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Mrs. S nodded agreement.
The heat scorching Brock’s face now flooded through his entire body. But he couldn’t argue that he’d fucked up pricing the daily special. He’d never heard of the magic percentages she was quoting, but they made instant sense to him.
How did I not figure that out for myself? And why the hell did I listen to Kenny when he told me what my customers would be willing to pay?
Neither the late Mr. S nor Mrs. S had said much to him after they reviewed the diner’s accounts last month, but Brock had seen the concerned glances they traded.
But he wasn’t sure how he could work any harder. He was already pouring his entire fucking life into this place, and it was still bleeding red.
He wondered why Mrs. S was humiliating him like this in front of her granddaughter. Was she trying to pressure him into selling the place and buying her out? Was she regretting her investment in Brock’s dream?
Mrs. S didn’t seem like the sadistic type. But what other explanation was there for this public takedown of the diner he’d dedicated the past year of his life to?
“Next, I’d recommend setting up an integrated point-of-sale system to help with this place’s inventory management problems,” Summer said, ticking off points on her fingers. Like it or not, he was going to hear the entire list.Great. “If you did that, I can guarantee that The Yummy Cowboy Diner would never be embarrassed by running out of staple menu items again.”
He concentrated on breathing, pushing down his anger—and his urge to defend himself—with a supreme force of will.
She continued, “Plus, a good POS would streamline operations. For one thing, all orders entered into the system automatically print out as tickets for the kitchen. Terri and the other servers wouldn’t have to keep running between the front and back of the house. Plus, the POS we use at SummerTime in S.F. also ties into our food inventory management by automatically placing orders with our restaurant’s suppliers as soon as stock begins to run low on anything.”
We?he wondered.Who the hell is “we”? I thought Summer owned her restaurant.
“—not to mention handling reservations, card transactions, and tying into our electronic bookkeeping sys—”
“That all sounds great for a big-city restaurant,” Brock interrupted her. The ache in his jaw was beginning to spread through his neck, and the effort of choking back his temper was giving him a pounding headache worthy of a killer hangover. “But that kind of fancy system sounds like way more than I need.”Or can afford,he added with silent bitterness. Unlikesomepeople, he wasn’t made of money. “Besides, this diner has always used a paper ticket system, and that’s worked just fine for the past fifty years.”
Summer sighed loudly and made a point of looking around the crowded dining room. “Things arenotworking ‘just fine’ when your customers are waiting this long for their food during lunch rush,andyou don’t actually have enough inventory to cook the items on your menu. And I haven’t even set foot in your kitchen to inspect it. Who knows what issues I might uncover there?” Her pink lips curved in a saccharine smile.
“Inspect?Mykitchen?” he snarled. “Over my dead body, Summer.”
“Why? What are you trying to hide?” she shot back. “Are we talking mice? Roaches? Hood vents clogged with grease? Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”
“Why,you—” he began.
How dare she!He cleaned his damned kitchen from top to bottom after closing every day.
Then Mrs. S raised her hand and the not-so-sweet old lady dropped the bombshell she’d no doubt been planning since she got a look at his diner’s books.
“Then it’s settled. Summer and Brock, you’re going to work together to turn this place around before the LVR begins operations here next May. I want The Yummy Cowboy Diner to become the best restaurant in the area, better even than any of the places in Ennis or Livingston.”
“What?” The word tore loose simultaneously from Brock and Summer’s throats.
A sudden silence descended over the dining room. Everyone was staring at them—Terri, the regulars seated at the counter, all of the locals at the tables and in the booths.
“No way,” Summer protested. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Brock fervently hoped so.
Chapter Four – Brock
Brock couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
He’d grown up in this diner, spending every day after school and on weekends helping in the kitchen while his mama ran the front of the house, trying to make ends meet after his jerk of a dad walked out and never paid a cent of child support.
Brock had sworn that if he ever had a family of his own, he’d make damned sure to provide for them in the way his dad never provided for him and Mama.
“No way,” he told Mrs. S. Keeping his tone polite took every ounce of will he possessed.
Summer crossed her arms and scowled. She wasn’t any happier about her grandmother’s plan than he was.
