool, and Pricilla’s umbrella holder was on its side while her collection of umbrellas was strewn across the stoop and down the alley.
Marc turned the umbrella holder upright. Where it stayed for all of a half second before falling back over. “I’m sorry, Lexi. I’ll buy you a new one.”
“I feel so used,” she said, picking up the closest umbrella and stacking it next to the entrance. “He didn’t even give me a doggie high five before he broke down my door.”
Marc smiled. “Most women would be pissed.”
“Lucky for you and your checkbook, I’m not most women. And did your dog really just gnaw open my door?”
“What can I say, he’s evolved.”
They finished stacking the umbrellas and stood on the stoop, side by side, silently watching the light over the parking lot flicker and the old oak tree behind the Paws and Claws Day Spa move in the breeze. The evening was over, Wingman was nowhere in sight, and Lexi felt suddenly sad to see him and his owner leave.
“Thank you,” she said, turning her head to look up at him, surprised at how husky her voice came out.
His slid her a sidelong glance. “For my dog destroying your entryway or for making you cry over Jeff?”
“For believing in me,” she said, horrified when her voice caught.
At that, Marc faced her fully. He opened his arms wide and beckoned her with a little wiggle of his fingers. “Come here, cream puff.”
That crooked smile, that simple gesture, and Lexi was transported back to high school, to every single time she had needed a friendly hug over the years and Marc had been there. Only this time when she walked into his arms, her eyes never left his and they both knew that there wasn’t anything friendly about the way her body reacted, or the way his palms slid up her back to burrow in her hair.
“Marc,” she whispered.
A dog barked in the distance, followed by Wingman answering, and then the sound of trash cans toppling over.
“I better go,” he said, stepping back, his hands sliding down her back and lingering for just a second on her hips. “Thanks for dinner, and let me know if you need anything.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
“I mean it, Lexi. The catering, the tasting tomorrow, anything. Understand?”
A symphony of barks echoed down the alley, ending with a loud yelp.
“You’d better go.”
With one final wave, Marc disappeared down the alley, and Lexi found herself seated on the stoop. She tried to blame it on the wine, but she knew her weak knees had nothing to do with alcohol. Marc believed in her. Not just in her cooking or her bistro—but in her.
CHAPTER 10
Lexi had never considered death by éclair a realistic scenario. That was, until she crossed Main Street and—chafing dish in one hand, cooler in the other, and insulated bag slung over her shoulder—saw the Duval’s Decadence du Jour luxury utility vehicle parked in front of the town hall, rear hatch open while a staff of five expertly unloaded the prepared feast. The Hummer was shiny and black and, with its special-order Viking cooktop, side-by-side Sub-Zeroes, and tricked-out backseat that stored enough platters and flatware to serve a complete party of ninety, big enough to take up four spaces.
It took everything Lexi had not to bolt across Hunt Avenue, hide inside the tow truck at the service station—where Stan was known to keep a full fifth of Wild Turkey in the glove box—and gorge on the two dozen éclairs currently stored in her cooler.
Natasha and crew were competing for the same job. And no one had bothered to warn her. So Lexi, party of one, stood on the sidewalk, forced to watch platter after rectangular platter of deconstructed salmon niçoise salad and Vietnamese pork crepes sail by, knowing that she was outnumbered, outstaged, and, even worse, outcooked.
Lexi set the cooler bag down, reached inside, and grabbed an éclair. She had caved under the pressure and, determined to make Marc’s one-year plan a reality, gone with a boring baked pork chop and wild rice. Even her traditional round plates had porcelain envy.
“Stunning, isn’t it?” Natasha said,
approaching from behind. Her designer dress stated refined elegance, while her ridiculously high and expensive heels advertised sexy sophistication with an eye for quality. Natasha was a walking billboard for couture cuisine, which had Lexi questioning her traditional black slacks and white chef’s jacket.
Natasha continued. “It arrived fresh from Alaska this morning. The greens and pork were brought over from this great little organic farm outside Marin. I didn’t want to bore the panel with local fare or food they’d all seen before. The Showdown is the one time a year that our town gets to showcase to the world our exquisite wine and cuisine.”
“By serving food from other places?” Lexi asked, some of her nerves fading.
Couture cuisine or not, Natasha had missed the point. The same point that the grannies had so eagerly explained to Lexi earlier that morning after they’d taken one look at her rolled pork loin and started whispering nervously among themselves. They’d reminded her that the Showdown was about celebrating local agriculture and tradition.
“Aren’t you afraid it’s a bit experimental for a group that was founded on preserving tradition?”
Natasha laughed. “Do you think it was traditional for women in the twenties to run illegal liquor?” She had a point. “Traditional can become expected and boring and gets old. And from one woman to another,” Natasha said, eyeing Lexi’s half-eaten éclair, “lighten up on those. You wouldn’t want to add ‘more to love’ to your Match bio.”
Lexi smiled sweetly, her last nerve officially gone. “You’re so nice to be thinking of how much I’m loved. But from one woman to another”—Lexi winked, something she’d picked up from Marc—“my boyfriend has that department well covered. Good luck today.”
Lexi gathered her cooler and made her way up the front steps of the town hall. As she passed under the St. Helena town flag swaying in the breeze and between the white columns that spanned the entire length of their most treasured town building, Lexi felt her breath catch and her confidence bubble up. Because there, to the left of the main entrance and several feet above an aged mahogany door with an iron grille speakeasy-hinged to the front, sat a historical placard.