Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3)

by Tara Crescent

  We all have blind spots about our parents. I thought I could make my father go away without seeing him. I was wrong.

  He takes the notes I hand him, and counts it. “This isn’t enough,” he says. “My son is a millionaire, and all he can spare his father is two hundred and fifty bucks?”

  A small part of me mourns the thirteen year old boy I once was. For days, months after my father left, I’d hoped it was a mistake. I made up all kinds of stories to account for his disappearance. He’d been hurt, and he had amnesia, so he couldn’t remember us. He’d been kidnapped by an evil drug lord. Anything to hide from the truth. Anything to avoid facing the fact that he’d walked out on his wife and child without a word of warning.

  Owen’s gaze is on me. Piper’s expression is heavy with sympathy. I don’t want your pity, I want to scream at them. I’ve overcome my past. Wyatt Lawless isn’t a neglected child anymore. He’s a successful businessman.

  The table in the front rises to leave, still staring at us. My cheeks heat with shame. The control I’ve fought so hard for is sliding away from my grasp. “It’s all I have right now,” I tell my father. “Come to my office on Sunday morning, and I’ll give you more.”

  His voice is sly. “And the eviction is off?”

  “Yes.” Go away. Please. This isn’t about me anymore. I’m ruining Piper’s dream.

  He rises to his feet, weaving unsteadily. He’s won this round and he knows it. “See you Sunday, son.”

  * * *

  Piper walks up to me, but I don’t look up. I’m too ashamed to meet her eyes.

  When I was fourteen, there’d been a girl at school that I’d liked, Janet Blythe. She would smile at me whenever she saw me, and it was enough for me to be smitten. I’d been trying to summon up the courage to ask her to Junior Prom, when she’d dropped by at my house, unannounced. I’ll never forget the look of mingled disgust and horror in her eyes.

  This is my childhood all over again. I don’t want to see that expression in Piper’s face.

  Owen joins us. “What’s the film crew doing?” he whispers, his voice urgent. “We can’t let them to the front before we clean up.”

  Piper’s voice is tired. “Josef showed up to work drunk,” she says. “He set a pan on fire. They have enough to keep them occupied.” She puts her arm around my waist, and stands on tip-toe to kiss my cheek.

  “I’m so sorry, Piper.”

  Her grip on my waist tightens. “We aren’t our parents, Wyatt,” she says gently. “We can’t control what they do.” She moves in front of me so that I’m forced to look at her. “We’re partners,” she says to me. “We’re in this together.”

  Owen pats my shoulder. “Yes, we are. Wyatt, take a moment to shake this off. I’ll clean this up.”

  “No.” I stare down at my hands, trying to forget everything, trying to bring my focus back to tonight’s contest, then I address Owen. “If Josef’s drunk, Piper’s going to need you in the kitchen. This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

  The vomit is easy to deal with. The larger mess with my father? That isn’t going to be quite that easy to fix.

  27

  A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.

  Walter Winchell

  Piper:

  The cameras are recording as an obviously Josef mouths off in the kitchen, and I don’t know what to do. I go to the front to enlist Owen and Wyatt’s help, only to walk in the middle of Wyatt’s confrontation with his father.

  Poor Wyatt. My heart aches to see his face, tensed and closed off. He strips the tablecloth off the table, then retrieves a mop and cleaning supplies. “Is he going to be okay?” I whisper to Owen, who’s also watching Wyatt with a concerned look.

  “I think so,” he whispers back, not sounding certain at all. “Let him clean. Restoring order to chaos calms him down.” Then he seems to realize I’m not in the kitchen. “You said Josef set something on fire?”

  “He’s drunk.” I shake my head. “He was thickening the gravy and he had some oil going in another pan. Of course, the incident has been captured on camera.”

  “Of course,” Owen says wryly. “Why is Josef drunk?”

  “He told me he was nervous about tonight, so he thought a shot of tequila would calm him down.” I frown. “I can’t babysit him tonight. I’m going to send him home. Can you cook his station?”

  “Yes,” Owen replies confidently. “I know your menu like the back of my hand.”

  He’s right. In the last month, we’ve cooked each dish dozens of times, honing the recipes until they’re perfect. I heave a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” I say gratefully. We walk into the kitchen, where Josef is stirring the gravy with a faraway expression on his face. “Josef,” I beckon him over, “I’m sending you home.”

  Cameras swing in my direction. A bearded young man with a handheld video camera jockeys for a better angle to capture Josef’s reaction. “What do you mean, you’re sending me home?” Josef asks belligerently. “I’m fine.”

  “No.” I keep my voice calm with effort. “You’re not. You set fire to a pan of oil. You’re no use to me in this state. Owen’s going to take over your station. Sleep it off and come back tomorrow.”

  Kevin’s watching from his corner, his mouth hanging open. Sending Josef home, especially on the first day of the contest, is a slap in the face. I wish I didn’t have to do it, but the risk that he’s going to hurt himself is too great. Alcohol and the kitchen don’t mix.

  Josef straightens his shoulders. He’s about to protest again when he notices my expression. I’m not going to budge on this and he appears to realize it, because he takes a deep breath and seems to deflate. “I’m sorry, Chef,” he says quietly. He takes off his chef’s jacket, hangs it on the hook in the corner and leaves out of the back door.

  “Can we get that camera out of Piper’s face?” Owen asks tersely, as I slump against the counter, drained by the confrontation. I’m not very good at telling people off. Especially Josef and Kimmie, who were running this place until I showed up. “Piper, take a deep breath. We’ve got this.”

  I nod, then I stop cold. “If you’re working in the kitchen, who’s going to play hostess? Wyatt can’t do it. I need him to work the floor and make sure everyone’s doing okay.”

  On cue, the kitchen doors open and my mother walks in. “No,” I groan, exchanging a look with Owen. But I don’t have any other choice.

  * * *

  “Of course I’d be happy to help, Piper,” my mother says, when I ask her if she can play hostess tonight, sounding quite sincere. I want to believe her. My parents have been supportive in the last few days. They flew into town so they could attend the first round of the contest. My mother got here early to help me with my make-up, and now, she looks excited at her chance to help me.

  On the other hand, I can tell that Owen thinks this is a very bad idea. I give him a look of appeal, and he shrugs resignedly. “Sure,” he says, his voice distinctly unenthusiastic. “Why don’t I run you through what you need to do, Mrs. Jackson?”

  They disappear, and I take a deep breath. My nerves are a frazzled mess. I have to get my head in the game. The dinner rush is going to start any minute now. For the next five hours, I can’t let anything interfere with my focus. Not my mother playing hostess, not Josef’s drinking. Not even Wyatt’s reaction at seeing his father again.

  Owen comes back. “Okay, Wyatt’s coaching your mother on what needs to be done,” he says. “And twenty people just walked in, so it’s going to get crazy in here in a second. Are you good to go?”

  This contest is huge. Winning it will really put Piper’s on the map of the New York restaurant scene. I won’t have to anxiously count tables to see if I’ve made enough money to pay rent.

  I’m as ready as I’m ever going to get. “Yes,” I say, attempting a smile. “Bring it on.”

  As the tickets start rolling in, we get into a rhythm, the three of us functioning like a well-oiled machine. “You’re reall
y good at this,” I tell Owen with a grin as he brings up an order of fried chicken to me.

  He laughs. “Other kids had a misspent youth,” he says cheerfully. “My ma made me peel buckets and buckets potatoes to keep me out of trouble.”

  My smile fades. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, cursing myself at my thoughtlessness. Owen’s parents were killed.

  There’s only one cameraman in the kitchen now, and his attention is on Kevin. We have a small moment of privacy. “Don’t be,” Owen replies. He smiles at me warmly, and he squeezes my hand. Even that brief touch sends heat trickling through my body. “I had a happy childhood.”

  “Okay.”

  He leans closer. “What’s the surprise you have planned for us later?” he whispers in my ear.

  My lips twitch. “It’s killing you, isn’t it?” I take a step away from Owen as the camera pans the room. “You’ll find out later on.”

  He laughs and walks back to his station. “Yes, Chef Jackson.”

  I’m still smiling as I ladle some gravy on the plate, On auto-pilot, I dip the tip of a spoon into the liquid to taste it, and I realize that I’m in trouble. The gravy, which goes on the side of almost every dish on my menu, has far too much salt. So much salt that I want to spit out my little taste of it.

  Damn Josef. Today of all days, he had to be drunk.

  “Owen, I need another order of fried chicken,” I call out. This one is coated in too-salty gravy, and all I can do is empty it in the trash. “Kevin, can you chop up some mushrooms, fast, and get a roux going?”

  “Yes Chef,” he calls out.

  Owen can hear the stressed note in my voice. “What’s the matter, Piper?”

  “Gravy’s too salty,” I toss back over my shoulder as I head to our temperamental walk-in freezer. “We have to make another batch.” As I move, I’m trying to remember if I have enough stock to make the gravy. We make our own stock at Piper’s, and store-bought is a very poor substitute.

  I hear Owen curse as I rummage through the shelves. The freezer is absolutely packed. Our meat supplier delivers every two weeks, and he came yesterday. Finally, I find a dozen mason jars containing frozen stock on the top shelf. Breathing a sigh of relief, I grab six of them and head back out. “Thaw these,” I tell Kevin. “We’ve got to make the gravy in a hurry.”

  Kimmie comes to check on her food. “Not done yet,” I snap at her. “Give me three minutes.”

  Think, Piper, think. I can’t make gravy in three minutes, but can I make a substitute? I open my refrigerator doors and inspiration strikes. Duncan Bright brought me a dozen cauliflowers on Tuesday, and I’d been trying to perfect my cauliflower soup recipe. I have a couple of containers of pureed cauliflower left from that experiment.

  I look around and I get lucky again. On the bottom shelf, there’s a Tupperware dish filled with caramelized onions. We used most of them in a French Onion soup we served for lunch yesterday, but one lonesome container is left.

  It’s not gravy, but a buttery onion-cauliflower sauce would work great with the chicken, and I can make it in two minutes. I grab everything and sprint to a burner, putting a saucepan on it and turning the heat on high. I add a generous dollop of butter, then spoon in the onions. Once they’ve warmed through, I mix in the cauliflower and season the dish.

  Thirty seconds with the immersion blender, and it’s done. I taste it and nod my approval, just as Owen rushes up to the pass with another perfectly fried chicken. “Thank you.”

  Kimmie appears again, and loads up her tray.

  “Nicely done,” Owen says to me.

  I look up, almost jolted out of my moment of intense focus, to see Owen watching me, an openly impressed look on his face. “That was very hot, Chef Jackson,” he says, with a smirk.

  Kevin chuckles. “Stock is thawed, Chef,” he says. “You want me to make some gravy? We’re out of turkey fat.”

  “Use the duck fat instead.” My heart's still racing in my chest, and as the adrenaline slowly drains away, I start to tremble. Owen’s at my side immediately with a glass of water. “Drink this,” he says. “Take a deep breath. You did good.”

  “Thank you.” I sip at the water and slowly return to normal.

  Then another fresh batch of tickets come in. The brief moment of tranquility is over. I call out the order and Owen and Kevin repeat it, and we get back to work.

  * * *

  After that, it’s almost an anticlimax when the judges show up. Wyatt walks back to hand us the ticket. “The cauliflower sauce was a huge hit,” he says to me.

  “Seriously?”

  He nods. “Yeah, everyone loved it. You should add it to the menu.”

  “Not tonight.” I’m done with curveballs for the evening

  He grins. “No, of course not. The judges are here, by the way, and so are your friends.”

  “My friends are here?” I cheer up. “All of them?”

  “All six of them,” he confirms. “And the instant the judges saw Sebastian, they all acted as if he were visiting royalty.” He shakes his head with a grin. “Had I known it would have such an effect, I’d have invited him myself.”

  I chuckle and call out the ticket Wyatt’s handed me.

  “Who are the judges?” Owen asks from his station. “Anyone I know?”

  “Maisie Hayes, of course. John Page, who heads up the Hell’s Kitchen business association. George Nicolson and Anita Tucker.”

  I feel faint. George Nicolson and Anita Tucker are legendary chefs. Anita Tucker was the first woman in New York to win a Michelin star. George Nicolson has founded more restaurants than I can count, propelling each of them to stardom before moving on. These are not ordinary judges. They are luminaries in the field.

  “How’s my mother working out?”

  “So far, so good,” he replies. “She’s strangely good at it.”

  “She’s a society wife in New Orleans,” I tell him. “Playing hostess is what she does.”

  Kevin hurries up with a platter of breaded catfish, and I plate them, spooning jalapeno tartar sauce on the side, and adding scoops of rice and collards. Kimmie comes up to take the food out.

  When she’s gone, I look up at Wyatt. I don’t really have time to get into a long conversation with him, but I want to make sure he’s okay. The film crew is in the front now, so I’m not concerned that our conversation is being captured for posterity. “How are you?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “Mostly, I’m angry,” he says. “I feel ambushed.”

  I don’t blame him. “Let’s commiserate over vodka once this madness ends?”

  He laughs. “Let’s do that,” he agrees, a twinkle in his eyes. “Any chance you’ll tell me what your surprise is?”

  I bite back my grin. My secret is driving both Owen and Wyatt insane, and I love it. “You’ll see,” I tell him, adopting my most mysterious voice.

  Contest or no contest, I can’t wait for the night to be over. I can’t wait to be in their arms again.

  28

  For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled.

  Hunter S. Thompson

  Piper:

  Once we get the food out for the judges’ table, we get to work on my friends’ ticket. “Make this good, you guys,” I call out to Owen and Kevin. “This is Sebastian Ardalan’s table. The guy has two Michelin stars. Let’s show him what we can do.”

  Owen rolls his eyes.

  We’ve made so much progress here in the last few weeks. The last time Sebastian ate here, he was convinced we’d be out of business in six months. I want to prove him wrong.

  Petra takes out that order, then there’s a lull. I lean against the counter and glance at the clock in the kitchen. It’s almost eight thirty. We’re done for the night in the kitchen.

  “Kevin, great job tonight,” I say, smiling at him. Owen’s used to the pressure, but today was Kevin’s first day in the major leagues, and he did admirably.

  I’m about to add more praise when Wyatt comes b
ack to the kitchen. “The judges want to speak to the chef,” he says, winking at me. “You’re going to enjoy this, Piper. They loved the food.”

  “Really?” I untie my apron, swapping it for a cleaner one, and I follow Wyatt out. Applause greets me as I walk up to the table the four judges are seated in. “Chef Jackson,” George Nicolson booms. “What an amazing meal.”

  “Absolutely fantastic,” Anita Tucker chimes in. “Creative, well-executed, well-presented. You should be very proud.”

  I feel myself blush. “Thank you,” I say.

  Maisie Hayes surveys me curiously. “This used to be a Middle Eastern restaurant when you took it over, wasn’t it, Chef Jackson?”

  “It was.”

  “And Wyatt and Owen suggested you change your focus?”

  I nod. “I’d added a few Southern dishes when I got here, and they quickly became my best sellers. When Wyatt and Owen pointed that out, it was obvious what I had to do.”

  Her gaze flickers over to Wyatt. “It’s a huge improvement,” she agrees. “I ate here four months ago. I liked the food, but the service was indifferent, and the decor was horrendous.” She looks faintly apologetic as she speaks. “Now, the service has improved, and the place looks fantastic. And the food is even better than before.”

  My mother’s done with her hostessing duties. She’s seated at a table with my father, not too far away, listening to our conversation, her head tilted to one side. I wonder what she thinks of the food.

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  George Nicolson gives me a conspiratorial grin. “I know Maisie’s going to kill me,” he says cheerfully, “but I see no reason to keep you in suspense until Sunday morning. You’re definitely going to make it to the next round.”

  My heart hammers in my chest. I want to sing and dance, and I want to burst into tears, but most of all, I want to hug the two men who’ve made it all possible. I couldn’t have done it without Wyatt and Owen.