Chapter 13

The restaurant is no livelier than usual this evening. Ironies of all ironies, that continues to work in my favor.

During a particularly bleak and depressing lull—following a particularly bleak and depressing dinner “rush” that consisted of one couple celebrating their anniversary (and selected us because they’re out-of-towners and I surmise they didn’t know better—though we did make a big deal out of the event) and a double date with teens—I gather my primary staff, such as it is, and make my very first announcement regarding my takeover of the establishment.

“I’ve been charged with resurrecting this place,” I inform the five people settling around a high-top table in the bar area. I don’t confess to having charged myself with this task. For the moment, I opt to play this fast and loose while I assess the reactions from this portion of my crew; then I’ll address the others when they come in for their varying part-time shifts and see where the chips fall.

“So, my most immediate changes will include the décor and the menu,” I alert them. “My goal is to bring in a high-end crowd. In a successful scenario, that equates to reservations on the books every day, loftier food and beverage prices, and a boost in tips. However…” I pause. I take a moment to gaze at each person assembled. “The only way that’s really going to work to our advantage is if our food is stellar and our customer service is off the charts. Beyond sensational.”

There’s notable disgruntlement. All nonverbal and ranging from extra slouching to a semi-eyeball roll.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be interviewing new candidates to fill these positions.

Fortunately, though, my tried-and-true bartender, Mitch, perks up considerably—so I’ve got that going for me.

“Excellent news!” he declares. “My ride needs tires and the battery’s about to kick. I could use a bump in tips.” He snickers, good-naturedly, and adds, “I could use tips, in general…”

I get his meaning. None of them has made a mint by working here. It is literally a slacker’s utopia. But my hope is that the prospect for more money on a regular basis might be the inspiration necessary to ignite a fire under everyone and motivate them to hustle.

I’m not exactly holding my breath for this, mind you. I’m still planning to put up an ad for new hires. Because…

“Here’s the thing,” I tell them, quite excitedly, though with tempered caution as to how they might react. “The reason I’m going to require a commitment from those of you who choose to stay on, insisting you go above and beyond from the moment you clock in until the moment you clock out so that you garner and earn those better gratuities, is that our new clientele will be accustomed to first-class, gold-star service. I’m bringing in a ‘customer experience’ consulting team that will train you to provide that service, teach you to anticipate and then exceed our guests’ expectations—and you will reap the reward for it!”

It’s an impassioned speech I want them to embrace.

Also, it’s all I can do not to bounce on the balls of my feet and clap my hands like a cheerleader losing her shit over her boyfriend scoring the winning touchdown.

The mere thought of being able to pair up with a group who will customize a program that ensures my staff is prepared to offer exemplary assistance at every point of contact—from taking a reservation, to managing the hostess stand, to waiting and bussing and cooking and mixing cocktails—has me through-the-roof ecstatic.

Every single detail will matter in this new paradigm and I’m beside myself with glee.

Mitch is demonstrating the appropriate level of eagerness as well.

The rest of my peeps?

Eeeeh…

Server #2 hops from her barstool and walks off.

Walks. Off.

Right out the door.

We all stare after her.

I mean, I know her aspiration is to be a nail tech at a fancy salon, not a server, but she can’t afford the training and certification—and here I am handing her a golden ticket to save money for all of that, to fund her future!

“Shake it off,” Mitch murmurs as I gape. “Not a surprise, right?”

True.

But I’m still taken aback. A bit insulted, really.

But I remind myself this was never her jam, anyway. And I’m confident I can find someone awesome to replace her. Plus, it’s best to know this is her ruling upfront, right?

I tear my gaze from the entrance and return it to my small conglomeration. “Anyone else want to bail before the consultants arrive? Because, to be perfectly honest and candid, this isn’t going to be a breeze-through program. It’s comprehensive, aggressive, and intensive. And, in the long run… Worthwhile. If you want to be making hundreds of dollars a night, not tens, I promise you this is the place to be. If you’re not interested in putting forth the effort… Then I’ll find others who are.”

A bottom-line statement.

Mitch gives a nod of approval. And says, “Count me in, Bailey. This is a good-sized restaurant in a spectacular location. There’s no reason that with a spruced-up dining room, a new menu, and attentive servers and bartenders we can’t compete with the yacht club.”

“Yes,” I fanatically concur. “Precisely my vision.”

To Servers # 1 and 3 (Tanya and Alex, respectively), who are still with me, though visibly waffling, I compellingly assert, “Do the math. Bottles of wine and champagne that will go well into the hundreds and even the thousands of dollars spectrum; lobster and filet mignon; appetizers that cost more than our current entrées; a dessert cart that will be too irresistible to pass up—because we’ll have a pastry chef onboard to create them. Your earning potential will, quite seriously, be capped only by how well you perform. Aside from that… The sky’s the limit. We’ll have the guests. We’ll have the exquisite tables and expensive place settings. We’ll cover every base. You, however, are the ultimate key to our success. And the compensation will follow.”

I can now see the dollar signs flashing in their eyes.

I’ve hooked them.

That’s a fantastic, fresh beginning.

Unfortunately, I’m delivered another jolt as my cook gets to his feet and says, “I’m not into snooty meals and the hoity-toity hors d’oeuvres.” (Which he pronounces whores dovers, with extreme sarcasm.)

Mitch inches closer to me—instinctively and almost protectively. He crosses his arms over his wide chest and tells the cook, “Have fun flipping burgers at some fast-food joint, man. This is an opportunity not to be missed. Your shoes won’t be difficult to fill.”

This seems to spark exhilaration in Tanya and Alex, and they exchange a look. Apparently, Mitch’s endorsement is golden and I’m now thinking that promoting him to manager is my next brilliant move.

My cook tenders his resignation on the spot, but I retain my first three “next-gen restaurant” employees. Not a fab statistic, but it’s a foundation to build upon.

Someone wanders in off the street and good Lord! Tanya springs from her stool and rushes to the front to greet him, escort him to a table on the deck, proffer a menu, and even indicate her two faux-favorite items as recommendations. Salads, considering we’re sans a cook—aside from me.

Emotion burns up my throat. I am so, so close to a big win here. I have my own training and skills. I have a degree in restaurant management, and I’ve been instrumental in running this place for a hands-off Cristoff. He’s been hugely absentee as an owner. I believe this is an asset, a gift. I was put into this role with almost complete autonomy. Meaning, I’ve learned a lot about practical application. I’ve made all the primary decisions. I’ve kept us afloat.

I’ve also had all this time to evaluate improvements and enhancements. I have a crystalline idea of how we’ll ascend to the level where I can seek the opinions of top food critics and reviewers. Maybe even attempt a famous starred rating.

I’m over the moon now.

I grip one of Mitch’s flexed biceps and say, “You sticking around is a godsend, without doubt. It’s also uplifting to Tanya and Alex. To a few others as well, I bet. I can’t thank you enough.”

He glances down at me and gives one of his charming smiles that has a decent patronage of female barflies frequenting the lounge on Friday and Saturday nights. Truly, he’s our best-kept secret. And if I can sway him to start a mixologist blog or some such thing, and promote us on socials, we’ll really pack the ladies in.

He caustically inquires, “So with this ‘charge’ to reinvent a tired restaurant comes your own personal bodyguard?”

His chin jerks in the direction of the snazzily attired man who’s occupying the table closest to the entrance.

I wince.

I’ve done my damnedest to ignore the “ armed suit” who’d slipped into the limo with me on the drive here, from the estate. Nick insisted I have “coverage,” and I’d been too euphoric from the sex to argue with him—or question what he really meant by that.

Now I’m sort of concerned about the message this sends, considering Secret Service guy will be coming with me, leaving with me, and studying everyone who steps into the foyer, maintaining a scrutinizing eye on them as they eat.

Not at all appetizing, right?

Not to mention… He seems to pay particular attention to Mitch. Or rather, Mitch’s proximity to me.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Mitch says. “About the mysterious, dark-haired guy who showed up here one night, about how you’re taking over the restaurant, about Kevin Costner over there. All you have to do, Bailey, is let me know if something’s not right.” His voice drops so only I hear him.

I instantly have mixed feelings about this.

I want to throw my arms around him for being so sweet and conscientious.

I want to melt over the fact that Nick is the “dark-haired guy” and that I really am taking over the restaurant.

What I do, however, is tell Mitch, “Turns out, I have a benefactor. An inheritance. And… Well…”

Here’s a dangerous “want.” I want to explain to Mitch that I’m involved with said benefactor.

Truly, I will have to explain at some point why I look like I swallowed a basketball, yes?

But I haven’t yet concocted that story.

And I’d prefer not to get caught in a web of lies.

So I simply add, “Change is good, right? Let’s embrace it.”

I leave him with that, while also contemplating how I’m going to make my new bodyguard blend into the woodwork, rather than stand out like a good-looking sore thumb.

I’m mindful of all of this as I manage the front-of-house closing duties and reconcile the receipts.

Then the limo pulls up to the curb and “Kevin” and I depart.

I’m riding a high from all I believe I can achieve with the soon-to-be-renamed Crescent Cove Crab Shack.

I’m also wildly anticipating the evening ahead of me.

With Nick.

And wondering what the sexy and seductive man might be up to tonight…

~ * * * ~

I arrive at the mansion and go directly to my suite to shower. I then style my hair in loose, fat curls around my shoulders, apply a faintly tinted moisturizer to my face, some mascara, and shimmery lip gloss. Afterward, I go in search of the perfect nightgown.

In my dressing room, my fingertips skim over the luxurious materials—silk, lace, satin, chiffon. All so delicate, so exquisite. It’s near impossible to choose just one. But my gaze lands on a particularly sensational, full-length, midnight-blue number I innately know Nick is going to like, given he’s already mentioned he prefers me in blue, and that is evident in how the entire wardrobe does slant toward that color, in varying shades.

I carefully slip into the garment. The bodice as lightly structured lace with tiny crystals embedded to make it sparkle delightfully, not overwhelmingly. The V’d neckline plunges provocatively, and the inner swells of my breasts are plumped up and fill the opening. The lace cuts away at the top of my ribcage and cascades at an angle to my sides. The satin skirt is smooth and A-line fashioned, flowing flawlessly to my feet and morphing into a slight train.

I survey the back to ensure the straps are laying correctly over my shoulders. They purposely twist at my spine and then sweep downward to meet the lace at my sides.

The satin portion dips almost to my tailbone in a sultry manner. The entire effect is sensuous and becoming—and I pray Nick thinks the same when he sees me.

I turn my attention to the shoe selection; however, I’m compelled to bypass the slippers, even the pretty, dainty ones. Instead, I leave the room, barefoot. I cross through the bathroom again, stopping briefly to spritz some expensive perfume at my wrists and neck before I exit into the hallway and travel it to the main portion of the house. I walk by the doors that lead to the swimming pool I intend to partake in at some point. Hopefully. And farther down, on the right, is the alcove with the grand piano and I wonder if I’ll have time to take a lesson or two while I’m living here.

These thoughts fade into the distant recesses of my mind as I approach the wide mouth that leads to the sitting area. The aroma coming from the kitchen is too decadent to ignore.

I descend the few steps and rather than allow the opened patio doors to entice me toward the deck and the ocean vista beyond, I veer to the left, where the enormous island is situated. Behind it, Nick is at the stove, taking a peek inside a Dutch oven he’s placed on one of the six burners.

“Duck confit?” I venture, with great interest. No more so, though, then my captivation with Nick’s backside. His ass wins out over one of my absolute favorite dishes.

He’s dressed all in black—dress pants and shirt, no tie. His sleeves are rolled up to his powerful forearms and when he glances at me over one broad shoulder, I reach for the edge of the counter to steady myself.

His grey-green eyes are alight with mischief—at first. But then he puts the lid on the pot and faces me, his gaze sliding over me. As much as he can see, at any rate, because I’m standing on the opposite side of the island. Apparently, it’s a sufficient visual, because his jaw tightens and his irises glow with notable heat and he seems to have trouble pulling in a breath.

The corners of my mouth twitch. No smile forms, though. I’m much too mesmerized. And…

I can’t breathe either.