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

“I appreciate anything you can do,” Jackson said as he rose more slowly to his feet. “I haven’t told Denise about the email yet. I don’t want her to worry.”

“We’ll get it worked out.” The two exchanged a handshake and Jackson tapped Nick on the shoulder.

“I hope you’re right. I’ll owe you big-time if you can change her mind.”

“Keep me stocked in Denise’s clam chowder and we’ll be good.” The woman refused to tell Nick her secret recipe and all his attempts to replicate the flavors had failed.

“You’ve got it.” Stepping back, Jackson said, “See you, Annie,” to the waitress at the end of the bar.

“Bye, Jack.” As Nick passed on his way to the kitchen, she asked, “Is everything okay? He didn’t look like his normal happy self.”

Nick didn’t feel it was right to share his friend’s private business. “He’s fine. Just a little problem I said I’d help him with.”

“Can I do anything?”

When he’d first come to Anchor, Nick had taken the islanders’ constant offers of assistance as small-town folks butting into their neighbor’s business. He knew better now. Whether from forced proximity or shared experiences due to the often turbulent weather that came with living on a barrier island, the locals here operated more like a family than a bunch of individuals who happened to share a zip code.

There was dysfunction at times, like with any family, but they had each other’s backs when it counted, and if helping Jackson required going toe to toe with Lauren Riley, then Nick was more than willing to do so.

“I’ve got this,” he said, “but thanks for the offer.”

Lauren pressed the button on the measuring tape and it snapped back into place. This time she managed not to pinch her finger.

“I could put two tables that way, or three tables this way.” She turned with arms extended, trying to imagine the setup. “But this way there wouldn’t be enough room for the servers.”

Teeth clenched on the tip of her thumbnail, she spun again, trying to see the area from multiple angles. Both the number of seats and the configuration of the dining room were crucial components to a successful restaurant. Tables could be moved, of course, should the original layout prove too cumbersome—or the opposite, far too spread out—but Lauren liked to get things right the first time.

“I wish we could get rid of this half wall,” she mumbled.

“Who are you talking to?”

Lauren jumped at the unexpected question, dropping the measuring tape on her big toe.

“Son of a bitch,” she growled, bending over and grabbing her injured digit. Jumping around on one foot, she shot Nick an angry scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you,” he said, sliding a leather jacket down his arms and draping it over the hostess stand. “Are you okay?”

She set her foot back on the floor and straightened. “I’m fine. Who said you could come in? We aren’t open yet.”

Nick glanced around the empty dining room. “Really? I’d never have known.”

Strolling across the restaurant, he came to a stop closer than Lauren was comfortable with, but stepping back would be a sign of weakness. She’d learned long ago how men treated a weak woman.

“If you want to keep people out, then you should lock the door. We need to talk about these requirements for your staff.”

“How would you know what my requirements are?” she asked, using the excuse of picking up the tape measure to put distance between them.

“It’s a small island. People talk.”

Of course they did.

“Are you looking to apply?” she asked, maintaining a neutral expression while her body tightened at the idea.

Not that she was afraid of him, exactly. There was just something about him. An air of confidence and the look of a man used to being in control. Lauren knew herself well enough to know she lacked the grit required to stand up to him in the kitchen. At least she did right now. Once Pilar’s was launched and successful, she’d be more confident.

“You’d be lucky if I did, but no. This insistence that cooks have experience in multiple restaurants is never going to work.”

Refusing to let him rile her, she kept her voice level. “Says who?”

“Says reality. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re on an island. A small one. There are plenty of people here who can handle whatever you need in that kitchen, but you have to be willing to give them a chance.”

“Last I checked, I’m the person opening this restaurant, not you. Pilar’s is not going to be a bar and grill. We’ll be serving more elevated food.” Lauren pointed at him with the tape measure. “So you stick to what you do, and I’ll do what I do, and we’ll stay out of each other’s way.”

Finished talking, she marched off toward the kitchen, but Nick’s next words stopped her cold.

“You’re messing with people’s lives.” When Lauren turned around, he continued. “I told you before. We take care of our own. Jobs aren’t overflowing in a place like this. Jackson Moore ran that kitchen long before you ever touched a knife. Dismissing fifteen years on the front line because it all happened in one place isn’t just shortsighted, it’s mean.”

She’d had no idea how long the previous staff had worked at the restaurant, nor had she done her homework to find out. A confession she kept to herself.

“Are you finished?”

“Are you going to give these people a chance?”

Nodding toward the door, she said, “I have a dining room to design. You saw yourself in. You can see yourself out.”

His jaw twitched but he swallowed whatever argument would come next and stormed over to his jacket. As he shoved his arm in the sleeve, Nick offered one last parting shot.

“Maybe you’ve never struggled to make ends meet, but life is different here. If there’s an ounce of compassion in that cold heart of yours, consider what you’re doing. Otherwise, you’ll be running that kitchen all by yourself.”

He was