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Renting that room requires a minimum charge and several set menu options, which has helped my bottom line, too. One of my new offerings that goes with that rental is a seven-course meal with all the fixings, and as of today, it’s been booked for next eight months straight.
Landon was right that I could do more with the restaurant and that I should be charging more.
But more than that, agreeing to accept him as a partner has been a genius move. His money helped keep the restaurant afloat and provide the capital to make the renovations. He designed the new ads using his exquisite sense of style and artistry. It’s the type of campaign that looks like those run by James Beard award winners and Michelin Star chefs. He’s now managing the business side while I run the restaurant—exactly what I’d always wanted to do.
I’ve received mercy upon mercy.
More of Landon’s prints decorate The Blue Heron. In fact, no one can throw a fork without hitting some piece of wall space covered with his photography. A recent show at the Creative Gallery had his prints selling for top dollar, and I’m so proud of him that I could burst.
It’s exceedingly nice to have a boyfriend with the whole package. Looks. Brains. Talent, both in and out of the bedroom. What more could I ask for?
That’s why I’m looking so forward to bringing him the envelope tucked into my pocket.
Life is good for all of us.
When I enter Landon’s home, it’s to find all his camera and various photography equipment removed from the living room where it’s normally strung everywhere. That’s weird.
“Landon?” I call out.
“In here…”
I follow the sound of his voice to his backyard which has been lit up with numerous strings of patio lights. May in Oak Valley is a sight to behold. Even with the gathering darkness, I spot the buttercups and wildflowers along the flowerbeds built along the sides of his lawn. These sprouted from the seeds we planted together in February when we decided to take up gardening as a hobby.
Then, I catch it. A whiff of… are those hotdogs?
“I know, I know,” he says, his expression somewhat sheepish. “It can’t possibly compete with your culinary genius, but I thought it’d be good for you to have a break from cooking.”
The funny thing about Landon is he loves to mess around in the kitchen, and by mess around, I don’t mean sex—though we’d definitely done it on that tile floor—I mean prepare meals. They tend to be on the simple side, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not tasty.
Based on the groceries laid off to one side, he’s purchased some all-beef franks along with every sort of relish and condiment available to humankind. I also see potato salad, set upon his outdoor plates atop a leaf of butter lettuce.
“Ooh, garnishing our supper, I see,” I remark, coming up to tickle his ribs. He seizes my hand and tickles me instead, one of our favorite challenges.
“Can’t be around you and not pick up a thing or two.”
“Are you stating that you’re under my influence?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Go sit down.”
I park myself on his cushiony patio furniture, sighing dreamily. Despite my restaurant thriving beyond my wildest imagination and making money hand over fist, my personal workload has actually decreased. I’ve hired more people to work in the kitchen and more wait staff, too. Landon hired a bookkeeper and an accountant so all the financial responsibilities are off my plate. I work with the marketing firm we hired along side Landon.
But most of my time is spent mentoring my kitchen staff and operate as executive chef. All the menu items are my creation. I cook every week testing new ideas for the next seasonal menu that will debut. I feel like I’m living my dream.
And now I have more free time than I ever would’ve thought I’d have. My stress levels have decreased exponentially.
It’s truly remarkable to live this way, and it’s all due to Landon convincing me to delegate more, to loosen up on the reins.
He brings me a plate along with an excellent Chablis, and after thanking him, I dig in, starving.
“The char from the grill is perfectly done,” I compliment him. “It’s yummy.”
“You’reyummy,” he responds, waggling his eyebrows, and I roll my eyes. The man seems to find it impossible not to flirt with me. Not that I mind. Still, it’s part of our dynamic for me to put up a fake front, so I comply.
“What? You plan to bend me over this glass table for all your neighbors to watch?”
“Ooh, there’s an idea.” He reaches out and tweaks my breast through my top, and I smack at him.
It’s lovely to be desired, even if I always provide a mock protest.
