“Thanks for stopping by.” I shake his hand. He’s big and broad, a native Floridian if I ever met one. He’d tell stories on the line about trips to the Everglades to hunt pythons and wild bar fights in Key West.
He looks around the dusty dining room, whistling. “We shut down about six months ago. Honestly, I was expecting it to look worse. The kitchen equipment still here?”
“Shockingly, yes.” When I first walked in, part of me expected the restaurant to be stripped, equipment stolen to be sold secondhand to other establishments.
“Sal commanded a lot of respect in this town.” He pauses, giving me a deliberate once-over. “Is this for real? You’re reopening?”
“Something like that.” I keep watching the door. Poppy is five minutes late now. In a real kitchen, she’d be fired. Jimmy hated doing the firing at Pastiche, so he left that job to me. I had too many charged conversations to count. Too many screw-ups begging for a second chance.
Ironic that I’m the screw up, now.
“We missed you at the funeral, kid.”
His words hit me right in the chest. I flinch. “Is any of the old guard still around? Jazz? Batista?”
“You could’ve at least been there for Ki.”
I scrape my hand down my jaw. I know that and it kills me, especially since I’ve seen her since and she’s been kinder to me than I deserve. But like hell am I about to share that with Herman. “You going to help me, or not?”
“Depends.” He takes a few leisurely steps around the dining room. He smells like cigarettes and strong aftershave. A gold chain glints at his throat. “You know what you’re doing?”
“I’m a chef now.”
God, I really wish I had a fucking cigarette. Still no Poppy.
“Oh, I know. Fancy CIA degree and everything.” He leans against the bar with a sniff. “You couldn’t wait to hitch out of town.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No?”
“If you just came by to insult me—”
The front door bursts open. Poppy practically tumbles into the room, in the middle of braiding her hair. She’s dressed in sneakers, leggings, and a Taylor Swift tour T-shirt, a far cry from yesterday. Her cheeks are flaming red. I wonder if she ran here; I didn’t notice a car yesterday in the parking lot.
“You’re late.”
She skids to a stop. “Only a little.”
“I told you four in the morning. It’s four fifteen.”
“So?” She ties off her braid, hip cocked. “Looks like you haven’t started either.”
“First lesson: Get here on time. Always. Unless you’re bleeding out in an alleyway, you’re here ten minutes before I say.” I ignore the blatantly curious look Herman’s giving the two of us as I go toe-to-toe with her. Some devilish part of me wants to wrap her braid around my hand. “And if you do happen to be bleeding out in an alleyway, call me so I know you’re coming in late.”
Her pouty mouth drops open, but she doesn’t say a word. Good.
Herman roars with throaty laughter. “Oh, kid. I missed that temper of yours.” He turns to Poppy, giving her a much warmer smile than he did me. “And who is this lovely lady?”
Poppy holds out her hand for a shake. “Poppy Winfield. His business partner.”
“Herman Wells.” He looks at me over Poppy’s head. “Partner, eh?”
I shut my eyes briefly. “She’s going to redesign the place. Work on giving it a social media presence.”
Herman snaps his fingers. “On the Instatok and everything?”
“It’s called—”
