Betting on Bailey (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing For Love Book 1)

by Crescent, Tara

  Not supportive of my career? Check. Being a jerk to my friends? Double-check. Looking down the boobs of every available chick? Triple-check. Humiliating me in front of his friends? The final straw.

  It’s time to pack my bags.

  * * *

  It takes Trevor two hours to come back home, by which time I’ve packed one suitcase with my essentials. I don’t own much stuff - at heart, I’m a traveler, and it shows in my rather meager possessions. As tempting and movie-like as it would be to march out of Trevor’s apartment clutching my Kitchen-Aid stand mixer in one hand and pulling a suitcase with the other, I can come back for the rest of my stuff on a different day.

  The ending of our relationship shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Trevor, but he looks shocked when he sees me dressed to leave. “You’re joking,” he says flatly.

  I frown. He doesn’t love me. If anything, he acts irritated with me most of the time, as if I’m a troublesome child that needs to be managed, not a grown woman. He’s probably just upset because I’m breaking up with him, not the other way round.

  I’m a little sad that it’s over, but mostly, I’m relieved. “It’s time, Trevor,” I say softly. “Neither of us have been happy in this relationship, and we both deserve more.” I pause. “I’m going to Piper’s place tonight, and I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff in a week.” I take a deep breath. “I hope we can still be friends.”

  “Friends?” His voice is icy, sending shivers down the back of my neck. “You’ll be begging me to take you back in no time. You stupid bitch. Have you seen yourself in the mirror?” He shakes his head. “Pathetic and fat.”

  There’s an ugly glass vase that sits on a side table in the tiny foyer of our apartment. It belonged to Trevor’s grandmother, and is something of a family heirloom. I’ve always hated where it’s located - I’m terrified that I’ll knock it off and it’ll break.

  Right now, it’s everything I can do to keep myself from throwing it at his head.

  “Goodbye, Trevor.” Forget about being friends, you jerk. I never want to see you again.

  * * *

  There’s a scene in Kill Bill that has always stuck with me. It’s almost at the end of the second movie. Beatrice has finally found Bill in a remote Mexican village and is in the process of confronting him. Bill’s attempting to interrogate her and in the process, he talks about superheroes. Specifically, the myth of Superman.

  I’m enough of a geek that I can quote the exact phrase, though the precise wording isn’t important. The gist of it is that there are superheroes and their alter egos. Bruce Wayne puts on a costume to become Batman. Peter Parker becomes Spider Man. Superman however, is the exception to the rule, because Clark Kent doesn’t become Superman. No, Superman is always a superhero. Clark Kent is his disguise. His way of mingling with us mortals.

  I first saw Kill Bill back in my graduate school days, when I still felt like Superman. Then, I was publishing papers and making an impact in my field. I was set to finish my PhD in record time, and I was being recruited by universities from around the world. I’d come off a difficult field assignment, living in Siberia for a year. I had felt invincible.

  The girl who had been Superman would have never put up with Trevor’s insults and cruelty, but for the last year, I’ve been stuck in Clark Kent mode. I’ve forgotten how to be amazing.

  It’s time for that to end.

  2

  Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.

  Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

  Sebastian:

  Neither of my two New York restaurants are open for lunch during the week, so it’s not often that I see my staff during the day. This sunny Friday morning in May is the exception.

  We are gathered in the bar area of Seb New York, tense and waiting. All eyes are on my cell phone, which rests on top of the polished mahogany bar. Bottles of champagne dot the counter, but no one pops the cork yet. We aren’t a superstitious bunch, but to open the bottle before we receive the call? We won’t tempt fate that way.

  The Michelin staff calls at noon on Friday. Five minutes to go.

  Seb New York has one Michelin star, an honor shared by only twenty-three other restaurants in New York. In a few minutes, we’ll find out if we’ve earned the coveted second star. If we have? Then, I can write my own ticket. Not bad for a kid from Mississippi who didn’t even finish high school.

  I look around the room. Helen, my sous-chef at Seb New York, is pacing back and forth. Ben, the sous-chef of my second restaurant, Seb II is watching her, absently chewing on a nail. The expression on his face is a mixture of anticipation and envy. Seb New York gets all the accolades, and Seb II is the new kid on the block. Ben’s an ambitious chef, and I’m sure he’d love to be in Helen’s place right now.

  Next to me, Juliette’s playing with her phone. She’s the outsider in this gathering. The rest of us cook together, night after night. There’s a rhythm that comes with that, and a shared sense of camaraderie that can be exclusionary.

  Juliette, on the other hand, doesn’t belong in the kitchen. She’s cheerfully confessed that she can’t even make toast without burning it. She doesn’t need to. She’s my business manager, smart, ambitious and driven. I hired her six months ago, and already, she’s got me my own show on the Food Network and arranged a book deal with a top New York publisher.

  There’s only one person missing. Daniel Hartman, my partner in both restaurants, and my best friend. He’s in Kansas City today on an unavoidable business trip. It feels odd to face this moment without him. Daniel has been my biggest supporter throughout my career. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably still be cooking in the diner I worked in when I first moved to New York.

  The phone rings and silence falls over the room. I take a deep breath and answer. “Sebastian Ardalan?” the disembodied voice on the other end of the line asks.

  “Yes.” Helen crosses her fingers, and my restaurant manager Katya is chewing on her nails.

  “Congratulations, Chef Ardalan,” the voice continues. “I’m happy to inform you that we’ve decided to award Seb New York a second Michelin star.”

  Yes! I give the room a thumbs-up and everyone erupts in cheers. Without waiting for me to hang up, Helen pops the cork open on one of the champagne bottles. The staff are cheering, laughing and congratulating each other. Juliette jumps up and down in excitement, dancing a duet with one of the line cooks. I utter some words of thanks and hang up, grinning at the scenes of celebration in the room. Everyone in this room has toiled for this moment, and they deserve every bit of attention they’ll get when the word gets out about the second star.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text message from Daniel. ‘Congratulations.’

  I laugh out aloud. I have no idea how Daniel already knows. I likely never will. If I ask, he’ll merely look mysterious and tell me it’s his job to know. I’ll never be able to tell if it is a lucky guess, or if he does have a source at Michelin.

  That’s okay. The second star is mine. All the work has been worth it. The long hours, the personal sacrifices… it’s all paid off in this moment. If only my parents could see…

  I smother that thought. My parents never cared. I was too much of a dreamer for them. Too interested in women’s work, as my father put it once. My teachers thought I’d end up broke and washed up, worse than useless. All my life, failure has been expected of me, and I had lived up to that potential, until the day I ran away from home, hoping for a fresh start.

  Juliette ropes me into her dance, and I shake my head to wipe away thoughts of the past. Helen hands me a flute of champagne. “We thought about emptying a bottle over your head, Chef,” she grins. “But Colin wouldn’t let us.”

  Colin, the wine sommelier, sniffs disapprovingly. “It’s Krug Grande Cuvée,” he says with a grimace. “It’s bloody expensive.”

  I laugh. Juliette’s distracted by her phone again. I drink my champagne and circulate the room, shaking hands and exchanging high-fives. I’m
chatting with Katya about the spike in reservations that’s going to result when the news becomes public knowledge when Juliette finds me again. “Sebastian,” she says, pulling me aside. “I’m already getting texts and emails. Now is the time to talk to investors who are pushing for a nationwide franchise. Think about it. A Sebastian Ardalan restaurant in every city in the country.”

  We’ve talked before about this idea, but it’s remained the stuff of dreams. But with a second star? The world’s my oyster.

  It’s tempting to want what Juliette’s offering. My restaurant makes a respectable amount of money, but the income from a nationwide franchise would dwarf what I make now. More than that, I want all the people who expected me to fail to see me succeed beyond their wildest dreams. The high school counselors who thought I’d amount to nothing. The teachers that called me stupid. Everyone in my small town, who sneered at me - I want them to see the restaurants and know, they were wrong.

  My emotions run too close to the surface. My parents, the people whose approval I wanted the most, are dead. Yet I still crave fame, and I’m too swayed by past hurts and injustices.

  I should be cautious. Yet when I open my mouth to answer Juliette, the words that emerge aren’t the ones I should utter. “Call them,” I tell her. “Let’s see what the offers are.”

  I turn away from her and raise my glass to the room. Tomorrow, the phones will start ringing, with all of New York clamoring to eat at Michelin’s newest two-star restaurant. We will be sold out every single night. In a halo effect, Seb II will be busy as well, and Ben’s going to have to raise his game significantly in the face of that attention. Helen’s ready for the challenge, I know. Is Ben? I’m not sure.

  So much work to be done, and this franchise idea could be a fatal distraction. I wonder what Daniel would think of it. I should really consult with him before I make too many commitments.

  Yet when I turn back to Juliette to tell her to tread lightly, she’s not there anymore. She’s all the way in the far corner of the room, her attention on the glowing screen in front of her, her fingers typing out a message.

  Already, things are in motion. I shelve the unease I feel, and I throw the champagne down my throat and demand a refill. No regrets. Today will be a day of celebration.

  3

  He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Daniel:

  There are many places I want to be on a Friday afternoon, but this windowless Kansas City boardroom, with its taupe walls and its faded grey chairs, is at the bottom of the list.

  “Mr. Hartman,” the blonde assistant slides in, looking apologetic. “Mr. Ryan’s been delayed in another meeting. He’ll be with you momentarily, as will the rest of the board.”

  Fuck this shit. Keeping us waiting is Wayne Ryan’s version of a power play, but he’s missing one important point. As much as Hartman & Company would like to acquire Ryan Communications, we can afford to walk away from this deal and they cannot. Their stock price has dropped thirty percent in the last quarter and the only thing that has kept it from free-falling even more is the rumor that we are interested in buying them.

  “Ms. Parker.” I eye Ryan’s assistant pointedly, and my voice is icy. “My flight leaves in three hours. I intend to be on it whether I’ve met Mr. Ryan or not. Perhaps you can pass that message on to him.”

  Her face pales and she hurries out, no doubt to tell Ryan that I’m getting restive. Next to me, my Uncle Cyrus makes a disapproving sound. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  Things between Cyrus and me have always been tense. My best friend Sebastian, who never minces his words, has called our relationship the most fucked up thing he’s seen. Cyrus has worked at Hartman & Company all his life. I can’t deny that he’s given me some helpful advice since I became the CEO, though his condescending and lecturing tone always grates at me. “Why not?”

  “This isn’t New York, Daniel,” Cyrus replies, frustration in his tone. “We are in Kansas. Here, deals are done over a game of golf or at a neighborhood barbecue. You have to learn to play the game. Act like you are one of them.”

  This is the one area that Cyrus and I cannot agree on. My uncle is old-school. He hires his friends and he does business with his golf-club buddies. Me? I’m more direct. I have absolutely no patience with small-minded, judgmental assholes like Wayne Ryan and the rest of his board. Last year, Wayne Ryan divorced his wife after thirty years of marriage, and married the twenty-one year old woman who babysat his kids. At the same time, Ryan Communications fired three employees for ‘behavior unbecoming to the company,’ which was a codeword for being gay.

  “I’m not here to be Wayne Ryan’s buddy,” I respond. “I’m here to buy his company. We’ve made them a fair offer. They’ll be fools to turn us down.”

  Cyrus shakes his head. “There’s so much about the world that you don’t understand. Not everyone is motivated by logic. To make a deal here, you’ll have to learn to belong. Fit in. Live their values.”

  I’ve run Hartman for seven years, Cyrus, I want to retort. I’ve doubled our profitability in that time. I don’t need you to tell me how to run my business.

  Before I can open my mouth to snap at him, Wayne Ryan hurries in. “Sorry, sorry,” he blusters. “Another meeting ran over. You know how it is.”

  I’m not in a good mood. I hate being kept waiting and Cyrus’ attitude has pissed me off. My voice reflects my ill-humor. “Let’s get going, shall we?” I say curtly. “Like I told your assistant, I have a plane to catch. Was the rest of your board planning to join us today?”

  * * *

  The meeting proceeds very much as I anticipate. There’s some posturing about the financial terms, but Ryan’s not a complete fool and he knows the amount we’ve offered is more than fair. There’s some hinting around what our plans are for the management - Ryan’s way of asking if he’ll still have a job once Hartman buys his company. Not if I have anything to do with it, I think to myself, and I avoid answering the question.

  As we talk, I get the sense that Ryan Communications’ board has reservations about this deal, and I’m somewhat at a loss to understand why. Without us, Ryan Communications will declare bankruptcy this year. The board isn’t composed of idiots. They have to know they are out of options.

  On the way to the airport, I lean back in the seat and close my eyes. “What did you think?” I ask Cyrus. As much as he irritates me, he is the Chief Operating Officer of Hartman, and he’s been the primary driver of this deal.

  “This is by no means a done deal,” he replies. “There was a lot of hesitation in that room.”

  “Why? I don’t get it. Without us, they are going to go under.”

  “It’s not that simple, Daniel,” he says. “These guys do business with people they are comfortable with. Wayne Ryan has known the members on his board his entire life. They worship at the same church. They went to the same private school. They were in the same fraternity. Brant Hollister was even Wayne’s best man.”

  I snort. “For which marriage? The first one, or the one where he married the woman who is thirty years younger than him?”

  Cyrus waves aside my snark. “That’s not the point. You, Daniel, are about as different from them as it gets. You,” he continues with a disapproving glare, “live your life in the spotlight. You date models and socialites. Your photo is in the tabloids more often than not. They can’t relate to your lifestyle, and if they can’t understand you, these guys will not listen to a word you have to say.”

  There might some merit in what Cyrus is saying. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Let me continue to negotiate with them,” he says. “And while we are doing this deal, you stay out of the spotlight.”

  I’m tempted to walk away from this deal. Cyrus is making it sound like I’m manwhoring my way around New York, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Yeah sure, I date. But my work comes first, and my personal life is a distant second. Eve
ryone I go out with knows the score.

  Yet I bite my tongue, because it’s become a habit for me to place Hartman & Company ahead of my own happiness. The acquisition will be good for us. It’ll give us access to markets in Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Mississippi and Alabama. It should increase our revenue by twenty percent over the next five years. The money is nothing to sneeze at.

  “Fine,” I say finally. “Let’s do it your way.”

  “Remember,” Cyrus warns. “No scandals. I can’t convince them that Hartman is exactly what they need if the CEO keeps appearing in the tabloid press with women draped all over him.”

  Cyrus should stop talking when he’s ahead. “I said okay,” I snap. “Stop pushing it, Cyrus. I’ll toe the line.”

  4

  Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Bailey:

  Trevor thinks that I’m going to be begging him to take me back? He couldn’t be more wrong. I’m not alone. I have my best friends to lean on, the five women that make up the Thursday Night Drinking Pack.

  There’s calm and stable Katie, who is married with twin two-year old daughters. She lives in Chappaqua with her husband Adam. Miki moved away to Houston two years ago, but we Skype her in every time we get together and valiantly pretend it’s the same as hanging out in person.

  There’s Gabby, who is going through a justifiable man-hating phase. Wendy, despite being a barracuda divorce lawyer, still believes in love. And last but not least, is my former roommate Piper, who, five months ago, inherited a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen.

  It’s Piper I call right after I leave our apartment. Not our apartment anymore, I correct myself. Trevor’s apartment.