by Lisa Plumley
Lizzy nodded in acknowledgment. But Shane shook his head, still feeling dumbfounded by that phone conversation.
Until now, his father had never even acknowledged Shane’s reputation as a fixer, much less sought out his help. This time, though, his father’s “usual troubleshooters” had failed him. Now he needed Shane to save the day. He needed Shane to set up some Podunk family pizzeria for an easy takeover, so that the international company his father was on the board of could get a toe in—so they could enact some “faux-thentic” pizzeria scheme.
In the same way a major coffee chain had recently done with its deliberately unbranded, under-the-radar new “indie-style” coffeehouses, Gregory Waltham’s company planned to outwit the competition. Not by going toe-to-toe with them as the behemoth global chain it was, but by pretending to be independent sites with better wares, more sophisticated menus, more creative atmospheres, and (depending on the locale) higher prices than their familiar franchised pizzerias. The company planned a major trial phase before going wide with the concept. If Shane did his job right, Portland was destined to be its proving ground.
In Portland, the company had identified an ideal target: the Grimanis’ family pizzerias. They were popular, perfectly located, and—most importantly—came equipped with longtime loyal customers who could serve as unwitting concept testers. Freed of the need to start from scratch, the company planned to go incognito and dominate both sides of the market: high and low.
It wasn’t enough to be the McDonald’s of pizza anymore. To succeed, the company had to capture broad markets and indie ones. It had to be both commercial and alternative, cookie-cutter and original. It had to be like the pizzerias in the Grimanis’ small, homespun chain, but on a much broader scale.
The end result, if successful, would be a collection of international “artisanal” pizzerias, complete with flour-dusted “independent” chef’s coats and authentic “hometown” flair … every ounce of it coerced, faked, or outright stolen. The new pizzerias would look like indie outlets, but they’d sneakily take advantage of their parent company’s cost-cutting labor practices, homogenized service models, and prefab food items.
Despite the idea’s franchise-honed, PowerPoint mediocrity, Shane figured it had potential. In fact, he was surprised more companies hadn’t tried it. Why work to reinvent the wheel if you could just take some other guy’s wheel? People didn’t really want an authentic experience. They wanted a good experience, whether they were having pizza, beer, or sex. If you were enjoying what you had, who cared how real it was?
It was real for as long as it lasted. That was enough.
At least for Shane, it always had been.
The trouble with Portland was, the “fixer” who’d been on the job before Shane had behaved like an amateur. He’d pushed the buyout offer too aggressively, causing the Grimanis to panic. Then, to overreact. They’d defended their pizzerias by overspending on advertising, offering loss-leader Internet coupon deals, changing their menus willy-nilly, and even turning over staff haphazardly. Because of the money lost in those misguided efforts, several of the Grimanis’ pizzerias were now shuttered (compromising their value when they eventually reopened), and a number of their employees had lost their jobs (affecting their future morale and productivity).
It was a mess, plain and simple. As far as Shane could discern, the only advantage to this botched job was that a few weeks had passed. By now, the Grimanis’ initial wariness would have died down. When Shane got close to them, he figured they’d be eager for the workable solution he planned to offer.
For once (in this scenario at least), Shane would seem like the guy in the white hat. That was novel. But at least he did things cleanly. That was better than the alternative. Better than letting a pizza-throwing David keep struggling against a corporate Goliath.
“Well, Mr. Waltham did say that to you,” Lizzy reminded Shane, sucking him back to the present with her from-the-hip way of talking, “and you agreed to it. You’re on the job. Tomorrow, everything kicks off. That means you’d better get busy.” When Shane didn’t budge, she gave him a doubly perplexed look. “Come on. It’s not like you to sit around like this. Don’t you have reconnaissance to do? Groundwork to lay? People to meet?”
“All I’ve done since I got here is meet people,” Shane grumbled. “Nice people. People who like me.”
“People generally like you. You’re likable.”
“When I’m working,” he agreed. “Sure. But this—”
“‘This’ is just pent-up ‘fixing’ waiting to get out,” Lizzy diagnosed. “You’re wound up, that’s all. You need action.”
“Maybe.” It didn’t feel that way. It felt like … discontent, not a need to get busy manipulating things. Puzzling over that, Shane tapped out a cigarette from the pack at his elbow. Holding his smoke between his lips, he searched for his lighter.
Lizzy’s muttered swearword cut off his quest. So did the way she snatched the cigarette from his mouth. She frowned at it, then stared at him through disbelieving China doll eyes.
“Have you been sniffing glue? You quit months ago.”
“And you gave up swearing. I guess we both lose.”
“Yeah.” She crossed her arms, unaffected by his dour assessment. “Looks like you bring out the worst in me, boss.”
“You think so, Columbo? I’m surprised it took you this long to notice. I’ve been expecting you to quit since day one.”
That silenced Lizzy. For all of thirty seconds. Then …
“Wow. You are stressed out. You haven’t accused me of an imminent bailout for at least a year.” Marveling at him, she shook her head. “Besides, you only smoke when you’re nervous.”
Shane ignored her. Again, he reached for his pack.
Lizzy grabbed it first. Holding it, she gave him a look that hinted at tenderness. “Look, I know impressing your dad means a lot to you. I know this job is important. But—”
“All jobs are important.”
Lizzy seemed taken aback by his interruption. Then, “Oh. I get it. You’re going to pretend this one isn’t special?”
“It isn’t special,” Shane lied, trying not to think about that phone call from his dad. “I’m not even sure it’s doable.”
Most of all, he wasn’t sure it was advisable to try.
Shane had never impressed his dad before. If he didn’t admit he wanted to now, no one would be disappointed later.
“Everything is doable for you,” Lizzy disagreed. “I didn’t hitch my wagon to just any old star, you know. When I needed to make a getaway and start over, I picked you to be my Kemosabe.”
At that moment, Shane wished she hadn’t. He didn’t need additional pressure—and that’s all he glimpsed in Lizzy’s trusting, dedicated gaze. Tomorrow, he planned to infiltrate the Grimanis’ pizzerias and finish the takeover the previous fixer had started. But given the bizarre way Shane had been feeling lately, he’d be almost as likely to fist-bump the pizzeria’s manager, become besties with all its employees, and lay down his own considerable fortune to buy David a better slingshot.
He was not that freaking idealistic. He never had been.
Especially when it came to doing something that would subvert his own father’s company. That wasn’t how Shane operated. On the other hand, he’d never been prone to chatting with strangers in the park about their stupid mutts, either. Shane had done that today while out exploring the city. Twice.
He wiggled his fingers at Lizzy, then leveled her with a serious look. “Give me back my cigarettes, Tonto.”
Lizzy flipped him off instead, then tucked his pack in the back pocket of her jeans. She returned to shelving books with her customary diligence, letting those smokes taunt him from derrière height. Short of giving her a pat-down, Shane didn’t have the recourse of lighting up a spare. He felt … twitchy.
“I didn’t hire you to be my babysitter,” he complained.
“Someone’s got to do it,” Lizzy said breezily, not bothering to s
top sorting books. “Might as well be me.”
Shane considered her position. He had deft fingers. He knew he could sneak out that cigarette pack from her pocket without her noticing. As a teenager, he’d gotten good at pickpocketing. He’d needed to. But he didn’t want to abuse her trust.
Which was only one more example of his weird new “moral” behavior. Hell. If he didn’t let off some steam soon …
“I’m going out.” Shane stood amid the cast-off shopping bags. “I’ll be back”—he gestured ambiguously—“later.”
“Good idea.” Lizzy glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Go grab a drink or something. Maybe it’ll loosen you up.”
He gritted his teeth. “I don’t need to be loose.”
“Of course not.” His assistant stifled a rare grin. Then she waved a book toward the door. “I’ll let myself out when I’m done. You go party. Show the Rose City who’s boss. Go crazy.”
Go crazy. That wasn’t a bad idea, it occurred to Shane suddenly. If he did go crazy, at least for tonight, maybe he’d force out all the unwanted sentimentality and spontaneous smiling he’d been plagued with since arriving in Portland.
Starting tomorrow, he needed to bring his A-game. He needed to be the hard-as-nails fixer he’d always been. He needed to be tough, not transfixed by those damn rosebushes. That meant he had one night to unleash all the atypically sunshiny impulses he’d been feeling and get them out of his system. Once and for freaking all. He had one night to let himself feel … everything.
“You won’t let me smoke, but getting hammered is A-OK?”
Lizzy shrugged. “I’m complicated and mysterious.”
“You’re nonsensical and demanding.”
“You love it, and you know it.”
He did. Not in a romantic way, but he did. He loved Lizzy. In a sense, she was the little sister Shane had never had.
He’d rather be dunked in hot coffee like a gigantic Voodoo Donut than admit it. So … “I should love it. I pay you enough.”
At that, his assistant winked at him. “I want a raise.”
“Get me through this Portland job. You can have it.”
“I’d like those odds … if you weren’t so antsy.”
“After tonight, I won’t be. I promise.” Shane stopped at his apartment’s peninsula, then picked up a book. “Heads up.”
He tossed it to Lizzy. She peered at its spine.
Her eyes widened. “Where did you find this?”
“You know. Around.” Vaguely, Shane shrugged. “Don’t shelve that one. Take it home with you.” Lizzy had rented herself an apartment down the hall. He hadn’t seen it. “It’s for you.”
“I should hope so!” Awestruck, his assistant hugged the book. It was so threadbare that its leather cover was cracked in multiple places. “I’ve been searching for this book forever!” Her admiring gaze met his. “It’s very rare. Bordering on just being a rumor. I didn’t even think you knew I wanted it.”
He gave an offhanded wave. “You mentioned it once.”
“Sure, I did. In passing. Nine months ago!”
“Yeah. It took me a while to find it.” Shane glanced away from her, toward his bedroom at the end of the hall. He needed to change clothes before going out. Tonight, at least, he didn’t want to look like … himself. “Be careful with that book. Don’t light it on fire with those cigarettes you stole from me.”
Lizzy gave him an uncomfortably fond look. “Just when I think I’ve got you down pat, you go and surprise me.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Shane shrugged out of his typical black suit coat. He dropped it on his sofa, right next to his better judgment. “I’ll be back to being a badass tomorrow.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Her skepticism bugged him. It made getting away and forcing out all his unwanted vulnerability feel twice as urgent.
“Program a few cab numbers into my phone.” Shane whipped off his tie. He started unfastening his shirt buttons. “Taxis are scarce around here, and I don’t plan to be cognizant later.”
“Yes, boss.” Lizzy saluted him with her free hand. “Shall I set up a full contingent of hangover cures for you, too?”
“Can’t hurt.” But unexpected spontaneity sure as hell could. Shane knew that now. He wanted no further part of it. If he behaved as spontaneously as possible tonight, he would have no need for spontaneity later. When it came time to make his gambit on the Grimanis’ pizzerias, he’d be tough. Unstoppable.
But in the meantime … he was cutting loose. All the way.
Without the armor of his suit coat and tie, he felt naked already. But that was the whole point. To get this over with. To experience all the unaccustomed-to feelings he’d been feeling, so he could go back to being stoic and untouchable and strong.
He hated the feeling of being open. It made him nervous. But since he wasn’t a man who backed down from anything …
Determinedly, Shane reached for his belt buckle. “What’s least like something I’d wear?” he mused. “Jeans? Or maybe—”
Lizzy turned to answer him, stared for a second, then held up her hands. “Hey! Stop right there, you pervy show-off. I don’t want to know if you’re a boxers or briefs guy.”
Hands full of his belt buckle, Shane laughed. He looked down at himself. “There is a third option, you know.”
Her gaze skittered to his fly. “Commando? Gross!”
“And that’s how I know we’re in it for good. You’re the only person who’s ever been straight with me.”
“Shane.” Her voice lowered. “You know that’s not true.”
But by then, Shane had recognized Lizzy lecture number twelve in the offing—and he wasn’t interested. So he only raised his hand in a farewell, then headed down the hall.
“Enjoy your rare book,” he called, dropping his shirt as he went. “Don’t forget those cab numbers and the hangover stuff. If I do this up right, I won’t even recognize myself in the morning.”
Then, before he could get hung up on exactly why that idea sounded so appealing, Shane shut his bedroom door and shucked the rest of his clothes … along with all his inhibitions.
For one night only, he was going commando. Starting with his dumb-ass damaged soul. He was stripping it bare.
Maybe then, Shane reasoned, he’d find some damn peace.
Chapter Three
Once upon a time, Gabriella used to love arriving at Campania. She’d glance up at the familiar sign (PROUDLY SERVING PORTLAND SINCE 1959!), duck under the awning festooning her family’s flagship redbrick pizzeria, then walk through the door into a wonderland full of yeasty, tomatoey, cheesy goodness.
To her, Campania had always been a second home. Gabriella had learned to toss pizzas here. She’d spent weekday evenings doing homework at the hi-top table near the wait station and weekends helping her dad scale and round hundreds of pounds of dough. She’d learned volumes about tomato sauce acidity, dough retardation, and fast pizza box folding. She’d worked out how to greet customers, how to bus tables, and how to tear fresh mozzarella into perfectly sized pieces to top a margherita pie.
She’d seized her family legacy … and then she’d thrown it all away during one stubborn, hotheaded showdown with her dad.
That was probably why, these days, Gabriella had to gird herself to walk through the doors at Campania. She had to smile at her customers and chat with them, no matter how tired or worried she was. She had to reassure them that the “bad news” they’d seen on a food blog or in The Oregonian was only referring to temporary closures of a few Grimani pizzerias … even while knowing she couldn’t be sure they would only be temporary.
The front of the house—where the dining room and wait station were located—was challenging. Much worse was the back of the house, where the line cooks and dishwashers still hadn’t eased up on their feelings of betrayal. Even though Gabriella was technically in charge, no one wanted to listen to her—or to forgive her. Not yet. Her leaving the pizzeria (admittedly in a huff, on
the spur of the moment) had offended everyone.
In their business, they were family. Gabriella, in one regrettable moment, had become the black sheep of the family. She didn’t know how long she would have to make penance for that.
It was going to be a while, though. Because as Gabriella entered Campania’s open kitchen at the end of their final seating that night, shortly after 10:30, the hazing she’d been enduring for weeks now continued at full volume.
“Hey. What do you know?” Bowser, head of the make line where pizzas were assembled for customers, jerked his chin at Gabriella. “Look, everybody. Our little runaway came back.”
Our little runaway. Gabriella still hated that nickname. But there was nothing to do about it now except take her lumps. If she didn’t hold her head high, no matter how difficult the circumstances were, she’d lose even more respect from her staff.
Besides, she’d only gone to chat with a customer for a minute. It wasn’t as if she’d abandoned her post as expeditor—the intermediary between the kitchen staff and servers—to flee to Astoria again. Even though that was (obviously) what Bowser was alluding to. Her onetime defection had irked everyone.
“Uh, hurray?” Emeril, a line cook, didn’t glance up from the end-of-night cleanup he was doing. “Do we all get medals for not skating midshift now? Because that puts me about a million medals behind schedule.” Industriously, he went on scrubbing.
Emeril had been hired after Gabriella had gone to Astoria. She didn’t know him well yet. She only knew that he’d come to restaurant work as a second career and that he loved the Food Network—which explained his nickname. Scooter, though, had been working at Campania as a dishwasher since Gabriella was a teenager. Maybe he’d decided to forgive her? She looked at him.
Sullenly, Scooter gave Gabriella a sarcastic “slow clap.” Then, with her return duly noted, he went back to slamming shut the industrial dishwasher. Grumpily, he twisted the dials.
No, then. Oookay. Gabriella breathed out. She glanced at the sign posted by the double-decker ovens: NO CRYING IN THE KITCHEN.
