by Mara Wells
“We appreciate your help.” Caleb handed Lance a few tote bags, not answering. Which was its own kind of answer and pretty much what Lance had been thinking, too.
“I am in the business of backbreaking labor and sweat.” Lance added a few more bags to his other shoulder, letting Caleb change the subject because really, what could they do? It wasn’t like Knox would listen to his little brothers. No, all they could do was help keep him busy, designing security for the new and improved Dorothy, while Knox sorted out things for himself. It was the Donovan way: bury yourself in work. Hey, it’d gotten Lance through his divorce, hadn’t it?
“I meant we appreciate you staying with LouLou while we’re away.” Caleb held the door while Lance rolled a few bags through. “It’s a big relief to Riley.”
“No problem. I’m sure LouLou and Beckham will get along great.” Lance pointed out Mendo and Beckham across the way. Mendo waved at him from a bare patch of front lawn where Beckham inspected every grain of sand with devoted interest. Apparently, Mendo and Beckham were done playing bellboy. Who could blame them?
“What?” Caleb dropped a bag in his surprise. “You got your dog back?”
“Not exactly.” On the next few trips to and from the van, Lance filled in his brothers, ending with a “So congrats. You’re both uncles.”
Caleb stopped in his tracks. “Are you being serious right now?”
Lance nodded, hiding his unease with a smirk. What did Caleb think of him, that he’d had a son all this time and didn’t even know about it?
“Congratulations?” Knox didn’t look like he knew how to react. His face scrunched into an uncomfortable-looking smile. “Are you happy?”
Lance loaded up on more bags and trudged to the van, thinking. Was he happy? Truly, honestly, deeply? How did he really feel about having a son with Carrie?
“Am I happy?” He took a bag from Caleb, wedged it into the van, and turned so his brothers could see the grin taking over his entire face. “Hell, yeah.”
Chapter 6
Lance stretched his arms over the back of the bone-shaped bench, tilting his gaze toward the cloudless sky. A faint breeze from the ocean, maybe half a mile away, stirred the humid air. Really, this dog-sitting gig was going to be a pleasure, a reason to take a break and get away from the job site for a while and get his thoughts in order. After the van finally made its way to the port, Lance had greeted the crew as they arrived. Now, Mendo had things well in hand at the Dorothy, doling out jobs to the crew and going over the week’s schedule, and Lance had time to take the dogs for their first get-to-know-you outing.
As he’d suspected, LouLou and Beckham hit it off immediately, perhaps because of their shared love of running. Figure eights, laps, a few breaks to jump on his leg, then back to their game of chase. He had no doubt that both dogs would sleep well later in the day. Maybe he could convince Carrie to bring Beckham in the mornings for a good run with LouLou. Anything for the good of the dogs, right?
The mere thought of Carrie had him smiling. He knew he should be angry at her for keeping him from his son, but he’d been working through it in his mind. How many times had he said he didn’t want children? Anytime a baby cried in a restaurant, he’d told her how happy he was that they’d never have that problem. In his early and midtwenties, he couldn’t imagine children as anything but a burden. That was how his mom and dad had treated him growing up—a nuisance who had to be fed, clothed, and tamed into exhibiting proper Donovan behavior. How he’d rebelled against their ideas of what he should be! He’d vowed at an early age that he’d never be a father, and Carrie’d always agreed with him. Her own parents’ divorce and various struggles with addiction had left their scars on her.
But now everything was different. It wasn’t his choice anymore. He tried to imagine how Carrie must’ve felt when she realized she was pregnant. She’d had a choice at that point, too, and she’d chosen to keep it. If she was strong enough to accept a child after everything her parents had put her through, how could he do less?
Beckham jumped onto the bench next to him, tongue hanging out in obvious joy. LouLou hopped up on his other side.
“Is this the signal to go?” He petted each with one hand and stood. They raced to the gate and waited for him to hook them up. A time check assured him he had plenty of time to get Beckham to Carrie’s mom by Sherry’s one o’clock deadline. They settled LouLou at her place, and he fed them both a biscuit from the bag of treats he was pretty sure weighed more than LouLou herself. He refilled her bowl with fresh water.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Lance scratched LouLou under the chin. “You’re getting a new roommate for the week.”
She licked his hand and looked at him with her big, brown eyes. Oh, the guilt. He gave her another treat, which made Beckham jealous, so he got another biscuit, too.
“You two are double trouble, aren’t you?” He clipped Beckham’s leash on. “Time to get you back home, buddy.”
LouLou flopped onto her belly and whimpered.
“You’ll see each other again. I promise.”
LouLou’s tail thumped on the floor as if she understood. Beckham strained at the leash. When Lance opened the door, LouLou made a break for it. He lunged for her, dropping his hold on Beckham’s leash in the process. LouLou ran to the elevator, Beckham right behind her.
“Seriously?” Lance scooped them both up and marched back to Riley and Caleb’s apartment. “What have I gotten myself into?”
* * *
Carrie stood outside the front door of Volga, Dimitri Orlov’s first restaurant and the one he’d decided was best for their first face-to-face meeting. She’d checked her lipstick before leaving her car, and she knew her slicked-back hair and simple pearl necklace created the professional yet feminine persona that described her design style. She wore her good-luck outfit—an olive-colored sheath dress with three-quarter sleeves and white piping at the boat neckline and waist. The hem hit precisely above her kneecap, thanks to her mom’s bit of altering. It was her favorite dress, especially when paired with her embroidered pumps.
She tucked her burgundy purse into her side and readjusted the strap on her portfolio bag. She was ready for this meeting, and standing outside until the early November heat made her sweat was not going to make things go any smoother. No, she needed to push thoughts of Lance out of her mind and concentrate on the project at hand: a three-restaurant makeover that would pay the bills for the next year.
She placed a hand on the brass handle and pulled. It wobbled in her hand, and even though she was definitely not thinking about Lance, she did wonder what he’d say about the craftsmanship. At twelve years old, Volga was a well-established Miami Beach eatery but wasn’t so old that the place should be falling apart. If she were lucky enough to land this job, she’d be sure to get only the best craftsmen so the owner wouldn’t have to worry about constant maintenance. Someone like Lance. Not Lance, of course. They didn’t work together anymore, not since the divorce. Though someone like him—with his eye for detail, stubborn adherence to schedules, and streak of perfectionism—would be perfect.
Carrie stepped into a cavernous room with an exposed ceiling and cement floor. It didn’t surprise her. Of course, she’d done her homework, visiting all three restaurants several times each on different days and during different shifts. She’d wanted to get an idea of how the space was used, what the staff and guests most needed, and how she could take what Orlov had built and make it even more remarkable.
Truth be told, she wasn’t all that impressed with the restaurant’s original industrial motif. The style was a perennial favorite of restaurant designers dealing with nervous new owners on tight budgets. Copper wiring, light fixtures made from hardware-store parts, reclaimed wood flooring, and steel, steel, steel everywhere. Volga and her sister restaurants all sported the same clean lines, and when no one was around, they were quite lovely. Add in a few g
uests, some staff, and a playlist, and the decibel level rose to unendurable heights.
On her first visit to Volga on a Friday evening, Carrie had observed how close the waitstaff had to get to guests to hear their orders, counted how many times during a dozen orders the guests had to repeat themselves, and recorded the decibel level with an app on her phone. It was a testament to the quality of the food that people returned to the restaurant. Carrie was sure it wasn’t for the ambiance. It was her personal mission whenever she took on a restaurant to expertly ride the line between bustling and off-putting.
She patted her portfolio bag, loaded with bustling ambiance—soft furnishings and luxury finishes, one-of-a-kind art from a local up-and-coming artist she’d discovered at a street fair, even suggestions for upscaling the waitstaff uniforms from T-shirts to a stretchy poplin that would be as comfortable as knit but would look so much better, especially when coordinated with her river-blue theme. Oh yes, she was ready for this meeting.
“How many in your party?” A tall hostess towered over her in platforms with a bored look that said I’d rather be modeling. Sadly, not everyone who came to South Florida for the fashion industry made it, and a lot of them ended up in service and tourism. Of course, every one of them Carrie’d ever talked to was sure their current less-than-minimum-wage job plus tips was temporary. For the sake of future Volga customers, Carrie hoped Platforms-with-an-Attitude got her big break soon.
“Actually, I’m meeting Mr. Orlov?” Carrie hated the way her voice canted up at the end and that she’d started her sentence with the word actually. She’d been working on sounding more authoritative. She’d read an article that said women made less money because they used qualifying language, like actually, and questioning inflection to soften the blow of their demands. But it wasn’t a demand to say why she was at Volga. She’d been invited. Carrie took a deep breath and tried again. “Mr. Orlov is expecting me.”
Platforms-with-an-Attitude yawned and left the safety of the hostess station to walk languidly toward the back of the restaurant. Though she hadn’t indicated in any way that Carrie should come, Carrie followed her winding path through a mixture of high-top tables and booths made of reclaimed wood.
“Ms. Burns?” Dimitri Orlov slid out from a booth tucked in the back corner of the restaurant and stood. He enveloped one of Carrie’s hands in both of his. “How lovely to finally meet in person.”
“Thank you, Mr. Orlov. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Carrie wasn’t sure what to do with her hand, trapped as it was in his grip. It definitely wasn’t a handshake. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Bills paid for a year, she reminded herself. Weeks of research and prep. She smiled and returned his rather frank appraisal of her person.
Dimitri Orlov was a few inches taller and a few decades older than she was. His hair was a peppery gray that came to sharp points at his temples and the center of his forehead. He was dressed expensively—bespoke if she wasn’t mistaken, and the extreme fit of the coat told her she wasn’t. A single, chunky gold ring adorned the middle finger of his right hand. The overhead lighting picked up a subtle stripe in the suiting material.
He let her fingers go with a smile and gestured her toward the booth. “A woman as beautiful as you must call me Dimitri.”
“Then please, call me Carrie.” She slid into place, setting her purse against the wall so her portfolio was close at hand.
“Tell me, what do you think of my restaurant? You’ve been here before?” His eyes were a silvery blue that reminded her of a shark’s skin.
She kept her smile professional. “Of course. I’ve been to all your restaurants. As a guest for many years and, more recently, to get a feel for how things are now.”
“And how are things now?”
Ah, the tricky part. Clients wanted something new and exciting. They wanted imagination and creativity. Most importantly, they wanted what they already had except completely different. No one likes to hear their home or place of business is outdated, out of fashion, or just plain ugly. Luckily, it was easy to compliment Dimitri’s restaurants.
Carrie started by naming her favorite dish. “Your dessert menu is to die for. The cherry vareniki? I could eat a pound of those little dumplings. I never leave Volga without a light dusting of powdered sugar all over whatever I’m wearing.”
Dimitri raised an arm and snapped his fingers. A waiter appeared in seconds, a glass of water for each of them in his hand.
“Get this woman some vareniki, okay?”
“Right away, Mr. Orlov.” He set down the waters and hurried away.
“You didn’t have to—”
He chopped off the end of her sentence with a slash of his hand through the air. “Nonsense. You come to my restaurant. You should have your favorite. Would you like to order anything else before we get down to business?”
Carrie was more than ready for the getting-down-to-business part. She took a sip of her ice water. “The vareniki are enough for me.”
“Good.” He folded his hands in front of him and speared her with his sharkskin gaze. “Now that the niceties are over, tell me what you really think of my restaurants.”
Carrie sucked in a gasp of air so quickly an ice cube lodged in her throat. She coughed lightly into her hand until it moved on down her throat. She took a deep breath and an even bigger risk. She told him the truth.
“I don’t see anything of you in your restaurants.” She kept her eyes on his face, gauging his reaction. Like a shark, he remained unemotional. No twitch of a muscle gave him away. “They look to me like something I might’ve done in one of my early design classes for an assignment, a sort of generic restaurant footprint, if you will. Industrial is a favorite style for new restaurants because it’s inexpensive.” It was risky, essentially calling him miserly, but it was part of her setup.
Now for the hard sell. She leaned forward, hands clasped earnestly in front of her. “Dimitri, I don’t think your restaurants are cheap. I don’t think you’re cheap. Therefore, there’s a mismatch between the design and the dream. Your dream.”
“What do you know of my dream?” Dimitri’s question was as unemotional as his face.
“You named your restaurants after beautiful rivers that flow through Russia, rivers that have supported villages, providing food, jobs, and transportation. They have flooded and receded, but they are always there for the people to rely on.” She paused, gathering her next phrases. No “I think” or “I believe.” She needed to bring it home in a big way. “The dream is for your restaurants to be like those Russian rivers—winding through people’s everyday lives, connecting communities, and ultimately, bringing people together.”
Dimitri’s shark eyes gleamed. He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, that is the dream.”
Carrie smiled and pulled out her portfolio. “Good, let me show it to you.”
Chapter 7
The Coffee Pot Spot was crowded in spite of its evident fire-hazard layout, but that was mostly to do with the location. There were coffee places aplenty in South and North Beach, but the in-between neighborhoods had been underserved for years. Any food or beverage business would do well in this location. It was a shame, really, how much more the place could be with a tad more thoughtful design. Carrie sighed. Such was her burden in life. To always see possibilities but not always be able to act on them.
The same gangly waiter as on her last visit walked up to her small table, but he clearly didn’t recognize her. He must see a dozen first dates per shift. He was still friendly, introducing himself as Derek and asking her what she wanted. She ordered a hot tea.
“Aren’t we celebrating?” Lance strolled up to the table, his lean form sliding easily between the overstuffed backpacks and totes that crowded the aisle. His T-shirt was different from this morning, a white cotton blend with the Excalibur Construction logo over the left breast. She felt a surge of pride. She’d helped him name and bran
d his company, and he was still using her ideas. Starting over would have undone years of success, so it wasn’t any kind of nostalgia on his part, she knew. Still, it felt good knowing she’d created something that had served him well all these years.
“Celebrating what?” She checked that her portfolio bag was still tucked between her feet, signed contracts neatly filed between her drawings.
“You got the new client, right?” He held his hand up for a high five.
She left him hanging for a long moment, then smiled. “I did.”
He renewed the high five. “Fantastic! You were always good at reeling in new business.”
She smiled at his enthusiasm but still left his high-five hand all alone up in the air. “Yes, Oliver and I will be living large now. Bills paid on time. Food in the refrigerator. It’s all Candy Land from here on out.”
Lance’s high-five hand swiped at the back of his neck. “Has it been a struggle then? You know you could’ve asked me—”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked about our finances.” She smiled up at Derek when he placed the hot tea in front of her and waited while Lance asked for an Americano. “It was tough at first, I’ll admit. Leaving the firm was a hard decision to make. But my mom helped out, and we’re doing fine now.”
“Your mom. How is she?” Lance looked distinctly uncomfortable, and the small table leapt a bit each time his knee hit the underside. It was his I’ve-got-a-secret jitteriness bouncing his leg, not his usual burning off of extra energy. She could tell by how extra high the table bounced every third jitter. What could it be? She dismissed the mystery. Whatever it was, it wasn’t her business.
“Mom’s good. Clean and sober since the day Oliver was born. Oli changed both our lives.” Carrie sipped her tea, swallowing down the small resentment she still felt that her own birth hadn’t been enough to inspire her mother to get her life together. At least things were good now. She needed to stay grateful, not dwell on her crappy childhood. A change of subject was definitely in order. “But you didn’t come to ask about my mom. You want to know about Oliver.”
