by Lisa Plumley
“Sorry.” Gabriella eased herself upward, too. Gingerly. She might have been a little too enthusiastic with Shane. She found her underthings and started getting dressed. “I’m afraid my dad’s imprint is all over this place, though.” Her tank top. On. Her chef’s pants. On. Her clogs. On. But her romantic mood was wearing off. “So if you’re skittish about tradition, antiquated restaurant equipment, or peppermint starlight candies—”
“Candies?” Quizzically, Shane looked at her through the neck of his T-shirt as he pulled it over his head to hide his amazing torso. He’d already donned his chef’s pants. “Really?”
“My dad loves them,” Gabriella explained, carried away on a sudden burst of reminiscence. “We buy starlight mints for the pizzeria, to give away to customers with their checks, but my dad liked to squirrel away extras. I’m still finding caches all over the place. In the storeroom. In the walk-in. In here.”
“He has a major sweet tooth, then.” Shane looked around, as though expecting Robert Grimani to arrive any second. “That makes pizza a funny choice. But it does explain Pinkie.”
“She’s my cousin.” Now that they were dressed, Gabriella felt oddly resistant to confiding in him further. It was as if her workaday armor were clinking back in place. “Her mother is my dad’s sister. All of us make pizza for one reason.”
“Tradition,” Shane guessed with a grin. He reached for her hand. “It must be … nice, to have that as a family.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“Tradition is just a concept to me. I haven’t seen my birth parents for twenty years. They fell off the radar a long time ago. We weren’t close with any of our relatives.” Shane looked away, seeming pensive. “I don’t usually talk about them.”
Gabriella could understand why. “Well, if it helps, you can borrow my traditions while you’re here.” She squeezed his hand, wanting to ease the pain she saw in him. “Next week. Sunday gravy. Spaghetti, pork braciola, meatballs … the works. All the homemade ciabatta you can eat and as much red wine as you can hold. My parents’ house in southwest Portland. Be there.”
Shane frowned. “I don’t want your pity.”
“You’ll want my mom’s Sunday gravy and meatballs.”
With uncharacteristic tentativeness, Shane gazed at her.
A knock at her office door startled them both.
“Gabriella!” Bowser shouted. He pounded harder. “Get out here! The oven is jacked. It won’t heat up. Service is fucked!”
Seized with panic, Gabriella stared at the door. At the pizzeria, their two double-decker ovens were crucial. If one of them was malfunctioning, she could lose half a night’s covers.
And earn herself a boatload of unhappy customers, too.
“Stay here,” she told Shane in a no-nonsense tone. “Don’t come out until the coast is clear. Okay? I’ve got to go deal with this.”
Then she gave him a kiss, made sure her clothes were on straight—bottoms on the bottom and top on the top—ducked out her office door without opening it too far, and hurried away.
Left behind, Shane was straitjacketed by conflicting emotions.
On one hand, he didn’t want to take advantage of Gabby. They’d just had a remarkable time together. They’d come together without pretense, without reservations, and without stopping. He’d needed her like never before. Everything about her moved him. Touched him. Affected him. Always for the better, too.
On the other hand, Gabby had just inadvertently given him carte blanche to stay in her office, alone, while she was distracted with a pizzeria emergency. The fixer inside of him practically grabbed some fireworks and started a damn parade.
Acting on autopilot, Shane went still. He listened to the hasty conversation outside. He was able to catch enough of the exchange between Bowser and Gabby to get the gist of what was going on. In a pizzeria, an oven breakdown was serious. Everyone would be distracted for a while, dealing with the problem.
Shane’s problem, just then, was reining in his fixing instincts. Because as he swept Gabby’s office with a trained eye, he glimpsed more than just tossed-aside office supplies, battered furnishings, and the evidence of a midday rendezvous. He saw account books. He saw supply orders. He saw invoices with miles of red ink and a creaky Ice Age computer on its last legs.
It was no wonder Gabby was struggling to save her family’s pizzeria, Shane analyzed. She was using caveman methods in a jetpack age. Her love of tradition was getting her killed.
If it helps, you can borrow my traditions while you’re here.
Struck by the memory of Gabby’s generous invitation, Shane made himself move. He needed to compartmentalize this. He needed to bring separation to his dealings with Gabby, the warm and irresistibly smart-mouthed woman he slept with, and Gabriella, the driven and out-of-her-depth traditionalist who couldn’t stop searching for starlight mint candies long enough to face facts.
Campania was doomed. Shane could see it. She couldn’t.
His new mad mopping skills were great, but they wouldn’t rescue the pizzeria from creditors or keep its supply chain intact in the face of credit problems. Only cash would do that.
Short of a major cash infusion, the Grimanis’ pizzerias weren’t going to be in the black for a while yet. If ever.
Musingly, Shane leafed through Gabby’s account books, confirming his suppositions with every entry he examined. She thought she needed more customers, more business, more covers each night to save her. Shane knew she needed to think bigger.
She needed a corporate investor to save her family’s pizzerias. If Campania and its sister pizzerias survived even a little bit unbroken, it would be because Waltham Industries kept them alive as corporate-run, secretly franchised entities. It wouldn’t be because one determined woman sold a few more pepperoni pies—because one woman forestalled the inevitable, one bite at a time. There was no way Gabby would have preferred complete closure to partial surrender, Shane reasoned. Even as stubborn as she was, she was also an inveterate realist.
Shane would be helping her most by turning over her pizzerias to his father’s company, he understood as he studied Gabby’s bills and payments and bank balances. He would be helping her most by working behind the scenes to thwart her most destructive impulses—impulses like clinging to the past, sticking to outmoded rules, and elevating the chain of command until it became something that destroyed her crew from the inside out. Because Gabby’s troubles with staffing didn’t owe themselves to a poor supply of restaurant workers. They stemmed directly from Gabby’s inability to let loose, let go, and trust.
Trust, the way she’d trusted Shane to make love to her atop her desk, splinters and all. Making love to her had turned his heart upside down. It had left him stuck for words for the first time.
So had Gabby’s invitation to have him meet her parents. Shane wasn’t a guy who met his dates’ parents. He was the guy his dates’ parents warned their daughters about, with harsh tones and dire predictions and ultimatums that led to disaster.
Still, a tiny part of him wondered … what was Sunday gravy?
Would he really want Donna Grimani’s spaghetti and meatballs? What would it be like to be welcomed in their home?
He’d scarcely posed the question to himself before Lizzy’s familiar, practical, advantage-seeking voice burst in his head.
It would be expedient, his assistant all but screamed in his imagination. Hey. Easier is better, her voice prodded him.
That was Lizzy’s motto. It had brethren, though.
Like, Don’t screw around, dumb-ass. And, Do your work.
Pushed by the knowledge that he’d have a hell of a time explaining away his reluctance to leverage this situation, Shane grabbed the first item that came to hand. Without looking at it, he crammed it inside his chef’s coat. That roomy garment could have hidden a hoagie, a PlayStation console, and a Labrador puppy without bulging. It was the Houdini of work clothes.
Shoving away the prickling unease that pestered him, Shan
e took one final look around Gabby’s office. It smelled like her in there, it occurred to him. Spicy, sweet, redolent of basil and spiked with flowers. He wanted to stay in there all day.
Instead, Shane put his feet in motion and made his getaway. Just like he did on every job. Just like he planned to do on this one.
Just as soon as he’d gotten Gabby out of his system …
Chapter Nine
The night of the oven malfunction, everyone went out for after-work drinks together. The crew had been through a lot. They had war stories to tell, tension to unwind, beers to quaff. A mood of weary solidarity prevailed among Gabriella’s people at the brewpub that night. The only one excluded from it was her.
Alone at an out-of-the-way table, she watched her staff crowd together, laughing, at a booth near the bar. Hypo pantomimed the antics he’d used to push out extra free garlic bread to Campania’s eager customers. Pinkie shared the tale of her latest brainstorm—offering shot-glass-size desserts gratis to the customers who waited longest for their pizzas. Scooter groused about having to wash all those “dinky glasses.” Bowser stood at the center of it all, the temporary hero of the night.
It had been his idea to call the owner of the bakery next door—which had been closed since 3 P.M. that afternoon—and beg for the use of their ovens. From there, it had been a matter of waiting for those ovens to heat to proper pizza-baking temps, then devising a way to deliver the pies hot from next door.
Unbelievably, the crew had pulled off a miracle.
Sure, Gabriella reflected as she morosely watched her friends, a few of their patrons had walked out, deciding not to wait any extra time. Portland was something of a pizza mecca. You could find a variety of pizzas within blocks, from coal-fired Neapolitan pies to unctuous Chicago deep-dish pies with extra mozzarella. In PDX, it wasn’t necessary to wait more than a few minutes to squash a pizza jones … although their regulars had waited. The tourists—crucial to her business—had not.
Eventually, one person separated from the group. Frosty. He lumbered toward her with a jovial smile, making Gabriella feel glad that she’d taken the time to bond with him a few days ago.
“Lucky break, huh?” Frosty cradled his IPA. “Bowser’s idea to use the bakery’s ovens was rad. We owe them big after this.”
Gabriella nodded. Seeing everyone together—except for her—made her feel doubly discouraged about the rebuilding job she’d taken on. Usually, everyone liked her. Usually, she could motivate a group. Usually, she could lead that group to victory. But now … Her leadership mojo seemed to have deserted her.
“Hey, you seem kind of down.” Wearing a concerned look, Frosty gestured toward a vacant chair. “Want some company?”
At his kindly voiced question, Gabriella nearly cried. She desperately wanted company. She also wanted to succeed. It meant so much to her that she save her family’s pizzerias. But everyone seemed to be betting against her. Even her own cousin.
Feeling her throat tighten up, Gabriella nodded. “Sure,” she croaked. Darn it. Those were tears in her eyes. She must really be nearing the end of her tether. The oven breakdown must have stressed her out more than she’d known. “Have a seat.”
Obligingly, Frosty pulled out a chair. Like the macho former college linebacker he was, he turned it around, then straddled it. Propping his forearms on the chair’s back, he smiled at her like an overgrown, tongue-lolling, tail-wagging puppy. No matter what, Frosty was exactly who he seemed to be.
Unlike her. Right now, she felt like an outcast. Being in charge was one thing. Being ostracized was another. It hurt.
Worse, Gabriella had no idea what to do about it.
“Man, everybody really pulled together today, didn’t they?” Frosty shook his head in wonderment. “It was so cool.”
They had pulled together. Gabriella wished she’d done more.
She spied Shane across the brewpub. He smiled at her.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so stupidly sexed up when the emergency had struck, she’d have reacted better, she mused. Maybe if she hadn’t felt so boneless and satisfied, she’d have excelled today, the way she expected herself to excel. She would have been the one who’d called the bakery, the one who’d rushed out garlic bread, the one who’d proffered free mini desserts.
On the other hand … she’d gotten away with her liaison with Shane. Nobody had found out about it. No one suspected a thing.
That was going to make it doubly hard to resist next time.
Unless the oven malfunction had been some sort of punishment for her loss of control. It was tempting to think so….
“I didn’t think Emeril would be able to pull so many pizzas off the make line and get them next door so fast,” Frosty was saying, casting her an amiable look. “It was awesome.”
Gabriella looked at him. She couldn’t help liking him.
“You did a good job, too,” she said. “Without your quick thinking, turning that proofing rack into a wheeled transport between Campania and the bakery, we would have fallen even more behind tonight. Thanks for working so hard, Frosty.”
Shyly, he ducked his head. “You’re welcome, boss.”
“I swear, if another disaster strikes, I don’t know how I’m going to get through it.” Gabriella gulped down some Black Butte Porter, watching Shane circulate among her crew. He slapped Hypo on the back in congratulations. He laughed at one of Scooter’s jokes. She returned her attention to Frosty, feeling grateful for his support. “I’m skating on pretty thin ice here.”
“Nah. You look strong enough to handle it.”
“I dunno. Even strong people have their breaking points.”
Commiseratingly, Frosty smiled at her. “Not you, I bet. I mean, look at all you’ve done! You’ve kept Campania going with a totally in-and-out crew. You’ve maintained a menu that Portlanders of all ages love.” He grinned. “You’ve even avoided ‘accidentally’ stabbing Jeremy with Buster.”
Wanly, Gabriella smiled. Buster was her chef’s knife. Most restaurant workers maintained their own gear. They schlepped their knife kits from job to job like the essentials they were.
“Blood is very tough to get out of fifty-five-year-old linoleum,” Gabriella joked. “Besides, Jeremy’s not so bad.”
Her most recently hired server had to have some good qualities, she reasoned. He’d come very highly recommended.
He still didn’t like her, though. Even now, Jeremy gave her an arched look from his place at the bar—then deliberately snubbed her by turning his back to her. His inexplicable meanness hurt.
Jeremy hadn’t been bruised by her leaving for Astoria.
“Are you kidding me?” Frosty asked. “Jeremy is pushy, judgmental, and totally addicted to gambling. Yesterday, he bet Jen that he could refill salt and pepper shakers faster than her.”
Jen. Judging by that fond pet name, Frosty’s fling with Jennifer was still going strong. That was nice for them.
“Did Jennifer take the bet?”
Smugly, Frosty nodded. “My girl’s got mad setup skills. She won ten bucks from that twerp. Like taking candy from a baby.”
Gabriella couldn’t help smiling. “You don’t like him?”
“Hey, I like everybody.” Magnanimously, Frosty spread his arms to the sides. “Until they give me a reason not to.”
“What did Jeremy do to you?”
“It’s what he did to you that bugs me. He’s a complete jackass to you, when all you’re trying to do is get a job done.”
His loyalty touched her. Gabriella was glad she’d run into Frosty after-hours that night at Campania. It seemed she’d made herself a lifelong ally when she’d taken the time to encourage him.
“Thanks, Frosty.” She touched his arm. “But you don’t have to hold a grudge against Jeremy because of me. I want everyone to get along. I’m not that fragile. I’m okay.” For now.
He looked closely at her. “Are you sure? Because those look like tears in your eyes. Maybe it’s the bad light in here—”
<
br /> “It’s totally the bad light in here.” Caught, Gabriella sniffled. She laughed. Frosty’s kindness was bringing out the vulnerability in her. That was the last thing she wanted. “I might be bent by a temporary mishap like the oven malfunction, but I’m not broken. It’ll take a lot more than that to stop me.”
For a long moment, Frosty only looked at her. Then, “Wow. That’s impressive. Looking at you, anyone would think you’d be ready to quit by now. You’re no bigger than a june bug—”
Gabriella burst into laughter. “Is that a Southern twang in your voice? I could swear I detect a Kentucky-fried accent.”
“—and you’ve been through a lot already,” Frosty continued, now sounding conspicuously not like someone out of The Dukes of Hazzard. “Nobody would blame you for throwing in the towel.”
She must have imagined that soft Southern lilt to his voice, because she’d never noticed it before now. It was pretty loud in the brewpub, too. “I might not be six feet tall with bulging muscles—” Here, Gabriella couldn’t help glancing over at Shane again. Now he was talking with Pinkie. “—but I have an iron will. I never quit. That’s why I’m still standing.”
Frosty nodded, seeming impressed. But from behind him …
“You’re still standing,” Shane said, “because you have a lot of help to keep you from falling down.” He came into view, lit by one of the brewpub’s golden-tinged spotlights like a star coming onto a stage, wearing a button-down shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. “Come on. It’s about time you said so.”
Shane held out his hand, giving her a “come on” gesture.
Unfortunately, to Gabriella, that gesture was now forever associated with getting naked, getting together, and getting hot—preferably (but not mandatorily) someplace comfortable and private. On Shane’s dining table. On his rug. In his bed. In his shower. In her office. Maybe other places to come. Didn’t Shane know what kind of sexy associations she’d built with him?
Probably not, it occurred to her. It had only been four days. At the rate they were going, they’d be married by May.
