by Piper Rayne
“More specifically, the sauce,” I say, glancing down the bar to make sure that no one needs my attention. “It’s pretty popular locally.”
“And it has every right to be. It’s amazing.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Granny’s barbecue sauce is basically the reason that the place is still in business. I was shocked at how run down the place has become in the years since I left. This place used to have a polish and shine that it’s lacking. And while there’s something comforting about a bar that’s been broken in a little, in the bright light of day when there’s no patrons, lights or music, you can see the way it’s falling apart at the seams.
But honestly, there’s nothing I can do about it. Yet. We’re making enough money to survive, but now that I’m here I’ve got plans to refurbish the place and make it glow again. I need a project, and who knows how long I’ll be stuck in this town. And more than that, this bar is my life. My childhood. And now one of the only things I have left.
Besides, my grandmother deserves the rest that she’s finally getting with me taking over. I owe her a lot. More than I could admit than when I was eighteen and all I wanted to do was to get out.
Movement flashes in my eye and I jump back out of reach. The sexy stranger freezes, holding his hands up like a motion of surrender. “I’m not trying to touch you,” he says. “Just wanted to give you my card.”
Putting my hand on my chest, I take a deep breath. The adrenaline is still pumping, heart beating faster than it should be. “Sorry, I say. Must still be jumpy.”
“After that asshole, I don’t blame you,” he says with a lopsided grin. “That was a nice move that you pulled on him.”
“Learned that from the first bouncer I worked with in New York. Served me well.”
I see the flash of interest in his eyes when I mention New York, but he doesn’t comment, instead extending his hand again. This time I’m watching, and there is a business card in his hand.
“Most men just slip their number on a napkin,” I say. “A business card is fancy.”
Then I look at the card, and my stomach plummets through the floor.
* * *
Brandon Wolfe
CEO, Wolf Foods
* * *
I know who he is. Of course I do. Everyone remotely connected to the food world knows who he is. The prodigy chef who’s taking the world by storm with a line of pre-prepared foods and also the guy who’s managed to charm half of Hollywood. His last viral YouTube video was him cooking with Hugh Jackman. Now that his name is in front of me, he looks familiar.
Way, way more gorgeous in person. But that doesn’t really matter anymore. I was right. Men in suits. Always hiding something, and not once has it ever been something good. “What do you want?”
He can sense the change in my tone, and he clears his throat. “A friend told me about the barbecue sauce. Since I was in Phoenix, I decided to come out and try it. It is exactly as good as described, and the hype is well worth it. I want to discuss purchasing the formula from your family for production.”
“Let me get this straight. You met me five minutes ago, then decide to name drop yourself and suggest buying my family’s legacy out from under me? Fuck off. People swooping in and waving their money around isn’t welcome here.”
He looks surprised. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
“Isn’t it though?” I pointedly look at the suit he’s wearing and the expensive watch on his wrist. “You have a lot of balls, I’ll give you that. Get the hell out of my bar.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t fight like Caleb did. Calmly, he reaches for his wallet and leaves money for the food and the beer. He’s still looking at me. No longer in surprise, but with a kind of wariness.
Lifting his bottle towards me, he gives me a nod, and takes it with him. I watch him all the way to the door to make sure that he goes, and then I toss what’s left of his food. And throw myself into scrubbing down the bar until it shines between getting drinks for everyone else.
God, this night has been awful. I can’t wait for it to be over.
2
Brandon
I walk down the street toward Granny’s, pushing down my hope. The morning sun is slowly rising towards noon, but I’ve got all day and I’ll wait if I have to. Someone like Ellie—who cares about the place she runs—isn’t going to wait until an hour before opening to come to the bar. I recognize the same passion in her that I had for my first restaurant.
But man, did I fucking miscalculate.
Maybe I shouldn’t have ambushed her like that on a busy Friday, but I thought we’d had a decent connection, and I hadn’t wanted to let things get too far along before she realized why I was there.
So maybe this would work better. I’d grabbed coffee on the way from my hotel. One for me and one for her. I’m betting on the fact that approaching her in the daytime might be a better strategy. And not right after she was manhandled by that douche of a bar patron or with her attention scattered by the final hours of a Friday rush.
As I turn the corner, I see a car parked in front of the bar. A good sign. Hopefully that’s her, or if it’s not, maybe whoever it is will know where I can find her.
Before I’d even bothered talking to her last night, I’d tried the food. I liked to have an unbiased opinion before meeting owners, and I didn’t like disappointing them if their food didn’t meet the standards that I was looking for.
But to say that this sauce met the hype was an understatement. It was—by far—the best barbecue sauce that I’d ever had. Spicy with the perfect blend of tang and sweetness. As soon as I’d tried it, my mind had gone into overdrive. It would be an instant bestseller. People were already flocking to this little dive bar in the middle of nowhere to eat this stuff. How much more would they eat if they could just pick it up at the store?
And Ellie herself…she was a mystery. Even before that I’d known she was the Ellie Thompson listed as the contact for Granny’s my eyes had been drawn to her. Red hair that looked like flames in the shifting bar lights, perfect skin, and curves that seemed to run on for miles.
She’d cropped a jersey from one of the local sports teams that I didn’t recognize, showing a hint of toned stomach, while also appealing to the men in the bar who loved sports.
It wasn’t an accident—the woman knew what she was doing. She had bar tending experience in New York—one of the most difficult places in the profession—so she knew how to work a crowd for tips.
But even if she hadn’t been catering to her audience, the woman was dead sexy. And when she’d put down a man twice her size? Yeah, that got me interested. Imagine my shock when I asked one of the waitresses where I could find the manager and she pointed to the woman in question.
That was another reason I’d given her my card so soon. I was attracted to her, and I didn’t want things to go too far in that direction before she knew why I was really there. Because if I had let myself flirt longer, I would have tried.
I had to put that aside. Pursuing someone as a business partner as well as anything else was a bad idea. I’d seen it crash and burn before, and I’d never made that mistake. No matter how sexy I find her.
Knocking on the door, I wait and cross my mental fingers that someone answers. Hurried footsteps sound inside, and the door opens to leave me face to face with a very flushed Ellie. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail with flyaways going everywhere, clothes far more casual than last night, and I’m again hit with the crazy attraction to her.
It’s the kind of pull that makes me want to forget the fucking coffee, push her inside and kiss her against the back of the door until we both end up naked.
Get a hold of yourself, Brandon. You’re here on business. Keep your dick out of it.
When she sees me, her face hardens. “What do you want?”
“I just want to talk,” I say, holding up the cups. “And I brought coffee for the trouble.”
Ellie eyes the coffee with narrowed
eyes. I hold out the cup that belongs to her. She takes it from me and holds the door open wider. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” she says as she closes the door behind me. “I haven’t changed my mind in the last twelve hours.”
There’s a mess of boxes all over the floor and across the bar, and the telltale clipboard on a barstool. Inventory. No wonder she looks a little messy. Doing inventory is never fun. Doing it by yourself will make you tear your hair out.
“I can see that you’re busy. I’ll just lay out what I had in mind, and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
She takes a sip of the coffee and sits on one of the barstools. “Fine.” She’s clearly grumpy, and I have to hold back a laugh because her grumpiness is honestly kind of cute. It has the kind of bite that an angry kitten might, though I doubt she’d like the comparison. She’s clearly not a morning person—and to be fair, most bartenders aren’t.
“First, I want to say that I’m sorry that I ambushed you last night. Usually my approach is a little more nuanced.”
“And I’m not worthy of that nuanced approach?”
I chuckle, leaning against the bar next to her. “You definitely are. But I wanted you to know why I was here before things slid too far in a different direction.”
“And what direction would that be?” She’s glaring at me.
I just smirk. “I think we both know exactly what direction I’m talking about.”
“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Our eyes lock together, and tension builds between us. We both know that she’s lying, but she’ll never admit it and I’m not going to call her out on it. Or on the fact that her eyes wander down my body and back up like she can’t help but look.
“I’m interested in purchasing the formula of Granny’s Barbecue Sauce for production under the Wolf Foods label. This doesn’t mean that we’re going to take it from you and never mention this place again. It means that we’ll give you attribution, and Granny’s will receive a lifetime percentage of all sales of the sauce.”
“Okay,” Ellie says, taking another sip of coffee. At the very least, she’s listening.
“And more than that, along with the purchase would come a complete renovation of Granny’s to turn it into the place that is deserving to be ‘The Home of Granny’s Hot Sauce.’”
Ellie places the coffee down beside her, deadly calm. “There’s nothing wrong with my bar.”
“I never said there was, but it’s obvious that this place could use some love and some touching up. Flipping places is one of my specialties. Again, I wouldn’t be looking to change the character of the place. You guys have got a great vibe and a loyal clientele. That’s great. But with a little work, Granny’s can be a hotspot that even more people drive out here for.
“Which in turn, will help the town’s economy.”
Sometimes if the pitch for their own restaurant isn’t working, the appeal for the greater good of the community works. I can’t get a true read on the kind of person Ellie is. Usually I’m good with faces, but she throws me off. And it has nothing to do with the fact that the way she’s sitting is allowing her t-shirt to pull up and show off a glimpse of tempting skin.
Ellie nods slowly. “Definitely something to consider,” she says. “But as I already told you, I’m not interested.”
I thought she might say that. Even if I can’t get a read on her, I know that she’s stubborn. “That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to be.”
Wariness enters her gaze. “What are you talking about?”
“This is a courtesy visit to lay out the plan. I would have liked to get you on board, but I don’t have to. I’m careful before I make these kinds of proposals, Ellie, and I do my research. I know that you aren’t the owner of this bar. And because of that, you have to take this offer to the actual owner, your grandmother. Dorothy, isn’t it?”
Granny’s has been under Dorothy Thompson’s name for more than thirty years. I was impressed when I found the records. Some bars don’t last thirty years at all, let along under the same ownership and management. It spoke of good products and good business sense, another reason I wanted to investigate. If Ellie is anything like her grandmother, then she’s a true force to be reckoned with.
But right now she’s looking at me with horror, because I’m right. I’ve officially made an offer, and legally she has to present it to her grandmother. Sliding off her stool, she steps close to me.
“I’ll tell her,” she says. “I hope she tells you to go to hell. That way I’ll never have to see you again.”
There're only inches between us, and that air is filled with tension and weight. It would be so easy to reach out and touch her, and god I want to.
Ellie’s looking up and me, and I can’t decipher the look in her eyes. There’s hate and anger there, but it’s not all that’s there. I can’t keep the smile off my face. “Doesn’t matter, I plan on sticking around for a while. You’ll definitely see me again.”
I don’t miss the little catch of breath and the way she sways towards me a fraction of an inch before shoving herself away. Just like last night, I lift my drink to her, and take my leave. Just before I reach the door I glance back—she’s watching me go.
Ellie looks flustered, and as I let the door slip shut behind me, I wish that I could say that she was the only one. If I give her half a chance, Ellie Thompson is going to get under my skin.
3
Ellie
I can’t believe he came back after I threw him out. But I’m more stunned by how fucking good he looked not in a suit. The t-shirt he was wearing hugged his arms and stretched lightly across his chest, showing off a body that screamed all kinds of things about hard work and sweat.
I bet he could knead the hell out of some bread dough, and there’s a part of me that would pay good money to watch him do just that.
His jeans too. They fit so well that it was hard not to stare, especially when he was leaving. His vibe was so entirely different from when he was dressed up; it was hard to reconcile the fact in my mind.
But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Brandon Wolfe is still a corporate man, and they are all about the money. Snakes in suits, even if they weren’t wearing them. Corporate men can’t be trusted. Ever. Not after New York.
Not after a man just like him—a man in a suit with gorgeous eyes and a dreamy smile—set my life on fire and then sat back and watched it burn.
That’s not a game that I’ll ever play again. Granny’s is fine the way it is. We’re surviving, people are happy, and I have a plan to make things better. There’s no reason to change course on something that’s already working. We don’t need Brandon Wolfe to sweep in and tell us everything that we’re doing wrong.
I’ve already had plenty of commentary on my choices, and I’m done with that now.
Putting that aside in my mind, I dive back into the inventory. It needs to get done before the bar opens, and right now everything is a mess. It’s easily been months…maybe even over a year since anyone’s done one, and it’s driving me up a wall. Hard to run a bar/restaurant if you don’t know what you have on hand.
But I’m only doing the bar side today. The kitchen will probably take longer and there’s no way I can get both done before we open. Though I love our employees, I want to do this by myself. They’re trustworthy, but part of inventory is looking at what the data gives you and evaluating if changes in behavior need to be made. Is the cook using too much of one ingredient per serving? Is the bar giving away too many maraschino cherries?
Not exactly exciting. But at least I have coffee now.
I roll my eyes. I’d been running late to start this morning, so I hadn’t stopped for any coffee and regretted it. But I was annoyed that it was Brandon that had saved me from a day suffering with caffeine. I didn’t want to be grateful to him at all.
He said he’d be sticking around and that I’d definitely see him again. Why did the way he’d promised that sent a tiny thrill through my
gut? Why did I keep looking towards the door, wondering if I’d see his silhouette again?
I needed to get it together. He was bad news—here to take everything out from under me again. I shouldn’t be attracted to him.
My body, apparently, disagreed.
Forcing myself to focus on the numbers and stock in front of me and not on the lingering thoughts of what Brandon might look like without the t-shirt, I finished the inventory and put everything away.
Time to go get this shit show over with, I guess. The sooner I tell my grandmother about Brandon’s offer and she shoots it down, the sooner I can move on.
I can’t wait to see what she says. Dorothy Thompson is a spitfire woman, and exactly who you’d picture if you mentioned a grandmother that owns a bar. She’s thin and wiry but sharper than a spear and will skewer someone with her words as soon as she’ll offer them cookies.
She’s getting older, and just can’t handle the hours and stress it takes to run this kind of business, which is why she asked me to come back in the first place.
The timing of it amazed me. I was standing there watching my life go up like a New Year’s bonfire and suddenly Grandma was asking if I’d ever thought about moving back to Arizona. She didn’t know what happened—there’s no way that she could have, and she hasn’t said anything or asked why I said yes.
But I still wonder about the timing. It was…too perfect.
Then again, Grandma has always been that way. She knows things in that way that grandmothers do, just instinctively protecting you when you need it the most. I know that a few of the bar’s long-term clients joke about her being psychic. But this is the first time that I actually wondered if it could be true.
She’s never judged me for all the shit I gave her when I was a kid, and she’s been nothing but kind and grateful to me since I came back. I don’t deserve her.
Plus, she’s pretty much my only friend right now since no one from New York has reached out to me since I left. On the one hand, I understand why. But on the other, the fact that the people I thought were my friends dropped me so completely that they won’t even send me a text to make sure I’m okay…
