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“I’ve been told otherwise,” he said, absolutely deadpan.
To her horror, giggles rose in her throat and spilled out of her mouth as her brain came to a complete halt. It didn’t help that heat rose from the neckline of her chef’s coat to her cheeks, and she knew she’d turned bright red.
Brock sat back and grinned at her. “What else?” His tone was mild, but there was a wicked glint in his brown eyes.
“We need to add a dinner service.”
His grin vanished. His dark brows knitted together in a frown. “I can’t afford to hire extra people right now. Hell, I’m not even sure I can afford to replace Kenny.”
“Wait. Hear me out,” she blurted. “The profit margins on dinners are higher because people order things like appetizers, desserts, and drinks. Plus, we can charge more for dinner entrées. And it would make staying in town more attractive to tourists once the LVR begins service next year.” He was still frowning, so she added, “It looks like Fridays are your slowest days for breakfast. We could start by shifting the diner’s Friday hours to lunch and dinner service, no breakfast. Then expand to other days if the experiment works out.”
He blew out a breath. “I’ll think about it.” His tone was grudging. “What else?”
“I noticed you don’t have an Alcoholic Beverage License.”
His frown deepened. “That’s right,” he said flatly.
Now what’s his problem?She fought down her annoyance. If he insisted on being stubborn, she had to be the reasonable one.
“I mean, that’s normal for a breakfast/lunch only place,” she continued, “but you’re losing out on major potential lunch and dinner revenue without an ABL. If we put beer and wine on the menu, the checks would increase, and with a nice profit margin, too.”
“No,” he said in the same flat tone. He set his fork down and put both palms flat on the tabletop. “My dad was an alcoholic. Drank himself to death. No booze in my diner. And that’s final.”
Summer recognized what that confession must have cost him. “Okay. No ABL. The next best option to increase a diner’s check is to offer a gourmet dessert menu with dinner. Let’s look into getting an espresso maker, too.”
She saw the mutinous expression on his face and groaned silently.Stubborn idiot! Is he really going to shoot down every single idea just to score points against me?
But she wasn’t ready to give up on this item, not when she’d just conceded on the liquor license. “Look, I know commercial espresso machines run in the thousands of dollars. But the coffee distributor for SummerTime will lease us those machines cheaply, and burr grinders, too, if we sign a contract with them for coffee bean deliveries. It wouldn’t hurt to offer fancy espresso drinks for breakfast and dessert, right? Especially once the tourists come.”
She saw Brock pause to think about it. Sensing victory, she added, “There’s an excellent profit margin on coffee drinks. At my restaurant, our average cost to produce an after-dinner cappuccino was about ninety cents. We listed them on our dessert menu for $3.95.”
His eyes widened as that sank in.
Then he growled, “Fine. If you can get us a good deal on an espresso maker, go for it. But if you want fancy desserts, you’re gonna be the one baking them, because I don’t bother with that kind of fiddly shit.”
She folded her arms and gave him her sharpest look, the one that made line cooks and dishwashers cry.
He stared back at her for a long moment, then admitted, “I know how to make a mean berry shortcake using my gran’s recipe, but that’s it.”
Summer nodded. “Shortcake is a great seasonal item, especially if we can get fresh berries from a local farm. For the rest, let’s outsource dessert since we’ll both have our hands full with everything else.”
“Outsource?” Brock asked with a sneer. “You think those fancy bakeries in Bozeman are gonna deliver all the way out here?” He shook his head. “This isn’t San Francisco. You can’t just order delivery from any old place.”
With an effort, she ignored his attitude. “What about the new bakery right here on the square?”
“Jenna’s Java? That’s mostly Danishes and cookies and stuff.” Brock waved his hand dismissively.
Summer shrugged. “I’m willing to give it a shot. If I like what I see and taste, I’ll commission a set of custom, seasonal desserts to offer with our weekend dinner service. It won’t be the same old huckleberry pie you can find at every diner in Montana.”
“Nothing wrong with this huckleberry pie, Ms. Fancy Pants.” As if to prove his point, he shoved a large forkful into his mouth.
“And there’s nothing wrong with being open to change, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.
If he didn’t have an attitude adjustment soon, it was going to be alongthree months until she could take her money and head back to San Francisco.
Someone rapped on the diner’s front door, making the old-fashioned shopkeeper’s bell quiver and chime. Brock looked past her. “It’s Kenny. What the hell does he want?”
Chapter Ten – Brock
