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“Maybe you should get off your lazy rear and cover them yourself,” she said, snatching the ponytail holder from her head, allowing her long hair to cascade freely down her back. “I can’t work with you a minute longer. You’re a piece of scum, Tony. No self-respecting woman would ever go out with you, no matter how much you threaten or throw money her way. I hope you know that.”
She felt the baseball player’s gaze heavy on her face while she finished up her speech. Looking up at him, her breath caught in her lungs as their eyes met. The protective scowl was gone. Instead, his lips had curled into an approving smile that made her face warm. He nodded slowly, his blue eyes twinkling with humor. She returned his nod and then marched past him, their shoulders brushing.
“Do me a favor and put this restaurant out of business,” she said, turning around to give him one last look.
He smiled again and quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll certainly do my best.”
“Good.”
She marched off down the hall and out into the dining room, making a beeline for the exit. It felt good to be free. It was as if she’d just shrugged off last season’s heavy canvas jacket and slipped into a charmeuse kimono. She could get used to that feeling.
Too bad this feeling couldn’t pay her rent.
Chapter Two
Hot orange flames shot toward the ceiling of Logan Madison’s brand new kitchen and the acrid smell of burning grease filled his nostrils. A plume of black smoke curled above the two steel commercial ranges, marring the fresh paint job on the ceiling. His head chef yanked the fire extinguisher from the wall and fumbled with the pin, dropping the heavy canister on his foot and eliciting a howl of pain.
“Out of the way,” Logan grunted, pushing past the employees who’d gathered to stare at the disaster in the making.
He ran toward the pantry and grabbed the economy-sized bag of salt. Sprinting back toward the stoves, he began to toss it wildly onto the flames, sending up a silent prayer that his new business wouldn’t literally go up in flames a week before it opened. His friend Darren would get a kick out of that. He’d always maintained that Logan was out of his depths in this fancy new world of fine dining.
If Logan had learned anything growing up in a double-wide trailer home with a mother who loved to cook, but probably shouldn’t be allowed within fifteen feet of a kitchen, it was how to put out a grease fire. Slowly, the flames receded and all that remained were the charred leftovers of what resembled a chicken breast and a blackened steel pan.
“All right people, gather round.” Logan leaned wearily on the steel island and tugged at his blue tie.
He wanted nothing more at that moment than to shrug off his Brooks Brothers navy suit and change into athletic shorts, but if he was going to be the owner of a fine dining experience, he needed to look the part. Athletic shorts and t-shirts might have been appropriate for the owner of the fast food chain, Logan’s Pizzeria, but no longer. He’d invested his baseball money into his first
business and made billions, but now he was out to create something more. Something lasting. Something that would finally prove he was good enough.
“I know we’re all having a hard time adjusting,” he went on, fixing each of his new employees with a hard stare, “but I need you to focus. Madison Park is going to open to critics buzzing and raving, not to the sound of fire alarms. Please, work with me here. I want tonight’s practice run to be spectacular. No more accidents. Agreed?”
There was a simultaneous bobbing of heads as Logan passed the bag of salt over to the chef. He breathed a sigh of relief and excused himself from the kitchen, longing for a quiet place that wouldn’t give him a headache. Unfortunately, the painters had just finished up in the dining room that morning and the air there still reeked of new paint. The plumbers had been recalled due to a leak in the men’s bathroom and already there was a scratch on his exotic Brazilian walnut floors from the delivery men dropping off the giant upright fridge for the kitchen last night.
Still, Logan didn’t let that get him down. Every new beginning had its rough patches. And besides, tonight he was entertaining good friends. They wouldn’t judge him, like everyone else.
“Logan!” a deep voice called from the entrance.
A grin lit up his face as he rushed to meet his guests. Standing in the doorway was Michael Knight, looking dapper as always in his black suit, shortly cropped brown hair, and trimmed beard. They’d been buddies all throughout school, pretty much since the day Logan’s scholarship had brought him to St. John’s private academy in the eighth grade.
Logan was forever grateful to the young boy who hadn’t let prejudice or judgment get in the way of welcoming a new kid. Life as a trailer park kid at a private academy hadn’t been easy. But thanks to Michael’s friendship and Logan’s own supportive parents, he’d graduated with a full ride to Long Beach State and eventually been drafted into the MLB to play first base with the LA Suns.
It had been years since he’d last gotten together with Michael, but time didn’t age a friendship like theirs. They shook hands warmly and then Logan turned to the pretty blonde woman standing next to him in a pink chiffon knee-length dress.
“I assume this has to be Emily Sevenson?” he asked, his eyebrow arching.
She smiled at him, pushing her curly hair off her shoulder and flashing a gigantic diamond engagement ring. “So, he’s told you about me? All good things, I hope.”
“Only fantastic things,” Logan replied, shaking her hand. “Michael is a lucky man. He’s told me so, himself, many times.”
Pink tinged her cheeks and she gazed lovingly up at her fiancée, who looked down at her with the same fierce love flashing in his eyes. Logan took a step back and allowed them to have their moment. He was ecstatic that Michael had found someone who complemented his brooding personality so thoroughly. He’d always wondered if a man like that could find true love, especially after growing up with a father who didn’t seem to comprehend the meaning of love. If Michael could find happiness, then anyone could.
Maybe even Logan. Someday, after he’d conquered the world.
“Come in, come in,” he said, waving his hands at them. “I’ll show you to your seats. The kitchen is getting fired up.” He cringed at his choice of words, hoping that his designer suit didn’t stink of grease and smoke. “I’m afraid my friend Darren won’t be joining us after all. He had...something pop up.”
No doubt, Darren was either recovering from another bender or planning to go on one tonight. It was getting so common these days that he hadn’t even bothered to come up with a flimsy excuse for missing the dinner date on the voicemail he’d left on Logan’s phone a few minutes ago.
The two of them had been close since playing pro ball together, but lately the man Darren had become had left Logan scratching his head. Maybe, it was time he got his friend into rehab.
