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“This isn’t a fucking democracy!” Brock yelled. “Marlene doesn’t get a vote! And for Pete’s sake, don’t burn the fucking bacon again!”
Marlene gave him a reproving look, but turned back to the flattop without comment.
“But as your business partner,Iget a vote!” Summer finally lost her cool. “And do you always have to instantly vetoeverythingI suggest? Can’t you at least stop and think about it for a moment before you say no?”
“I do not veto everything you suggest!”
“Oh yeah?” Summer put her hands on her hips. “Name one thing that you agreed to without arguing about it first!”
“I—uh.” Brock began to mention the bound menus, then remembered he’d pooh-poohed her critique before thinking it over and changing his mind. “Fuck.”
She’d always driven him crazy. And he’d always reacted in exactly the wrong way.
“Mm-hm.” Summer nodded. “I want us to kick butt tomorrow! Dinner service has to be flawless, and the only way that’s going to happen is if we all have time to properly prepare!”
Day Two of their partnership and they were already fighting in front of Marlene and Austin. Everyone in town would know about it by dinnertime.
Just fucking awesome,he thought. Between her attitude and his aching cock, the next three months were going to be hell.
He looked at her flushed cheeks and the angry sparks flying from her eyes, drew breath to argue… and suddenly pictured her draped over his lap as he spanked her bare, deliciously round ass.
Holy shit!His cock instantly came to attention. And he abruptly lost his train of thought.
“She’s got a point, young man,” Marlene said, booting him back to reality. “I need to practice those dishes. And Summer’s right—there’s gonna be an awful lot of prep.”
Desperate to conceal his sudden case of uncontrollable hard-on, he turned away from the two women. He reached blindly for his insulated bottle of ice water, hoping to quench the heat.
“Fine,” he muttered, hoping desperately that the apron tied over his jeans hid the bulge at his crotch. “No breakfast, no lunch on Friday. Dammit. But it’s your job to write up a sign, hang it on the door, and deal with the complaints.”
He hated handing Summer a win, but she was right. It made sense to focus all their attention on dinner prep tomorrow. And if his regulars realized that the lack of lunch service tomorrow was her fault, win-win.
“Not a problem,” she said with annoying cheerfulness. “With that settled, I’m going to walk over to Jenna’s Java & Bakery in a bit and see about ordering desserts for tomorrow. Should I ask if her barista if they’re willing to work for us tomorrow night, making the espresso drinks?”
Brock groaned. Summer was apparently unwilling to settle for an inch when she could grab the entire fucking mile.Or my balls.
Though not in the way he kept fantasizing about.
But if tomorrow evening went the way they hoped and prayed it would, then Terri and Katie would be too busy to make cappuccinos while he, Summer, and Marlene worked flat-out in the kitchen. “Fine,” he growled.
“And you’re okay with the dinner menu?” she asked, transferring the diced tomatoes from the cutting board to a bowl. She grabbed the bunch of fresh basil, harvested this morning at oh-dark-thirty from Brock’s vegetable garden, rolled it, and began to chiffonade the flat leaves into thin strips. “We’re done tinkering with it?”
“I am if you are,” he said. He had to admit that the new menu looked damned good.
After a heated debate during breakfast prep this morning, they had finally agreed on a selection of two appetizers: a classic hot spinach and artichoke dip, served with tortilla chips; and Italian bruschetta, made from toasted slices of baguette from Jenna’s Java & Bakery, topped with a mixture of fresh diced heirloom tomatoes and basil tossed with minced garlic, vinegar, and olive oil.
The new menu also offered a choice of three salads: a standard garden salad with a choice of dressings; his Caesar salad with house-made dressing; and Summer’s brand-new and very fancy YC salad.
The YC salad comprised baby spinach tossed with a custom Dijon mustard and peach jam vinaigrette, and topped with toasted walnuts and crumbled goat cheese from the Ornelas Organic Dairy in Bearpaw Ridge, Idaho.
“Great! And no matter which entrée wins tomorrow, I think you’re going to be happy with the profit margins,” Summer pointed out. “The bruschetta, especially, costs almost nothing to make, but it’s fresh, delicious, and seasonal. I’m really glad your tomatoes ripened early.”
Brock shrugged, pleased despite himself that he’d been the one to provide an entire basket of vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes he’d grown himself, plus a dozen bunches of Genovese basil, which always grew like a weed as soon as the weather turned warm. “I’ve got a small greenhouse in my back yard. It helps my plants get a head start.”
Her anger apparently forgotten, she looked up and gave him a smile that made his breath catch. “May the best entrée win tomorrow.”
Brock nodded and immediately felt better. For his entrées, he’d selected the diner’s two best-selling lunch items, the buttermilk fried chicken and the bison meatloaf with onion gravy, as his contest entrées. They were both damned tasty, and his customers loved them.
On Summer’s advice, he’d costed out the old portion sizes and reduced them by half. The new portions still made a satisfying meal but reduced his food costs to about nineteen percent.
