Our early morning passes by in a blur. Owen wants to go over the plating plan one more time. Hazel triple-checks the appetizer menu, which Jack reworked in a frenzy two days ago. The bar gets a restock. I freshen the dining room with flowers and go over the ordering system for the seven hundredth time. The food prep feelsendless, both mindless and requiring intense concentration. Jack seems in command amid the laundry list of things we have to do, knowing when to delegate and when to handle something himself, but it gives me a pit in my stomach. I don’t want to see him behind again, later.
Or maybe it’s the fact my family is on a plane, heading to what has become my safe haven.
Finally, I notice Jack step into the alleyway alone. I nearly lunge after him, heedless of how it looks to Owen.
“Need to make out that badly?” he calls.
I slam the door behind me in answer.
Jack is leaning against the building, reading something on his phone. He looks up as I approach, eyes squinted against the sun. He’s using a plastic container as a water cup, which makes me smile; we have an entire bar stocked with glasses, after all.
“Nervous?” he says.
“I can barely feel my fingertips.”
“Didn’t nick a nerve, I hope.”
I roll my eyes. He takes a sip of water, smiling around the rim of the container, and passes it to me.
“How isyourfinger?” I ask. He cut it yesterday, the knife slipping on a potato, of all things.
“I’ve tackled service through worse.” He lets his gaze trail down my body with undisguised interest. “If I can handle what we did last night—”
“You had a lot of help,” I interrupt, knowing there are two bright spots on my cheeks. “I still don’t understand how I managed to lose my vibrator on a houseboat.”
It had been lost for so long, I nearly forgot I brought it with me. And then Jack found it mixed up with his clothes, somehow, and we tested it out to see if it still worked.
Repeatedly.
“I like help.” He trails his fingertips over my jaw. “Especially when it makes you scream that loudly, sweetheart.”
I catch his hand against my cheek, turning my head to press a kiss to the center of his palm. “Is that a burn?”
“Just a small one.”
I examine the angry red spot on his wrist with care. “What happened?”
“Oil splatter.”
I brush my lips against it. He breathes in once, sharply, and drags me into a proper kiss. We were just sampling the duck dish—a poor attempt at lunch—so his lips taste like salt and plum, plus a hint of ginger. I lean into it, eyes sliding shut, warm from the sunlight and the anchor of his arms.
“Hey,” I say softly, once our lips part. My heart jackrabbits as I meet his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”
His mouth quirks upward. “Funny. I need to talk to you, too.”
“What is it?”
“A couple guys in property development reached out to me.”
“Right,” I say slowly. “And?”
“They’re interested in buying the restaurant, and they’re willing to pay above market value so I don’t go to anyone else.”
For a second, I think he’s joking. But he doesn’t start laughing. He looks like he does when he’s offering me a bite of something new: pleased with himself, yet a little hesitant.
“What?” I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron.
“It’s a good offer.” He jerks his fingers through his hair. “Anyone would be a fool to turn it down.”
