An hour later, we’ve finally slowed down enough that I can take a breath. I love being busy. Not only because it means we’re making money, but because it’s just in my DNA. Keep moving, make the burgers. It’s what I do. If I’m not here—that’s not very often—I’m running the trails out at Grove Park or I’m racing up the 102 in my Mercedes. She doesn’t like to sit still either. My two-year-old SLC 300 Roadster loves to stretch her legs as often as I’ll let her.
I make four fresh hamburger patties and doctor them up to each of their preferences. I throw piping hot fries on their plates, load them on a tray, and head for the door. “I’ll be in the bar if you need me, Petra,” I say to my assistant, who’ll take care of any orders that come in while I’m in my weekly Monday afternoon owners’ meeting.
When she waves her understanding, I push through the swinging doors and head for the bar. The guys are already there, laughing at something Walker is saying. “Lunch is served,” I announce as I approach the table.
Jameson jumps up quickly and starts helping me hand out the plates. “My mouth’s been watering ever since I saw today’s special on the sign,” he says, handing off meals to our friends. When the food has been distributed, I set the tray on the empty table behind us and take my seat.
“Before we start, I need to use someone’s garage or spare room for a decent-sized box,” Walker says, shoveling fries in his mouth.
“What’s in it?” Jameson asks before taking a bite of his burger.
“A recliner.”
That causes us all to stop and look his way. “A recliner?” I ask.
“Yeah, one for little kids. A few months back, we saw them at the furniture store down the block. Lou fell in love with it, and all I’ve been able to think about since is getting her one,” Walker replies, referring to Mallory’s daughter, Lizzie. He started calling her Lou not too long after he met her for the first time, short for Lizzie Lou.
“You can use mine,” I tell him, taking a bite of a fry. “I have plenty of room in the garage or spare room.”
“Thanks. I’m picking it up when I leave here, so I’ll run it over before I head home,” he confirms.
“You know the code,” I state, even though I don’t need to. All three of them know the security code to my house, like I have keys and know the codes to theirs. There’s no one I trust more in this world than the men sitting around this table right now.
“While we’re eating, and before we jump into an update on the brewery, I found out who purchased the small empty building across the street. It’s going to be a bakery,” Isaac informs us.
“A bakery?” I ask, my interest piqued, taking a few fries and popping them in my mouth.
“Yeah. The paperwork filed with the city was completed three months ago by a Lyndee Gibson,” Isaac says casually.
I choke on my fries.
Flashbacks explode in my mind.
Air is sucked completely from the room.
A fiery little pixie with dark hair, brown eyes the color of milk chocolate, and an attitude bigger than the Grand Canyon. She was my favorite sparring partner in culinary school, and if I’m being honest, my biggest competition. There was something about her that got under my skin from the very beginning. Day one, when she walked in, gave me a little smile, and proclaimed herself as the best in the class.
I’ll admit, she was damn good. Lyndee Gibson kept me on my toes during the day and wide awake at night. While she was this little spitfire with dark flames burning in her eyes, that spunk also seemed to fuel a certain fire deep inside of me. Specifically, down in my balls.
“You all right?” Walker asks, reaching over and slapping me on the back as I choke on my fries.
“Fine,” I gasp, reaching for the glass of water sitting in front of me. After a few sips, I feel the burn in my throat subside. “Went down the wrong pipe.”
“Do you know her?” Isaac asks, his all-knowing eyes locked on mine.
“What?”
Jameson starts to laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes. He’s avoiding like a mother.”
I huff out an exasperated breath. “Whatever.”
“No, he’s right. Something’s up. What is it? Did you sleep with her?” Walker asks, a look of pure amusement on his face.
“No,” I growl, grabbing my burger and taking a big bite, hoping it will help change the subject.
“No, you didn’t, but you wanted to?” Jameson asks with a laugh.
“Shut up.”
He barks out a big boisterous laugh. “That’s a yes.”
I can’t dispute it, because he’s absolutely right. Back in school, she was this sexy little thing in black leggings and lasers shooting from her eyes. There was something about getting her all worked up that turned me the hell on. It became our thing. I used to push every single one of her buttons, just to watch her detonate.
It’s how I got through school unscathed.
“Well, we should anticipate the opening of her bakery within the next few weeks. I don’t foresee it having any impact on business here,” Isaac states. “Do any of you?”
Both Jameson and Walker shake their heads, but I know better. I learned the hard way not to underestimate Lyndee. I did that exactly one time during a particular sautéing project that first year and ended up with a failing grade and a burnt piece of whitefish.
I decide to keep my mouth shut until I have an opportunity to find out what’s going on. If Lyndee is opening a bakery directly across the street from my restaurant, it’s for a reason. She’s probably trying to capitalize on our success, using our name and product to worm her way into our customer base with a friendly smile and the prospect of a sugar rush.
I may not have seen Lyndee in a decade, but I know this isn’t a coincidence.
Can’t be.
Nothing is ever coincidental where Miss Gibson is concerned.
“If there’s nothing else then, let’s talk about the brewery,” Isaac says, pulling us away from the new business across the street and right into our sister company being constructed next door.
It’s a pleasant change of topic, one I enjoy hearing about. Jameson and Isaac are working their asses off on our new brewery, everything from logos and brew names to potential distribution options after we’re finally producing our own beer. I love hearing their excitement, feeling their energy with each detail they share.
“We’re starting with four recipes we’ll serve in-house. The plan is to incorporate seasonal brews starting next summer. A summer ale and something for fall. I’ve been testing at home and think I almost have a good recipe down,” Jameson informs us.
“I think that’s it for today,” Isaac finally says, after we’ve gone over questions and concerns.
“Leave the plates, and I’ll take them back to the kitchen,” I tell my friends, watching as they place their empty dishes on the tray.
Isaac and Jameson take off for the office upstairs, while Walker practically runs to the bar when he sees Mallory over there placing a drink order. I grab the tray to haul it back to the kitchen, but my legs carry me in the opposite direction. Instead of heading to my domain, I find myself lingering at the front windows of the bar, where I have an unobstructed view of the building across the street. It has white paper across the windows, which is why we weren’t sure what was going in, but because of its small size, we knew there was a limited number of options.