Being in close quarters with her for any length of time would be a bad idea. Eventually, I’d either kiss her or strangle her. Probably—no, definitely—the latter. Part of me wants to shake her right now and ask why the hell she leaned over the dock. I’m sure I was right about this part of the lagoon being mostly alligator-free, but I’m not entirely convinced she can swim.
And yet I lean against the bar, waiting for her to make her pitch.
She fiddles with the damp ends of her hair, making a little braid, then combing it out again. I tap my foot, not entirely out of impatience, but to resist interrupting whatever she’s about to say. My mind is racing in circles. She repeats the process with her hair.
“You’re seeing what I’m seeing, right?” I can’t help but say. “It’s outdated as hell. The kitchen isn’t any better. Ki—I mean, Sal’s daughter—she tried, but it’s been months, and she has a full-time job.”
She drops her half-braid. “What do you mean? It’s beautiful.”
“You’re joking,” I scoff.
“I mean, itwasbeautiful. I can see the potential.” She does the same little trick with the braid, making a frustrated noise. “Do you have a hair tie?”
“Do I look like I have one?”
She lets out another huff. “I wish I had a pixie cut.”
“No.” I let my gaze linger as I think about that possibility. “It looks good long.”
I shouldn’t like how that makes her smile. I shouldn’t indulge her at all, actually. But for some godforsaken reason, I go into the kitchen, rooting around the scarce supplies I’ve salvaged until I come up with a hairnet. It’s the best I can do. Also, part of me maybe, definitely, wants to see her turn her nose up at it.
“Absolutely not.” She backs away from me as I hold it out; I may as well have shown her a scorpion. Or a baby alligator. I bet she’d scream if she came face-to-face with one of those cute little suckers. “A hair tie and a hairnet arenothingalike. They’re not even in the same zip code.”
“So go back home, New York.”
She glares at me. Her cheeks are turning a fetching shade ofpink. She mutters something about asshole chefs as she snatches it, tucking her hair underneath. I wonder if that’s how she refers to me in her mind.Asshole. She’d be right on track with everyone else in my life. Not that that list is particularly long. I still need to text Chester. I haven’t spoken to Owen since I left the job he got me on the Danes’ yacht, never mind that we lived together in culinary school. I’m sure Pastiche’s kitchen has already moved on, someone else at my station for Hazel to joke around with.
“Better?” I say, pushing those thoughts away as I relish the sight of Poppy, Douglas Winfield’s precious daughter, sunk as low as me.
“Not especially.”
“You look cute. I should take a picture.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” She practically bares her teeth. Her hands go to her hips. “I’m not going back to New York.”
“Too many Knicks fans after you?”
Her lips twitch. “I know you think the promotional stuff is ridiculous, but look at my social media. I elevate brands all the time. I have an eye for design, and I know what’s trendy. I can build this place a presence online.”
“Bold words.”
“True words.” Her eyes flash. “Your food is great, but that’s not enough to build a restaurant. No offense, but you’re not exactly approachable. Or much of a charmer. You need someone to handle front of house and promotion.”
“Ouch.”
“You know I’m right.”
I wasn’t just trying to piss her off—a woman like her is as out of place here as Herman would be in Pastiche’s kitchen.
But I can’t deny that she’s talented. If by some miracle she sticks around, she really could help me resurrect this place.
“Okay,” I say slowly, scraping my hand over my jaw. “Say I do need you. Why do you need me?”
“Does it matter?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Fine. Ugh.” She settles on a bar stool, lets out a frustrated noise. “My family thinks my career is stupid, okay? No matter what I do, they act like I’m just... I don’t know. Playing.”
