The Right Guy

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Confusing as all heck.

  I haven’t seen Jake since. It’s not like I’m avoiding him or anything. Really, it’s not. That would mean I believed what that psychic with the name I can’t quite bring myself to say had told me about meeting the right guy.

  And I don’t believe it. Definitely not.

  Okay, maybe a little.

  In my defense, she was so certain I was going to meet him, it was hard not to be at least a little bit curious. Plus, there was that stuff about Fluffy and the things she said my nana wanted to say to me. It’s been playing on my mind—especially that part about how Nana worries if I’m happy with the way I live my life.

  The truth is, it’s unsettled me more than I care to admit.

  Since seeing the psychic, I’ve started looking at guys differently, wondering if they’re the one she was talking about, wondering if she could be right.

  Starting with Jake Harrison.

  But I can’t get away from the fact that he’s like a big brother to me—protective, teasing, a little bit annoying at times. I practically grew up in his family, his parents filling the void after Nana died. The void my own mom could never fill. They gave me stability, safety. The last thing I want to do now is something that could harm that. And getting involved with a player like Jake Harrison has the potential to blow that all up in my face.

  And yet . . .

  I’ll admit, I’ve always had a bit of a thing for him. But really, it’s hard not to feel something when a guy like Jake looks at you in that way. He’s tall and broad with a gym habit that’s created an impressive, muscular physique. His messy brown hair and stubble-lined jaw are classic hot guy, countered only by the small kink in his nose from the time a baseball made unfortunate contact with his face.

  And then there are those green eyes of his.

  I clear my throat.

  The car pulls up outside the restaurant. As I step out onto the sidewalk, I run my eyes over the large windows, the wooden trim, the sign stating Restaurant Manger in elegant silver lettering.

  Julia pushes through the front door, and we step inside. Of course I’ve been here before, only this time it feels different. This time the chef has been playing on my mind in a way he hasn’t before.

  I do a quick scan of the room, checking for Jake. I don’t want to be caught off guard once more. There’s no sign. I let out a relieved puff of air.

  “Hello, ladies. Welcome to Restaurant Manger.” A host smiles at us from behind the desk, his voice piercing my thoughts.

  “Julia Sefton. I have a reservation for twelve thirty.”

  The host consults his reservation list. “Of course.”

  “There he is, at the bar,” Julia says to me. “We’re going to meet our friend at the bar.”

  “I will have someone see you to your table when you are ready,” the host replies.

  We make our way across the floor to the bar.

  “Mr. Dvorak?” Julia says to a man’s back.

  He turns and smiles. Yup, just as good looking as he is on the cover of the magazine. If Ryan Reynolds and Joe Manganiello had a love child and gave him a brain the size of Jupiter, it would be this guy. Tall, dark, and handsome, wearing a pair of fashionable glasses. “Hot nerd” is a more than appropriate label.

  “Julia?” he asks.

  “Yes, Julia Sefton. It’s so great to meet you.” Julia extends her hand, and Jorge Dvorak takes it in his, smiling his Hollywood grin.

  He turns his gaze on me. His green eye gaze. As green as the tropical ocean? Well, green, anyway. I glance down at his shirt: white, plain. Not a speck of orange. Unlike with Jake, I don’t feel even a flicker of disappointment.

  Raising his eyebrows, he says, “And you are?”

  I thrust my hand at him, embarrassed I was staring. “I’m Taylor Jennings, Associate Recruiter.”

  He takes my hand in his, his eyes not leaving my face. “Hello, Taylor Jennings, Associate Recruiter.”

  I shift my weight. “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Dvorak.”

  He lets go of my hand. “Please, call me Jorge. Both of you.”

  The way he pronounces his name is like honey dripping off a spoon. It’s hard not to melt a little.

  “Of course. Jorge it is.”

  A server materializes beside us. “We have a table ready if you’d like to join us?”

  He looks from me to Julia, a smile forming on his face. “I would love to.”

  We follow the server to a table, a discrete spot toward the back of the restaurant, totally planned by Julia so we can talk privately.

  As we take our seats, Julia’s phone rings. She glances at her screen, her brows knitting together. “I’m so sorry, Jorge, I have to take this. I won’t be a moment.” She glances at me before she bustles away.

  I flash Jorge a nervous smile. Although I joined Sefton’s so I could move up into executive search, this is the first time Julia’s involved me in schmoozing high fliers like Jorge Dvorak. I’m used to working with the shy geeks of the industry, not the unabashedly self-assured movers and shakers.

  Although, looking at Jorge smiling across the table at me, I could get used to this.

  “So, have you been in San Francisco long?” I ask, desperate to find something to say to this man, totally intimidated by his success.

  “Only a day or two. Tell me, Taylor Jennings, Associate Recruiter,” he leans toward me, resting his elbows on the crisp white tablecloth, “what do people do for fun in this town?”

  “Fun?” I search my mind and land on something. “Oh, I guess there’s the Golden Gate Bridge. You can rent a bike and cycle over it.”

  He leans back in his chair. “A bike?”

  I give him a nervous nod. What am I saying? This guy probably travels by helicopter to the supermarket, and I’m suggesting he hires a bicycle?

  “Or you can ride the cable car?” I blather on, seemingly unable to stop. “The cable car is a big thing here for, you know, tourists.”

  This guy must think I’m obsessed with transportation or something.

  His smile spreads, and he arches an eyebrow. “A cable car ride sounds fun.”

  “Yeah. It is.” I smile back at him.

  Please don’t think I’m a total idiot.

  “And then there’s—”

  “Alcatraz?”

  I nod.

  “And you get there by boat, right?”

  I know he’s teasing me. I scrunch up my face. “I’m being too predictable. And maybe a little too focused on transportation, right?”

  He chuckles. “No, I like it. It’s important to know how to get around a new city. You’ve made some solid suggestions.”

  I laugh, shaking my head in embarrassment. “I’m wasted in this job. I should be working in tourism.”

  “Totally.” He smiles at me, his eyes dancing. “Or maybe work in transportation?”

  I relax, returning his grin. “Would you like a drink?”

  “A drink would be great.”

  I look around and spot a server at a neighboring table. I catch his eye and wave him over. As I return my attention to Jorge, I notice a figure out of the corner of my eye, standing by the kitchen doors. Jake. He’s dressed in his white chef’s shirt, a look of thunder on his face. His eyes are trained on me.

  My tummy does an involuntary flip at the sight of him. I shoot him a quick smile.

  He doesn’t return it.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jake

  I storm into the kitchen, shoving my way through the double doors. I let them swoosh closed behind me, wishing instead, just for once, they would slam, dammit.

  “Err, boss?” a timid voice says beside me.

  “What?” I snap as I focus my eyes on my sous chef, Isabella. She’s a sweet person and a talented cook, with me from day one. I instantly regret my tone.

  She shrinks into her white chef’s jacket. “I just wanted to check you were happy with the sauce for the fish.” She takes a step back. “But I can totally check in later
if now’s not a good time for you.”

  I suck in air, calming this sudden, unexpected irritation. “No, it’s good. Show me.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod.

  She turns and walks over to the stove, and I follow. She produces a spoonful of creamy sauce. She holds it out for me to taste, placing her hand underneath it to catch any drips.

  I taste the sauce. It’s good, but it’s missing something. “It needs more lemon juice.”

  She tries a tentative smile. “Lemon juice. Gotcha.”

  It’s the beginning of the lunchtime craziness, our second busiest time of the day, but I know I need a breather. I leave Isabella to manage the sauce and slip past the team of busy kitchen staff out into my small, windowless office out back. I close the door to block out the noise of the kitchen.

  I run my fingers through my hair. Taylor was laughing with that guy out there, gazing at him like he was a prime rib, ready to be devoured. And he was lapping it all right up. I feel my jaw clench.

  Why does this make me so angry? It’s not like I haven’t seen Taylor with other guys before. And it’s been fine. Well, not fine exactly, but it hasn’t been bad. Not like just now. Looking at her with that guy, I swear, I wanted to wipe the smile of his pretty-boy face with a meat tenderizer.

  Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I definitely wanted to hurt him.

  I pace the small room. Sure, Taylor’s had boyfriends. There was that dickhead of a guy she dated for far too long before she finally saw the light and dumped his sorry ass. Zeke was his name. Asshole. Plus, that other guy who kept hanging around. Phoenix or something equally lame.

  Seriously, did these guys’ parents give them those names, knowing they were going to grow up to be total jerks? Or did it happen the other way around? Like the chicken and egg debate.

  I shake my head. Who cares.

  I think of the way she looked at me last weekend down on the pier. It was new. Different. I liked it. And I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since.

  She’d never looked at me like that before. And, I’ll admit, I’ve thought about it a bit. Okay, a lot.

  Because hell, yes.

  But, judging by the way she’s all cozied up with that guy out there, anything I might have been feeling for her is not reciprocated.

  There’s a knock at my door. Someone opens it a crack, and Isabella’s face appears. “Boss?”

  The law of the kitchen states that as her superior, Isabella should call me “Chef,” but I kinda like the term of endearment. “Yeah, I know. Lunch is on.”

  She nods and smiles. “You okay?”

  “Sure.” I force a smile. “Let’s do this.”

  She shoots me an uncertain look, turns, and walks back into the noisy kitchen.

  I grit my teeth. Taylor can date whatever guy she wants. And whatever that thing was we shared, that moment, it’s gone. Over.

  For the next couple hours, I throw myself into the lunch rush. I push Taylor and the way she was flirting with that guy out of my mind. Well, as best I can, anyway.

  But she keeps walking across my mind, right through the rest of the week. It was that look. It’s changed things for me, things I’ve not thought about, well, not in a long time. By Friday, I’m at the point where I’m both dying to see her in Cabo later in the day and fearing this new-found power she seems to have over me.

  In the post-lunch lull, when it’s just her and me left in the kitchen, Isabella interrupts my stock-taking. “Boss? Frederick’s here. He’s come in with a few friends. By the looks of them, I’d say they’re hammered.”

  “Frederick?” I let out a heavy sigh. “Just what I need.”

  “He’s saying they want lunch. Three courses.”

  I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. I’ve got to be on a plane to Mexico in under three hours, and Frederick Leighton-Blythe turns up demanding a three-course meal? If he didn’t own the restaurant, I’d toss him out on his over-privileged ear.

  I walk over and look through one of the round windows in the kitchen door, watching as they grab bottles from the top shelf, laughing and talking among themselves. They’re drunk in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

  It’s gotta be nice to be rich with nothing better to do. And yeah, I know I sound bitter. I’m not. I mean, even if I had been born on the side of the tracks Frederick lives on, I don’t think I’d waste the day getting hammered with a guy like him.

  “What about fish? We’ve got some salmon left over. I can whip up the sauce pretty quick,” Isabella offers.

  I look back through the window. These guys don’t look like they’re in a salmon frame of mind. We’re standing in the kitchen, the place quiet, the counters gleaming from the post-lunch clean. Most of the front-of-house staff are on split shifts, not due back until five. This is the time of day I use to plan, create, do what needs to be done to run a smooth operation. It’s my time.

  Not today.

  “You mean make it a set menu? Fish or nothing?” I ask, and she nods. “Tempting. But remember, this is Count Chocula.”

  Isabella nods, smiling. She’s the one who came up with Frederick’s nickname when we first opened Manger on account of his pointy nose and protruding front teeth. A lot like Count Chocula of the breakfast cereal fame. It works, and it’s stuck. Never to his face, though, of course—although I’ve been sorely tempted at times. Like when he turns up hammered with his buddies, demanding food.

  “I’ll bet you fifty bucks they all want steak,” I add, sizing them up.

  His friends all look as equally privileged as him in their golf clothes and expensive watches, with more than a whiff of entitlement clinging to each and every one of them. I let out a sigh. This is the third time Chocula’s done this to me in a month, a new trend I’d like to kick to the curb.

  Isabella joins me at the window, standing on her tippy-toes so she can see out. “Look, it’s Snap, Crackle, and Pop.” She cocks her head to the side. “They’ve kinda got the ’dos.”

  She’s right on the money.

  “Maybe we should just give them a bowl of cereal and a pint of milk? Then we could all go home.” Isabella lets out a sigh. “I guess I’ll call Penny, see if she can come back in.”

  “We can manage.”

  “You’ve got a flight to catch, boss. I’m calling her.”

  “Offer her an extra hundred for her trouble, then. Chocula can pay.”

  Penny is one of my commis, eager to learn and totally reliable. I know she can do with the money, so if anyone’s going to win from this situation, it should be her.

  Isabella pulls out her phone to make the call as I push through the door out into the restaurant. I plaster a smile on my face, knowing all I want is to send these dicks home to their mommies.

  They’re still at the bar, one of them standing behind it, pouring out some of our thirty-year-old scotch into a row of glasses. He’s spilling more than he’s getting inside.

  I look from the bottle to the idiot’s face. “Gentlemen. Why don’t you take a seat? I can get you whatever you want to drink.”

  Translation: get the hell away from my bar and sit your skinny asses down where I can keep an eye on you.

  I pull a chair out from a nearby table and fix the would-be barman with my stare.

  “What are you going to make for us, Jake?” Frederick asks, taking a seat at the table. “I am ravenous. We had an early tee today so I had to skip breakfast.”

  “Whoever booked that ten A.M. slot deserves to be hung, drawn, and quartered,” one of the douchebags—probably Snap—says, slopping his drink on the table as he takes a seat.

  “That would be Rupes,” says the blonde one—Crackle, only without the propeller cap. He flops down on a chair and looks up at me. “I want a large, juicy steak. Got any of those, Chef?”

  “Yeah, me too. With sauce béarnaise, like I used to have as a child on our trips to the chateau,” another one says. I’m guessing this one is Pop. I’m also guessing he w
ins the silver spoon competition hands down. I mean, what kind of kid has fond memories of eating a fancy sauce at a chateau?

  I think Chuck E. Cheese’s was about as high-end as my family ever got.

  “We have grass-fed steak and can make your sauce of choice. Is that steak for everyone?” I ask.

  The final member of the breakfast cereal ensemble agrees. “Make mine rare.”

  “Of course.” I take note of the way they all want their steaks cooked, every one different. Naturally. “Make yourselves comfortable, and we’ll get to work.”

  I stomp back out to the kitchen, the effort of humoring these jerks making me see red.

  “You owe me fifty bucks,” I growl at Isabella as the kitchen doors swing closed behind me.

  “Steaks, huh? Shocker.” She walks over to the walk-in refrigerator. “Penny’s on her way in. Should be here in ten.”

  “Thanks.” I enter the pantry and pull out a bag of potatoes. We don’t have time to roast them with garlic and rosemary as we usually do with our steaks, so I collect the ingredients to make Potatoes Dauphinoise, a traditional French dish with cheese.

  I’m sure Crackle enjoyed it at the chateau as a kid, in between stacking his personal supply of gold bars.

  “I’ve said it before, boss. You need to go out on your own, buy Chocula out or something,” Isabella says.

  I harrumph as I thinly slice the potatoes. I know this is the price I’ve got to pay to be head chef at this restaurant. What I wouldn’t give to have my own place, to call every shot, not to have to answer to anyone—especially people who bear more than a passing resemblance to breakfast cereal box cartoon characters.

  Problem is, I already tried it, and it didn’t exactly work out. It was when I was younger and thought I knew everything, too darn cocky for my own good. I went out on my own, opening a small place in a rundown neighborhood. I scraped the money together until I was in the red with the bank and every member of my family. Although they didn’t get what I was doing, they supported me all the same.

  And I confirmed all their suspicions by failing within a couple months.