Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  Three sharp knocks sounded on his sliding door, followed by a squawk and flap of wings. Bird-Brain deciding to try his luck with a second breakfast.

  “It’s open,” he hollered and ran a hand over his hair, which jutted up in ten different directions.

  Del had been up since before six and painting by seven. He’d ended up doing the whole damn house for Walter, instead of just the worst southern wall, but what the hell. Only the window trims left to finish and the house was done.

  The sliding door shrieked in its runner—another thing he’d added to his to-do list—and he walked out of the bathroom. Henry stepped inside.

  “Ah, your dad thought you’d still be here,” he said by way of greeting, and perched on the couch arm. “I wanted to have a little chat with you before we started filming today.”

  A little chat with Henry required another coffee then a gargle with mouthwash. Dealing with Ethan’s director always made Del feel as if he’d eaten something past its best-by date.

  Del entered the kitchen and flicked on the gas element under the kettle. “Coffee?”

  “Tea. Earl Grey, if you’ve got it.” Henry rested one skate-shoe-covered ankle on his knee.

  Skate shoes and fancy tea? Bloody hell. Del swallowed a smartass comment and said mildly, “Sorry. I’ve only got the ordinary stuff.”

  Henry winced. “I’ll leave it.”

  Del shrugged and rinsed his mug, one printed with the phrase: Never Trust a Skinny Cook. Piper had picked it out for West to give Del as a best man gift—much to West’s embarrassment at handing over the gift bag complete with girly bow.

  “Why are you here, Henry?”

  “Straight to the point. I like that about you.”

  Frankly, Del didn’t give a shit whether Henry liked him or not. But on a professional level, he didn’t want to screw with the little man’s good will—and it made him feel as if he had swallowed something coated in mold.

  “I prefer directness.” Del leaned against the rear kitchen counter, keeping the server between them.

  “Brilliant. I’ll be direct then.” Henry laced his hands around a skinny knee cap. “We had a team meeting last night, reviewing some of the footage shot over the past five days. Ethan says you’re one of the most charismatic chefs he’s worked with on camera. You’re a natural. You get into the zone, and not even a bomb scare could break your focus.” Henry beamed at him. The man’s grin radiated so much fake warmth it could’ve turned milk sour. “But…”

  Henry’s smile toned down a notch, and Del’s scalp began to prickle.

  “The same can’t be said about Shaye—”

  Del propelled away from counter and slapped his palms on the server, a flash-fire igniting in his gut. “She’s a solid sous—one of the best chefs I’ve worked with.”

  He’d take Shaye over Ethan-fucking-Ward any day—except Ethan could jumpstart Del’s career and get his life back for him…in the US.

  Henry held up a placating palm. “We’re not talking about her skills, Del. Just her presence on camera.” His eyes slitted, mouth drawing in tighter than a dog’s ass. “Shaye is as dull as proverbial dishwater. She never looks natural, never gets in the zone, because she’s always aware of the crew, and it shows.”

  “She’s not an actress! Shaye didn’t sign up for this shit; she’s doing her job.”

  “I understand. But today, you’re going to have a confrontation during lunch service, and you’ll fire her.”

  “What?” Del froze, his blood icing when a moment ago it’d run red hot. He stalked out of the kitchen, his fists clenched, itching to plow them into the man’s smug face. “The fuck I will.”

  Henry stood, staring him down. “You signed a contract.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the contract.” Del forced the words past a locked solid jaw. Henry could run his name into the mud, take him for every dollar in his bank account, but he wouldn’t betray Shaye.

  “Well, then. Do you care about Due South? We can pack up now and leave, but our legal team will take action against you, and your father and brother—both of them signed a contract with us.”

  His family? The little weasel was threatening Due South and his family? It’d kill his father and brother to lose the hotel in a drawn-out legal battle. Jesus.

  Del pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re asking me to screw over the only person who keeps the place going.”

  And the woman he cared about far too much. Being a chef at Due South meant everything to Shaye. How could he take that away from her?

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic.” He moved out of striking distance, scuttling to the sliding door. “Look—it’s only for the show. Shaye will have a few days off before her sister gets hitched, and once we’ve finished filming, by all means, reinstate her. No harm, no foul.”

  “I doubt she’ll see it that way, but I’ll talk to her.”

  Henry held up a warning finger. “No. You won’t talk to her about this—not before the shoot today. If you warn her of what’s to happen, it’ll show all over her pretty face. We want her honest reaction, not some farce where she pretends to be shocked and stunned.”

  They asked for Del to betray her, to use the trust she’d had in him to do the right thing for Due South against her.

  “She’ll be crushed. How can firing Shaye on international television do anything but make me look like a complete asshole?”

  “As a Ward On Fire contestant, you’re not aiming to be Mr. Nice-Guy.” Henry waved his hand in dismissal. “The viewers need to see you’re tough, to believe you can go from working in a tiny rural shithole, to working in Ethan’s empire. A chef who puts his sous’ tender feelings before business won’t gain any sympathy from the masses. It’s a wolf eat lamb world—show some teeth.”

  A month ago, Del would’ve agreed with Henry’s description of his father’s restaurant. But now…

  Tying on his apron, the gut twist of apprehension Del felt the first time he’d walked through those kitchen doors had gone. He’d grown accustomed to his father’s system of hand-writing everything down in ledgers, and the way Bill would show up to prep asking for Del’s instructions, as if the man hadn’t done it himself every day for thirty-plus years. He enjoyed swapping kitchen horror stories with Vince, and arguing the merits of rugby versus rugby league with Fraser. Even Shaye’s damn swear jar made Del smile—and yeah, he often deliberately added to it, knowing the local kids needed the extra library books the funds provided.

  And today, he’d shit all over what he’d been helping rebuild—not only Due South’s reputation but his fragile relationship with his father and brother—by dismissing the person he believed was Due South’s heart and soul.

  But what choice did he have? Say no to Henry, and Del risked the only thing that kept his dad going and potentially removed his brother’s only source of income. So, really, he had no choice. Easier to ask for forgiveness than gain permission. He’d do what Henry asked and make amends to Shaye afterward.

  She’d understand. She had to.

  “Okay. I’ll do it your way.”

  “Good.” Henry cocked his head, his dark eyes turning hawk-sharp. “Tell me, is it strictly business between you and Shaye?”

  Del dropped his hand from his face, his heart a numb thing still racing far too fast. Like hell would he give the man any more ammunition to use. “Of course. But in two days’ time, I’ve got to stand next to her at my brother’s wedding. She’ll fucking hate my guts.”

  Henry tsked. “Family dynamics, eh? Can understand why you moved halfway around the world to avoid them. Still, you’ll be rid of the whole shambling affair in a few weeks. You’re returning to the States, whether you make the finals or not, I take it?”

  Was he? Would he just walk away from his dad, leave the old man alone to deal with his health problems? Abandon his mom and now his step-sister Carly—and his brother, who looked at Del as if West were proud they were related?

  And Shaye. Who p
elted him with cookie dough one moment then touched him with such tenderness that his throat clogged with emotion. The one person who believed in him, who thought him a better man than he was. Would he walk away from her, too?

  “Yeah.” The word felt like a grit-covered stone in his mouth. “I’ll be returning to California in a few weeks.”

  He had to go. Any decision other than leaving was a stalling tactic. Time for a reality check. He didn’t belong in Due South. He didn’t belong on Stewart Island, period.

  Chapter 18

  Something was going on with Del.

  The man had a burr up his butt all morning, and she couldn’t do a single thing right. If cameras hadn’t been stuck in Shaye’s face, she would’ve socked him in the shoulder and told him to stop being such a bloody asshole—and gladly paid the dollar to do it.

  And okay, Del barking orders at her as if she were a first-year student on work experience hurt a teeny bit. This sudden return to jerktasticness, she told herself over and over, had nothing to do with the breath-stealing things they did with each other locked away from prying eyes. Maybe on afternoon break she’d sweet-talk him into taking her for a spin on Ford’s bike then ride him like a bronco.

  “Shaye!” Del yelled.

  She startled, knocking a plated frittata off the counter. Oh, crap! She never dropped plates, and that was her second this morning.

  “Goddamn it! What’s the matter with you?”

  Flustered, Shaye didn’t know whether to reach for a cloth or kick him in the shins. She stammered an apology, and Fraser appeared at her side with a broom.

  “I’ll take care of it, Chef,” he said.

  Del snapped out more orders. Pressure, she decided, squeezing her lips shut. She slanted a glance at Ethan, who gave her a sympathetic smile. Why Del had to be such a dickhead when Ethan went out of his way to be polite and professional—she couldn’t fathom. Admittedly, she wasn’t at the top of her game. They were close to chaos, as today’s lunch service was the first to experience Ethan’s new menu. The rare beef and foie gras, crab frittata, roasted quail and other dishes all tasted divine—but how would they go over with the locals?

  “Table three is getting antsy,” called Charlie, fidgeting at the window. “Where’s my frittatas?”

  “Ask bloody Shaye,” came Del’s snarled response.

  “Waiting on two beef, one pasta, one salmon for table six.” This from Lani.

  “Table nine is about to walk. Where the hell are my quails?” Helena chimed in.

  Ethan and Del’s orders flew around the kitchen like shotgun pellets.

  “Fire the mussels for table two.”

  “Eighty-six the quail.”

  “Pump it out, Vince, c’mon.”

  “Table six, run it.”

  “Shaye!” Del appeared at her side. “What the fuck are you doing? You’re meant to be expediting!”

  She reared back, scalded by his tone. “I—”

  “You’re standing there like a fucking statue.”

  “Sorry, Chef.” Her voice came out a choked squeak.

  “Sorry’s not good enough this time. Get out of my kitchen.”

  At first, she didn’t understand what Del meant, the contours of the face she’d traced with her fingertips so contorted that he’d become unrecognizable. Then her gaze flickered to his finger, extended and pointing to the door.

  “What?”

  “Get. Out.”

  Cogs clicked and rotated in her brain. She had to close her eyes a moment to work out the significance of his words. “Wait—are you firing me?”

  “Yep.”

  “You can’t.” Part of her—the bit not focused on her lover and the man she trusted ripping away the thing that mattered most—was proud of how she’d apparently learned to ignore Ethan’s crew.

  “I can. I have. You need to leave.”

  His eyes pierced her like cold steel, bereft of warmth or mercy. She saw the ruthlessness then, the determination that had transformed a heart-broken fourteen-year-old boy into a man who’d put ambition before anything else.

  “But, Chef—Del…please.” Everything she’d come to feel for him tore through her words, leaving them raw and bleeding at his feet.

  The only reaction on Del’s face was a slight muscle tic in his jaw.

  Henry and his insatiable need for drama would be behind this—no doubt the little man, hunched evilly in the corner of the kitchen, was salivating with excitement. Perhaps the director even expected her to burst into tears and beg Del for her job? Hard luck. She was a Harland, daughter of a man who’d had the discipline to train and dive to depths unimaginable on one breath.

  Shaye angled her chin. “You don’t get to fire me, Westlake.” She yanked on the ties of her apron. “I quit.”

  She balled up the apron and hurled it at Del’s head—which hit a bullseye of course—and stalked to Due South’s back door, where she whirled around to Cruz’s camera and flipped it the bird. Childish? Hell, yeah. But boy, it felt good.

  “Enough friction and disharmony for you, Henry?”

  Then she walked out and slammed the door.

  ***

  “You’ve got some nerve,” Glenna Harland said after opening her door—the one reserved for friends and family at her B&B.

  To say Shaye’s mom looked at him like something clogging a bathroom drain was an understatement. The Oban grapevine was alive and thriving. Del resisted the urge to swipe his clammy palms down his legs and instead shoved his hands into his pants pockets.

  “Been told that before, ma’am.” Sticking with squeaky-clean politeness might work in his favor. “But I’d like to speak with Shaye, if she’s here.”

  And please, let her be there…he’d looked everywhere else.

  He’d texted, rung, and left messages while on bathroom breaks—the crew must’ve thought he’d had the bladder of an eighty year old—but nothing.

  West shoved him into his office the moment lunch service and filming was over, demanding to know why Del had fired his soon-to-be sister-in-law. After he explained, West had shaken his head and sighed.

  “I’m going to find her now and sort this out,” Del said.

  The best laid plans and all that shit.

  After he’d banged on her door for five minutes, Denise had come upstairs and told him to quit it—Shaye wasn’t there. So he’d tried her friends—Kezia, Holly, Erin from the Great Flat White Café. Figured women went to their female friends first when a guy acted like a horse’s ass. The three women had stonewalled him with similar replies. After hell freezes over, I’ll tell you where Shaye is.

  He wasn’t brave enough to ask Piper or Ben if they’d seen her.

  Finally, Del returned to Due South and ran into Carly. His sister called him an asshat, and said, “Try her mom’s place, but don’t you dare mention you spoke to me.”

  So, he’d fronted up, asshat-extraordinaire, on Glenna’s doorstep.

  “You’re the last person my daughter wants to see right now,” Glenna said.

  He swallowed past the thickness in his throat but didn’t lower his gaze. “I think you’re right, ma’am, even though I had good reasons for what I did.” Time to play his trump card. “And I’d like to try to explain those reasons to Shaye before the wedding. I don’t want any animosity between us to mar Piper and West’s big day.”

  Glenna’s rigid posture softened, and she huffed out a long sigh. “You’d better come in.”

  Del followed her into the hallway.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” Glenna said quietly. “I’m sure you remember where it is?”

  His stomach flipped in a sickening roll, though his childhood memories of the Harland’s place were mostly good ones. He’d belonged here then, even if it were only as a tagalong. Glenna and Michael Harland had given him safe harbor and the messy noise of a family who loved each other to replace the vacuum of affection in his own home.

  He nodded, reaching out for the door handle. Glenna’s hand closed over hi
s before he could turn it. When he glanced up at her, her hazel eyes were bright, intense.

  “We never got over losing you, Del. None of us—me, Michael, the kids, and most of all, your father and Ryan.”

  His stomach dropped at the sudden topic change and the shot of emotion it fired through him. “Ah. I thought you were mad at me?”

  “Oh, I am. Plenty mad.” Glenna flashed a grim smile. “But I believe you when you say you had good reasons to do what you did. You’d never do anything to truly hurt her or your family. You’re still one of my little tribe of hooligans.”

  Many times as a kid, he’d overheard Glenna refer to her children’s circle of friends as her tribe, the words surrounding him in the warmth of inclusion and affection. Now it filled him with an aching loneliness. Maybe he’d left a hole here thirteen years ago, but it was too late for him to fit into it again. His shape had changed. He wasn’t a kid whose biggest problem had been his parents’ imminent divorce, but a man with jagged edges and a whole shit-load of baggage.

  Yet, he was touched enough to kiss her cheek, the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 5, he remembered—curling around him. “Thanks, Glenna.”

  “Go talk to her.” She squeezed his hand then let go, moving out of his way. “I’ve seen the two of you together, I know you’re…” A pregnant pause as Glenna dipped her head and looked up at him with a meaningful glance. “Good friends. So for goodness sake, don’t make it worse.”

  Del nodded, because hell, what could he say to her? Yep, I’m the kind of good friend who has boned your daughter every chance I got. Or, I’m the kind of good friend who’ll continue to crave Shaye, even though we’re almost at the bottom of this dead-end street. Some friend.

  “Right,” he muttered and opened the door.

  Good luck to him in not making everything a lot worse.

  Shaye had her back to him in the massive kitchen, her right arm stirring something agitatedly in a big mixing bowl. Vanilla and caramelized sugar and chocolate drifted in the warm kitchen air, the sweet scents of a woman baking off her mad. Del pressed his lips together as her arm froze, and she turned her head.