In Over Her Head: An Anchor Island Novel by Terri Osburn (reading eggs books .TXT) 📗

is Pilar’s success. That in turn becomes Will’s success. Isn’t that the point of running a business?”

The wide grin curled Roxie’s glossy lips. “You aren’t good at compromise, are you?”

“No.”

“That must make life pretty complicated at times.”

“Yes,” Lauren replied. More than complicated, but she would not apologize for who she was.

With a nod, the other woman rose. “Then I’ll talk to her.”

“You will?”

“I’m happy to go to bat for a friend.”

“But we aren’t—”

“Sure we are,” Roxie cut in. “You’ll get used to it.”

For her own comfort, Lauren changed the word friend to ally in her mind, and those she could use.

“Let me know what she says.”

As Lauren headed for the door, Roxie added, “I expect a free meal as payment.”

“That I can do.”

“You’ve got a visitor,” Annie Littleton, a long time Dempsey’s waitress, called into the kitchen.

“Who is it?” he asked, continuing to break down the chicken on his cutting board.

“Jackson Moore.”

A native islander who had been Nick’s equal at the Marina restaurant before the Navarros bought it, Jackson had become a good friend within weeks of Nick moving to the island. They’d talked shop, women, and sports, in that order.

“Tell him I’ll be right out.” Pulling off his latex gloves, Nick called out to Carl who was exiting the cooler. “Take over here, will you?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Nick washed his hands, then crossed through the kitchen while drying them. As he stepped out behind the bar, he tossed the towel over his left shoulder. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

Jackson’s typical easy smile was nowhere to be seen. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes.”

When Nick remained behind the counter, the older man nodded toward a table by the windows. “Over there?”

“Sure. Let me come around.” Nick went back through the kitchen and exited the side door close to the table where Jackson had taken a seat. “Is Denise okay?” he asked, concerned something had happened to Jackson’s wife.

Dark wrinkles covered the man’s forehead as the sun glistened off his bald black head. “She’s good. Ornery as ever, but good. I’m here about that new chef.”

“What about her?”

“I got an email about interviews for the new restaurant. The chef has some requirements for anyone looking to apply. High requirements.”

Nick had been afraid of this. “What are they?”

Jackson rubbed his burn-scarred hands together. “A minimum of five years’ experience for all positions from cooks on down.”

“Shit,” Nick mumbled, running a hand through his hair. That would cut nearly everyone out. “What else?”

“For cooks, we have to have worked in at least three different restaurants, and fast food doesn’t count. Neither do diners.”

That put Jackson out as well.

“Where does she think she’s going to find these people?” he asked.

“Hell if I know.” Jackson straightened and crossed his arms as his dark gaze shifted toward the scene outside the window. “Since they closed down for the remodel, I’ve picked up some work here and there, but I was counting on getting that job back.” His eyes cut to Nick, worry clear in their brown depths. “We can’t live on what Denise makes at the school alone. If I can’t get back on, we’ll have to think about moving off the island.”

This was a reality that every local faced eventually. In a village only a square mile wide, job opportunities were slim, which was the reason efforts to boost tourism had been rampant in the last ten years, and why hiring islanders had been a priority for all local businesses. There were commuters who came in from Hatteras, but those were the exception not the rule.

“Once she learns how long you were there, she has to give you a chance.” Jackson had worked in that kitchen for fifteen years. He knew how to keep the line going, handle unhappy customers, and could work every station from sauces to expediting. She’d be an idiot not to bring him back.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, man. It isn’t looking good.”

Unwilling to let his friend suffer, Nick said, “I’ll talk to her.”

Jackson’s eyes went wide. “You know her?”

“I’ve met her,” Nick explained. “Mia did some work in the dining room last week and I was there to see it. The woman’s a hard-ass, like every other ambitious chef, but she’s going to need good people. If she isn’t willing to bend on this experience bullshit, she’ll be running that kitchen by herself.”

“Mona and Deborah are the only two who meet the requirements,” his friend pointed out. “I have to wonder if their personalities are going to mix with hers.”

Like Nick, Mona Bradwell had spent years in restaurant kitchens from Charlotte to Raleigh to Atlantic City. Along the way she’d developed a resistance to hotheaded chefs. Jackson was as calm and fair as he was kind, and after six months in his kitchen, Mona had declared that she’d never work for anyone else.

Deborah Prince had arrived on the island around the same time as Nick. Like Chef Riley, she was classically trained but in pastry instead of straight culinary. That didn’t mean she couldn’t hold her own at any station. Where Mona enjoyed being on the line and managing the chaos, Deborah preferred to be left to her own duties, away from the others and out of the noise.

Nick had no idea how Lauren Riley would run her kitchen. She didn’t seem like the type to scream and curse through a service, but he didn’t see her as the nurturing type either. If she planned to hold her staff to Boston fine-dining standards, then she’d better be ready for some serious turnover. Or have a lot of friends willing to come work on a remote, Outer Banks Island.

“Have you talked to either of them?” he asked.

“Not since getting the email, but a week ago they both intended to go back. They also assumed I’d be there, so their intentions might be different now.”

Nick bolted to his feet. “You’ll be there. I’ll see to it.”

No doubt the woman would balk at his interference, but someone had to