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“You got it.”
“Nice meeting you.” Kip grins at her, hands still folded in front of him.
“Oh, right… You, too.” Clem gulps. “Thanks for the…” Her voice trails off.
Kip circles a finger around his face. “Anytime.”
I can’t help but laugh. Sydney snorts.
Clem flushes with embarrassment, then bolts in the opposite direction.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” Sydney cuts in, passing out a round of tequila shots as she whizzes around behind the bar. “She’s going through a divorce. She doesn’t know how to flirt yet.”
“Forgiven.”
Chuckling under my breath, I whip a rag over my shoulder and pop open a beer, setting it down in front of Kip. I lean forward on my palms. “What time are you and Andrew stopping by tomorrow?”
We scheduled a “guys day.”
It’s my only day off this week, and June has to work at the diner. Andrew has been wanting to set something up before summer passes us by, and we all desperately need the R and R.
So we’re packing up some beers and lunch and going tubing up in Wisconsin.
I’m looking forward to it.
I’m looking forward to everything but having to make eye contact with Andrew Bailey, knowing that I’m sleeping with his daughter behind his back.
Kip doesn’t know this either. The last time we spent any time together, he was filling me in on his own tragic, forbidden love story, trying to convince me to run from mine.
Clearly, I learned nothing.
Kip tips his beer to me in thanks, then takes a swig. “Probably around eight or nine.”
“Perfect.”
I’m about to further the conversation when I feel a presence sidle up beside me, my nose filling with bergamot cologne.
“Mr. Elliott. A word, if you will.”
Pauly gives my shoulder a slap with his meaty paw, and I excuse myself for a moment, making sure Sydney has it covered. Trailing Pauly into the kitchen behind the bar, I scratch at the coarse bristle on my chin, feeling like I’m in trouble. I always feel like that when Pauly wants to talk to me, even though he’s only ever shown me kindness and respect. He has that way about him.
“Everything okay?” I wonder as we come to a stop in a quiet corner.
“Yes, of course. I have a proposition for you.” He smooths out his beard, black with a smattering of silver flecks, striking against his light-olive skin. He regards me with umber eyes. “My restaurant in Seattle. I would like you to work at it.”
I frown, my arms crossing. “Seattle?”
“Yes. An executive chef position has opened up, and you are more than qualified. You would receive double the salary you are currently making,” he explains, watching my reaction. Studying me. “Mr. Elliott…you are one of the best culinary artists I have had the pleasure of working with in all of my career. I fear you are not living up to your full potential. It would be a great honor if you would consider my offer.”
Swallowing, I exhale a tapered breath, glancing down at the tile floor. I’m speechless.
“You would have more responsibility, of course. Staffing, budgeting, managing ordering… However, you are very smart. Quick on your feet. I believe you are more than capable.”
I glance back up, noting the hint of a smile that crosses his lips. It looks like pride. It almost looks like I would be doing him a favor by saying yes.
My mind reels.
Double the pay.
