Chapter 1

“Order up!” the chef calls out and I instinctively glance around the dining room to see who’s going to answer the call of duty.

My bartender is engrossed in sports on the big screen that’s mounted in his corner of the restaurant.

Server #1 is batting her eyelash extensions at a local sailor/fisherman, who I know owns nothing grander than a dingy dinghy with the equivalent of a play-toy motor attached.

Server #2 is filing her nails and snapping her gum.

Server #3 has just plopped into a rickety seat at the table where his only customer is hunkered down for the rest of the summer, it seems, and joins him in a hand of five-card draw. For money.

I do a double take on that one. Seriously, the guy’s barely made ten dollars in tips today, and he’s going to play poker?

I shake my head. Maybe that’s how he pays his rent.

I’m clearly the only one interested in the food delivery, so I make a beeline for the window to grab the hot pastrami on rye with French fries, along with the ticket—so I can at least discern who the hell ordered this.

Not that there are a lot of options from which to choose.

Poker guy, dinghy owner, woman nursing a glass of chardonnay at the bar, or…

Oh, wait. There’s a gentleman out on the deck.

Our very sunny, balmy-weathered, water-view deck.

It’s the perfect day for enjoying this particular space. Regardless, I frown as I step outside.

He’s nicely dressed. In a suit and tie. All buttoned up in the warm temps.

My spirits take a dive south.

He has to be an investor. A buyer. A mogul. Without doubt, a mover and a shaker.

I’d love to believe he’s a yacht owner from the club adjacent to this restaurant, but they typically don’t wander this way. Not when the prestigious and highly exclusive Crescent Cove Yacht Club is renowned for its triple-starred formal restaurant and internationally acclaimed outdoor cantina with a stunning courtyard bar.

Needless to say, our clientele at the Crescent Cove Crab Shack (I cringe too at that mouthful) is primarily the locals. The non-yacht-owning, non-suit-wearing locals.

Despite the severe lack of sophistication, décor, and stellar menu selections here (crab is, ironically, woefully limited, due to the fact that our chef hails from Jersey—inland, not coastal—and seafood is not his jam, go figure), I happen to be head-over-heels in love with this restaurant.

And here’s why…

As I cross the vast and sadly underused deck, the most amazing ocean vistas fill my line of vision. A narrow, curving, pristine sandy beach dotted with large, smooth rocks gives way to vibrant green water that transitions into brilliant, sparkling turquoise. The sea sprawls as far as the eye can see, with a majestic mountain range set off to the right, in the far distance.

Every time I pass the threshold of the dining room to this porch, I lose my breath.

I love this precious spot.

I also love the scent of brine and the zesty aroma wafting from the cantina a mere hundred yards away and the feel of the sun on my skin and—

Focus, Bailey.

Right.

Admittedly, I get wholly caught up in the spectacular scenery, having been born and raised in a dark and dirty tin-can of an apartment in San Francisco’s absolute worst district, where the fragrance du jour was urine on the street corner and addicts’ vomit when they missed the public trash bins.

I deeply inhale the fresh air to clear away the stench of that memory and take the sandwich to the potential investor. He has one eye on a prominent financial journal and one eye on his email as he’s scrolling through messages on his phone with his thumb.

He doesn’t bother to glance up—not sparing me a moment’s look.

I’m not surprised.

This is a nondescript establishment that should be so much more fabulous, given its locale. In fact, it’s actually sort of disappointing—disheartening, even—that this place is basically dry rot surrounded by gleaming brilliance.

The very reason I want to buy it.

My guess is, though, pastrami guy is going to lock it down before I can even come up with a third of the down payment.

The restaurant isn’t even on the market yet, but word travels fast when the owner is broke AF and putting out feelers.

And I’m only a year out of a Restaurant and Hospitality Management program from a small college I owe money to—a lot of money.

That wasn’t supposed to be the case.

I had tuition for an illustrious college. I had my entire four-year, on-campus strategy mapped out and was mentally debating whether I’d work at the Ritz-Carlton or the Four Seasons as my professional debut.

Then reality slapped me in the face. Hard.

My parents divorced when I was sixteen. My mother re-married, quite richly, and claimed to have set up a college fund for me. But a year later, she ditched that guy too. Snagged half of what he was worth and rode off into the sunset, taking my college fund with her.

Meanwhile, my father lost his job—and his battle with cancer. The bills piled up. I’m still paying them.

I applied for student loans as my mother vacay’d in the Maldives. For six months. Then apparently bought herself a pretty little flat in Paris. She sends me postcards from time to time. Isn’t that nice of her?

Okay. Painful moment over.

I approach potential-investor guy, flash him a bright smile, and congenially say, “I hope you enjoy the sandwich. Our meats are cut with just the right thickness. If you need more condiments or fries, we’re happy to accommodate. We’re known for our lunch deals.”

That’s really the best I can muster by way of a selling point. Though, good Lord! This place has so much more to offer—if only the correct person were making the executive decisions!

Which very likely will never be me.

He finally glimpses my way. “You must be the manager.”

“Bailey Storm,” I tell him. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Curt Donaldson. And the pleasure’s all mine. I’ve heard you’re uber-efficient. Very attentive. Your online reviews precede you, Ms. Storm. Unfortunately, your personalized service seems to be the main attraction. Not so much the menu.”

“It does lack ingenuity,” I confess. “Though that’s really out of my hands.”

He nods. And says the words I so dread hearing. “I’m considering buying the restaurant. Do you plan to stay on under new ownership?”

I want to scream.

I don’t, of course. For one, I’m not the overly dramatic type. And two, I need this job.

“I signed a one-year lease for a cottage that I’m barely three months into,” I inform him. “So, yes. I’m locked in.”

“Hmm. Well. I’m mostly interested in the tax write-off…”

He rambles on.

I hear nothing else.

He’s not interested in investing money in this place, shaping it up, and turning it around. All this transaction will result in is…

Same shit, different owner.

I duly smile again and then find a break in his diatribe that allows me to slip away, under the guise of needing to check on my staff.

The afternoon wears on and I am damn certain life as I know it will be a perpetual and agonizing Groundhog Day reenactment henceforth.

And then…

Oh, then.

As night falls and the lights dim in the dining room, a very tall, very dark, and very mysterious man enters.

He comes with his own security detail, which intrigues me. They fan out. I’d claim they’re discreet, except…well. Once more, there’s only a handful of people in the restaurant, so the entourage is anything but inconspicuous.

I grab a few menus and take the steps up to the foyer.

But the closer I get the less air there seems to be in my lungs.

The closer I get the more lightheaded I become.

Heat flashes through me.

My nerve endings ignite.

My skin tingles.

And something very pleasant and yet wickedly uncomfortable sparks between my legs.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, the last thing on my mind are student loans, a down payment for this restaurant, and the fact that my future is, literally, bleak and hanging in the balance.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, all I can think of is…

Sex.

Really hot, really dirty sex.

With this man.

My knees are oddly weak. Not a common occurrence. In fact, I can’t recall when they’ve ever nearly knocked together like this. But the tremor that suddenly moves through me almost has them buckling.

I handoff the menus to Server #2, who technically goes by Tanya. “Why don’t you seat our new guest?” I suggest, in the breathiest tone imaginable.

She would have shot me a curious, and perhaps incredulous, look at my immediately wilting appearance and sultry Marilyn Monroe voice, but she’s too busy using the menus to fan herself as she gazes at the dark-haired man filling our small entryway, taking up way more space than is fathomable with his impossibly broad shoulders and commanding presence.

He’s riveting. Amazingly so.

He’s built like a Roman warrior, with muscles his fancy black suit can neither minimize nor fully hide. His hard pectoral ledge presses to the front of his crisp, white dress shirt and I’m instantly obsessed with the notion of yanking his tie loose and ripping his shirt open—just to get the visual of his chest. Well… And to touch it. To splay my palms over all his tanned and toned skin. My fingers dipping lower to trace the rigid grooves of his abs.

A lump of desire swells in my throat and I absently reach a hand toward Tanya and grasp her upper arm to steady myself. While I momentarily fantasize about bulging biceps flexing, simply for the sake of showing off.

His greyish-green eyes are mesmerizing against his chiseled-to-perfection face, and they beautifully complement his midnight hair.

My blood turns molten and now… I truly can’t breathe.

Tanya’s rooted where she stands as well. Thus, it’s Jared, our only male server, who swoops in to snatch the menus from Tanya and take the few last steps up to the foyer to welcome in Tall, Dark, and Devilish, directing him to the table of his choice.

Both mine and Tanya’s gaze follow them—along with the entourage—out to the deck.

Then I sort of slump against her and mutter, “Good Lord.”

“Understatement of the year, Bailey.” She’s similarly entranced.

But I’m the first to snap out of the lust-induced fog.

“Get a grip,” I say—to both of us.

I shake my head, in hopes of clearing it, and go back to my business.

Which is…

What, exactly?

I’ve completely forgotten what I was doing a mere minute before.

My mind is blank for several suspended seconds. Then my gaze flashes toward the double doors leading to the deck. I think of Curt Donaldson from earlier in the day. And assume this new “suit,” who’s way out of his element in our shabby shack, might be another potential bargain hunter.

But, nooo… That doesn’t sit right with me. This place would never entice a man like him. The more probable scenario is that he’s just sailed into the harbor in his megayacht, didn’t have a reservation at the exclusive club in the marina, and wandered our way, requiring enough space for him and his party to spread out. Because that’s precisely what they do out back, finding key points at the four corners, with Dark and Devilish centered in the middle, at the railing.

If he’s hoping to find a diamond in the rough to makeover, he’s in luck here. If he’s merely interested in a tasty seafood tower—he’s going to be sorely disappointed.

Try as I might, I can’t get our chef to embrace the beauty of crustaceans. Rather, everything that comes out of our kitchen smells greasy, or is accompanied by a mound of pasta piled next to it on the plate, topped with mass-produced marinara and grated parm from a plastic container. If the suit wants lobster and filet mignon, he’s come to the wrong joint.

Right along those lines, Jared returns, gives a low whistle, and tells me, “He wants champagne.”

Tanya snorts. “As if!”

Champagne at the Crescent Cove Crab Shack? Unheard of.

My stomach wrenches and I’m not sure why. Yet it all but guts me to so severely let this man down. And I haven’t even met him!

Oh, fucking fuck!  What on earth is happening to me?