“Are you going to slam that restaurant, then go back and charm the chef with your smile?”
She regretted the emotion in her words as soon as she said them. He knew what her slip revealed. His smile wasn’t the widest and most charming she’d seen, but the light in his eyes made it more honest. “I have no interest in charming him. Besides, I wanted to be here. I wanted to see you.”
Stupid, she knew, but she couldn’t even work up enough indignation to be pissed. His smile enlivened his face, reminding her of the man who’d made her laugh and bought her a hot dog. How could that man be The Eater?
He patted the barstool next to him, but she ignored the invitation. It wasn’t just that she was at work and couldn’t chat, but that she wanted to. She wanted to return to the moment before she knew who he was, when he was standing at the bottom of his stairs holding a toolbox and she was innocently thinking dirty thoughts about him. She still fantasized about him, but she could no longer pretend to be innocent. Dan was more dangerous than she could ever have imagined. She thought she’d been prepared to always put Babka first—to always put Babunia’s dream first.
She was a fool. He smiled at her, his lips full against his white teeth, and she wavered in her resolve. How could she look at the man who’d written a bad review of Babka and want to sit next to him? Not just a critical review, but an unfair one based on a single freakish night that had made her a laughingstock. And he didn’t seem to understand what he’d done to her—at least not enough to fix it. She couldn’t even trust that he was here to reevaluate Babka, as he’d claimed earlier. He was both the serpent and the apple.
And a barstool had never looked so tempting.
“I need to get back to work.”
“Okay.” He took his hand off the barstool and she willed her feet not to walk around the counter and sit. “Tell me, how do you research your beers?”
Fool that she was, she told herself his question was business related and she relaxed enough to answer it.
When Karen bounced into the kitchen on Wednesday to inform her they’d served dessert to the last table and Dan was waiting for her at the bar, her traitorous heart didn’t give the smallest blip of irritation at his gall. She finished the pressing tasks, left for later what could be left for later and headed out to the bar. His smile, his easy understanding of her business, even the curl of his hair over his ears, lifted her spirits. Her feet didn’t even hurt.
She eyed the barstool again, just as she had the night before, but didn’t come around the counter to sit. She hadn’t completely forgotten about the review, soothed toes or not. The delicious gleam in his eyes was too enticing and she didn’t trust her response. Babka still needed her and she had no time for a handsome man who disparaged her life’s work, but couldn’t take his eyes off her lips when she talked.
Renia snorted when Tilly told her this over the phone after closing. “Tilly,” she said. “No man goes to a restaurant every night for a beer. Especially a restaurant like Babka. God made dive bars for cheap beer. Candace is serving him the most expensive glass of beer in Chicago and he’s just sitting there enjoying it? The man wants something. You.”
“Why am I even interested in a man who nearly ruined my career?”
“Women make stupid decisions about men when they’re under stress.”
Her sister’s answer was too easy. Babka hadn’t fully recovered from the damage of Dan’s review, but her restaurant was out of intensive care and limping along. Besides, chefs were thrill seekers disguised as respectable professionals. Just because she wasn’t hopped up on pep pills didn’t mean she didn’t crave the adrenaline rush of stress. “I’ve never made bad decisions about men while under stress before.”
“Ask him out. You have Sundays and Mondays off.”
Tilly rolled her eyes, but her reaction was lost over the phone. She had Sundays and Mondays off, and she spent them at work.
Renia continued. “See him outside of Babka and maybe location will change your opinion.”
“Good girls don’t ask men out. They let the men do the asking.” Their mother had raised them both to be good girls, although Tilly was the only one who’d listened. Or, to be honest, Tilly hadn’t actually listened. She just hadn’t been interested enough in boys to care until culinary school, when her mom wasn’t around to spout off rules of behavior.
“I love Mom, but that’s crazy. Women ask men out all the time and the world does not stop turning.” Her sister snorted. “Not to mention that you didn’t say, ‘No, I don’t want to go out on a date with him.’”
“I don’t have time. And I don’t trust him.” I don’t trust myself when I’m around him.
“If you’re so suspicious, why do you want him to ask you out?”
Because he’s funny. And charming. And handsome. And when I forget he’s The Eater and think of him as Dan, I feel as if I can conquer the world. She said none of these things. “I just want to know why he’s coming in every night.”
“Have you asked him?”
“At first, he said he’d reevaluate Babka, but then he said it was a maybe. So now I have no idea.”
“What do you talk about?”
My dreams. “Nothing. I don’t have time to talk.” She was either a big fat liar or shirking work since she talked to him every night. His nightly visits had turned into the highlight of her workday.
“Tilly.” Renia’s exasperation came through loud and clear, even over the bad cell connection. “You’re pathetic. Admitting you want a man won’t kill you.”
“I need sleep. I have a business to run.”
“Whatever. Good night.”
“Night.”
It was probably better she hadn’t told Renia she’d started sending Dan home with packed leftovers every night. Renia had funny ideas about Milek women and their need to feed men. She might get the wrong impression.
* * *
LATE SATURDAY MORNING, Tilly sat at her desk, chewing on the end of her pencil. The numbers didn’t work. At the rate she was making money and the rate she was spending money, she would be broke and Babka would be done in six months to a year. Limping along wouldn’t get her far enough to cross the finish line and into the black. In the two months Babka had been open—the before-review months—Tilly had pegged fifty people as potential regulars. She needed three hundred regulars. Three hundred people coming in at least once a month would keep Babka afloat through the slow months after the holidays. Fifty was a start. She wasn’t complaining about fifty.
Only a few of those potential regulars had come in since the review. They had expressed their sympathy, shaken their head at The Eater’s mistake and shared in pained laughter about the dog-and-cat incident. But no matter how loyal those few people were, they couldn’t eat enough to nudge Babka into the black. Especially if her meat delivery got messed up again and she had to make dinner menus with organ meat and whatever cuts she had in her freezer.
Bunny, the owner of the infamous terrier, had not been back.
Six months. A year.
If I’m lucky.
The phone buzzed and Tilly grabbed it before the second ring. Until AM Carlos came in, it was just her and the pastry chef in the building.
“Babka. Can I help you?”
“Tilly? Is that you?”
“Renia?”
“Oh, Tilly, I’m glad you answered. Are you busy?”
Tilly laughed uncomfortably. There were no reservations to confirm. Her menus were done and the bookkeeping nearly finished. She’d trade her beloved knife set for a little busyness right now. “No. I’m not busy. The day has barely started for us.”
“I need a favor. A big favor.”
“Okay.”
“The wedding I’m photographing next weekend is a mess. It’s a big wedding, with ten bridesmaids and groomsmen, plus an enormous family. You have no idea how many pictures are on their required list...”
Renia never ran her mouth. Whatever was troubling her was a big deal. “Renia, w
hat does this have to do with a favor?”
“I just got a crying call from the bride, who seems to think I know everyone in the business. The restaurant they had booked for the rehearsal dinner got shut down, something about massive tax fraud and a money laundering scheme. The owner has apparently fled the country.”
“Mother Mary! I thought I had problems. At least I’m not on the lam.”
“Yes, well, I told the bride my sister owns a very nice restaurant and I’d see if you were free.”
She wanted to be mad at Renia for assuming she would have the time and space, but instead she was thankful her sister had thought of her. Money from that dinner would be a welcome change, and she might get new customers out of the evening.
“When?”
“Next Friday. I know it’s a big restaurant night, but...” At least Renia was kind enough not to point out the obvious.
“I’ve had few customers since the review. Don’t worry. Let me check to make sure we don’t have any reservations—” Babunia had said always said to believe in possibility “—and I’ll be back.”
She put her sister on hold and looked at next Friday’s reservations. Nothing. Tilly blocked out the whole night. This dinner was a chance and Tilly intended to grab it, wrestle it to the ground and feed it Polish.
Some of the guests had to live in Chicago and they would want to come to Babka again. She had been raised a good Catholic, but if she had to swing a live chicken over her head at midnight with the witches from Macbeth to make the evening a success, she would. A shudder ran up her spine and she looked around for the ghost of a Catholic school nun scowling at her for such a sacrilegious thought. No nuns. Maybe they were finding her a chicken to swing.
“Renia, I can do it.”
“Oh, Tills!” If it wasn’t her perfect, emotionally-controlled-at-all-times sister on the phone, Tilly would think she was gushing. Renia never gushed. “Thank you so much. I’ll give you the bride’s information and you can work out the details with her. I know she’ll be grateful.”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe she read the review.”
“Hush. That review was bull and we both know it.” The phone line went silent for a minute. “He still been coming back every night for a drink?”
He didn’t need a name. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Have you learned anything about him? His family? Where did he go to college?”
“He probably has family. Everyone has family. Mine won’t get off the phone right now.”
Renia, the perfect sister, ignored her. “Call me as soon as you know more.”
“I will, I promise.”
“I’m going to call you tonight anyway, just to check in.”
Tilly rolled her eyes at the phone. “Thanks, Mom. Can I just get the bride’s phone number?”
Grabbing a pen, she took down information, then told her sister goodbye. She’d never had to deal with brides—Renia was the one with the skill to calm even the worst Bridezilla—but she wasn’t going to second-guess this opportunity.
Calm deep breath. Calm deep breath. She didn’t want the bride’s jitters to get to her. She wanted to be calming, like her sister. She could take care of this, no problem. It was better than a cat, toy dog or a toupee. A wedding rehearsal was positive news.
She dialed the numbers. “Hello!” A woman’s voice screamed through the phone, on edge, the way Tilly imagined a bride within a week of her wedding would be. Tilly moved the phone a little farther from her ear.
“Hello. My name is Tilly Milek.” Think calm. “I’m Renia Milek’s sister. She called me about your rehearsal dinner.”
“Oh, thank you for calling.” The scream lowered to a shrill shout, but at least she could hold the phone against her ear. “Can you help us?”
“Yes. I’ve had to rearrange a few things...” God forgive the lie, but she didn’t want the bride to think no one else wanted to come to her restaurant. “...and we can give you the whole night.”
“What about the price? I mean, we already paid another restaurant a down payment that he’s taken to some godforsaken place. My fiancé’s family is having a fit about the extra cost. Like it’s not the most important day in our lives.”
“Yes, my sister told me what happened. I’m sorry to hear about the other restaurant. Let’s discuss what type of food you want and how you want the bar to operate before we talk about price. What was the other restaurant going to serve?”
“Some chicken dish and something vegetarian. My fiancé’s sister and some of my cousins are vegetarians.”
“Okay. We can easily accommodate chicken and vegetarian. What kind of appetizers were you thinking of?”
The negotiation continued until Tilly had worked out a menu and price. For the first time since opening, Babka would make a Friday goal, plus some. The money would put off the inevitable for a couple more weeks at least.
Tilly looked out the small window from the kitchen into the dining room and tried to judge the crowd. There were empty tables, but it was a Thursday night and few restaurants were packed on a Thursday. Babka didn’t look barren, which was enough for today.
“Tilly.” Steve spoke from behind her. “You need to get away from the window.”
Tilly turned to face him. “I’m seeing how our business is doing. Part of my job as owner.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” He moved the tray to rest on one arm and took Tilly’s hand. His hands weren’t shaking tonight, which was a good sign. Maybe his shakes were just too much coffee. “I’ll make you a deal. If Dan comes tonight, I’ll come straight back and let you know—if Karen doesn’t beat me to it. We’re busy tonight.”
Am I that transparent?
He was right—she was both happy and loath to admit it to herself. Happy because, well, it was business and she’d been praying for more business since she opened and especially since the review. Loath because she was needed in the kitchen as expediter and working cold apps, not staring out the window, looking for a man she didn’t trust anyway.
Her problems were no longer only the lack of customers, clogged sinks and messed-up prep. She now had employees complaining about their wages. Someone had found, and left lying around, information about how much the servers were making compared to the kitchen staff. Normally this would anger the kitchen staff, who didn’t make tips. In a slow restaurant, this angered the waitstaff, who didn’t make a decent hourly wage and needed tips.
Each staff member she’d questioned about wrong orders and soggy salads had claimed innocence. Talking about Babka’s problems during family dinner hadn’t helped, either. Everyone had denied involvement, then proceeded to offer up suspects until it was as though the entire staff were playing a game of Clue. It was Candace behind the bar with the seltzer hose. Karen at the hostess station with the stray cat. AM Carlos at the sandwich units with the butter.
Every small slight in her normally easygoing staff took on nefarious undertones as they suspected each other of trying to ruin the restaurant and put them all out of jobs. Tilly had finally had to tell everyone to call or email her—they could call her at home—if they had ideas about the saboteur and she would keep everything confidential. Then, at the worried faces of her employees as they tried to guess who secretly didn’t like them enough to frame them for ruining a restaurant, Tilly had assured everyone that this wasn’t a witch hunt and she wouldn’t fire anyone on a rumor.
Since that botched family meal, every staff member had been on their best behavior, as if one slip would peg them as the saboteur. As grateful as she was for their hard work, she liked them better when they were people and not robots.
The printer spit out tickets and Tilly called out the orders, careful to keep her voice steady. If she allowed her fears and frustrations to show in the kitchen, Babka would swallow her whole. She had to be calm and in charge at every moment while at work. She could express her fears later, to Imbir as he kneaded her thighs. Even if he didn’t listen, he purred and closed his eyes
, so she could pretend he did.
Or to Dan, to whom she found herself turning, forgetting that he was The Eater. Some nights she would remember halfway through their conversation, but by then she was searching for support and he provided it. He listened, understood and reassured without being patronizing. If he really understood what Babka meant to her, he would be a man she could fall in love with. That was a mighty big if.
The sous chef kicked her foot and Tilly looked up to see tickets hanging off the printer, waiting to be called. She closed her eyes for a split second to get her head back in the game, then hollered out the next orders. If he gained her trust, if they could make this work, she had to learn how to be at Babka and not think about Dan.
If she got distracted, Dan would have to go.
“Tilly?” She looked up from the food she was plating. Steve had slipped into the kitchen, a wide grin on his face. “Karen just seated Dan at his usual seat at the bar.”
“Thanks, Steve. I’ll be out in a minute.”
He nodded and walked back into the dining room. Tilly finished her task, rinsed her hands, gave some instructions to her sous chef and followed Steve out. She could take a short break. Babka was busier than it had been, but her staff could handle the extra rush for ten minutes, especially in their new perfect-employee mode. If it wasn’t so stressful to run a failing restaurant, she’d be bored.
Dan smiled his glorious smile at her as she walked toward him, but movement at the front door distracted her. Two men in suits carrying bags leaned in to talk to Karen before moving in her direction. They were both pretty average looking, average height, average build—nothing compared to Dan—but the way they walked with such purpose commanded all her attention.
“Ms. Milek?” The one on the right spoke. He had a bulbous nose and a single hair stuck out of one nostril, making his nose look even bigger on his face.
“Yes. What can I help you with?”
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable talking with us in the back,” the one on the left said. He was softer looking with bright red cheeks and kind eyes. “We’re from the health inspector’s office.”
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