He nodded.
Looking a little doe-eyed in the dim lighting, the long-haired brunette led the way to the family booth back in the far corner, then handed him the menu. Not the usual one, but a new narrow one-pager, in fuchsia. He perused the column of Today’s Specials written in a fancy font, and was surprised to see Rita had changed things up. Where was the pot roast, the meat loaf, the poached salmon?
Instead, he found a list of meals he’d never seen before, including beef tenderloin steaks on potato galettes with mustard sauce. What the hell was a potato galette? Organic farm-raised chicken breasts with fresh garlic and rosemary, sweet potato mash and kale. Who ate kale on purpose? Pan-seared tuna? Had Rita started smoking something besides her Virginia Slims?
When Abby, the long-term waitress, arrived to take his order, he lifted his brows and held out the menu. “What’s up?”
“New chef.”
“Rita retired and I didn’t hear about a party?”
“It’s next week.”
Maybe his crazy work schedule had finally caught up to him. “Okay, then.” He glanced at the menu again. “Well, what do you recommend?”
“I’m hearing great things about the beef tenderloins tonight. You’ll love those potatoes. Tried ’em myself earlier.”
Too hungry to think about heading up the street to the Bee Bop Diner for a burger, he ordered a beer from his grandfather’s adjacent pub and agreed to the beef dish. “Can a guy still get a green salad?”
“Of course, fresh baby greens—organic, of course,” Abby said before listing a series of weird new dressings.
With his hungry mind thoroughly boggled he shrugged. “Just… I’ll take the white wine and shallot one. Whatever.” What was going on?
He seriously worried about the fate of his family’s hotel if the restaurant went under. People in this small beach community didn’t like change, and many had been coming here for decades for inexpensive, traditional meals. That was another thing he’d noticed, a price hike for dinners. Not huge, but there nevertheless. He didn’t care because he didn’t have to pay, but what about the locals?
While he waited for food and drink, he thumbed through his phone wondering what a shallot was. Read a few lame tweets, checked his text messages and got sidetracked with an attached article in an email. His beer came, and shortly after, his salad arrived, which tasted better than any he’d ever had from Rita. Changing up the dressings turned out to be a great idea. Or maybe the improvement had something to do with using fresh spring greens other than iceberg and romaine?
When his main course arrived, plated like nothing he’d ever seen at The Drumcliffe before—the perfectly medium rare tenderloin was sliced and balanced on an oval mound of brown and crisp sliced potatoes, and topped with mustard sauce and fresh parsley—where had they found the new chef?
Half-starved, he dug right in, deciding to leave the questions for after dinner. Wow, was his mouth happy about that decision. Several times he sat straight, purposely slowing down his chewing to savor the flavors and tenderness of the meat. And Abby was right about the potatoes. They tasted like a little piece of starch-and-butter heaven, with a hint of cheese. They were so good they had to be bad for him.
“What do you think?” His mother appeared at his booth. She seemed to be primped up more than usual for the Saturday night crowd, her natural red hair cut just below her earlobes, parted on the side in a classic style, her green eyes sparkling like she had a big secret. Wearing beige slacks and a top nearly the same color as her eyes, Maureen Delaney slid into the booth across from him.
He shook his head, smiled with sealed lips because his cheeks were crammed full of the delicious food. He swallowed half of it. “Best meal I’ve ever had here. Ever had anywhere.”
Maureen grinned, seeming to enjoy watching him eat as if she’d cooked it herself. When his plate was scraped clean, he pushed it away.
“My compliments to the chef. That was, hands down, the best meal I’ve ever tasted.”
“Ever?” Obviously surprised, she gave a relieved smile.
“Ever. And you can tell whoever replaced Rita, I said so.”
Maureen sat still, weighing her thoughts. “Why don’t you tell her, yourself?”
He had thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and they’d obviously hired someone who knew what she was doing. With him being out of the loop and chronically busy with work, just like he’d missed Rita’s last day, he’d probably missed the new employee newsflash, too. Who read hotel memos, when he had to read hundreds a day at work?
He understood the value of a good chef and a compliment for a new and nervous cook would probably go far, so he agreed. “Okay.”
Conor finished his beer and headed for the hotel kitchen, aware his mother stayed behind at the booth. Grinning, and ready to do his good deed for the day, he barreled through the door to the busy and hectic kitchen. “That was the best dinner I’ve ever had. My compliments to the chef!”
He scanned the activity and zeroed in on the area of the stove, to a petite female in a double-breasted pink chef jacket with gray cuffs and a matching slate chef beret, her short light brown hair barely sticking out from beneath. At the sight, a sudden ball of emotion wound tight and rolled from his chest to his overly stuffed stomach, then dropped to his knees, locking them, and he came to a dead stop.
Shelby. Lyn. Brookes. Turned out the new chef was the woman who’d not only broken, but ripped out, stepped on and chucked his heart into the ocean exactly two years, seven months and three weeks ago. Not that he was counting.
She looked as stunned as he was. Busy juggling various dishes at the eight-burner stove, obviously flustered, her hand slipped, spilling a bottle of something that looked like whiskey over a thick and quickly grilling steak, and onto the gas flames. A fire flashed, like a magic trick going awry, and she jumped back, her previous rattled expression turning to pure fear. She squealed as a blanket of smoke covered her, and he sprung to action.
Being in a job like his, one filled with surprises and challenges, and having grown up in and around the hotel kitchen, he wasn’t dealing with his first fire. Conor had the presence of mind to locate, rip from the wall and use the extinguisher over the flaming steak and burners, putting out the fire in record time…at the expense of a prime cut of meat and a few other meats grilling nearby. At least he’d avoided the blare of a fire alarm. He kept the most unexpected and unwelcomed meeting with the new hotel chef between him and her, and, oh, the startled restaurant crew…who all stood around with mouths agape and eyes wide.
*
Shelby couldn’t believe what’d just happened, or the fact Conor Delaney had put out the fire she’d started. Because of him!
She knew she’d have to face him at some point when she’d applied for and accepted the job offer from Mark Delaney. Her choices were nil back east and she needed to regroup before moving on. Now here she was facing down the guy she’d left behind. The guy she’d betrayed. The guy she used to love like no other.
And setting a fire.
Why did he have to come for dinner on her very first night at The Drumcliffe?
Seeing Conor, the sweetest person she’d ever known, all grown up and devastatingly good-looking in that deputy sheriff’s uniform, she’d lost control of her hands. It didn’t help that she was overcome with a huge surge of guilt. Good thing he’d had the sense to grab the fire extinguisher.
Conor set the empty extinguisher on the stainless-steel counter, leveled her with a haunting stare, reminding her how careless she’d been with their promise, then left without a word.
Maureen showed up. “You okay? Everyone okay?”
Shaken, Shelby gave a nod. Her sous-chef began tossing the fried meat and ruined food into the trash. The kitchen cleanup crew—one mature woman from housekeeping looking for extra shifts—took over from there.
Maureen draped her arm over Shelby’s shoulders. “No burns? You sure you’re okay?”
“I just need a minute. I’ll make
up for this.” She couldn’t lose her job, not on her first night. She had dinners to cook, people to feed. A reputation to save.
“I know you can,” Maureen said with a sympathetic gaze.
Rather than stand there shaking, Shelby jumped back to work, and while she did, her mind worked overtime.
Slapped-down by life, and now a devout realist, she knew the only way to make her dreams of becoming a great chef come true was to start small, to prove herself, work her way up from there, then one day run her own first-rate NYC kitchen. Not to depend on anyone but herself. Maybe, if she worked hard enough, she could put The Drumcliffe Restaurant on the map in Central Coast California. But not if she burned the place down first!
Grabbing a fresh pan, she chose another prize cut of beef, seasoned and buttered it before placing it on the cleaned grill. “Abby?” She called over the waitress who’d ordered the steak. “Please give a complimentary appetizer to your table for the wait, but let them know their meal will be right out, okay?”
The waitress gave a smiling agreement, grabbed a large prong shrimp appetizer from the iced waiting bin and left.
Sure Shelby knew her new job almost certainly guaranteed she’d see Conor. Mark had warned her Conor still lived at the hotel when he’d hired her, and realizing it would be inevitable, she’d been prepared. But man-oh-man, she was anything but when Conor had walked into her kitchen.
Instead of quitting on the spot, she was determined to prove that after all those years in New York, she hadn’t wasted her training in culinary school. She belonged in this kitchen. But seeing Conor immediately reminded her how much she used to care for him, and the fact he was a living, breathing heartthrob hadn’t helped a bit. He seemed to have just kept on growing, looking larger than life. And handsome, oh, momma, was he handsome.
Here she was at twenty-nine, still trying to hit her stride, find her place in the world, and he was obviously a grown-up, dependable, responsible man in uniform. The polar opposite of all the other men in her life since leaving Sandpiper Beach.
She flipped the steak, doused it in seasoned butter and in another pan started searing a tuna order.
This was it, her time to finally realize her potential. To prove herself. Nothing would stop her. It wasn’t solely for her sake anymore, but for the sake of her son, too. She couldn’t fail. She was a single mom with a baby boy to take care of.
“Order up!”
*
The rest of the evening, Shelby managed to keep up with the incoming orders, though still totally thrown by seeing Conor. While she cooked, her mind went over how she’d wound up here, back home in Sandpiper Beach, living with her mother, working at The Drumcliffe Hotel’s restaurant.
They’d made a promise their last weekend together, and she’d planned to honor it, too…until her life had imploded.
By Conor’s reaction earlier, it was clear he hadn’t forgiven her for standing him up. Could she blame him?
“Order up!”
She’d had a chance to study in France three years ago. Hadn’t he always told her to go after her dreams? Stuck in another lateral-movement sous-chef job, she’d felt Paris was an opportunity to break out, to finally focus on becoming a renowned chef. While there, she’d met the most talented chef she’d ever worked for. He was très européen and sweet and sexy and… How many more adjectives could she use for him? He’d deserved them all.
Of course, she was young and still dumb and she’d let herself get swept away by his amazing charm, his culinary greatness, his everything. Most important, he’d made her feel special, like she’d felt no other time in her life.
Wait, check that, there was that July in Sandpiper Beach when she’d felt the same. Loved, cherished, adored. By Conor.
But things soon changed with Laurent. The shine to their romance wore off. The veil slowly lifted from her eyes, and after several months of having her as his chef groupie, he’d gotten bored. She sensed it before he’d told her so. Though brokenhearted at first, she’d tried one last time to make things right between them. Laurent welcomed her back, too. That last night hadn’t changed a thing between them. Yet it had changed every-single-thing else.
It had taken moving back to New York, and several weeks, to finally figure out she’d never loved him, that she’d only been infatuated. By the time she’d come to her senses, she remembered the one person she’d loved since high school, Conor Delaney, and how they’d made a promise to meet again. She’d checked the calendar and bought her ticket, deciding not to let anything keep her from the one true love she’d ever known. She’d go home tomorrow, stay with her mother and surprise him on the day. Just like they’d planned, she’d meet him on Sandpiper Beach at the second lifeguard tower. Their lifeguard tower. At sunset.
She’d been packed and ready to go, but something troubled her: her period, or lack thereof, and she couldn’t ignore it another day. So she’d taken the test. Then fallen on her bed and cried until her eyes burned and face hurt.
There was no way she could fly to California to face Conor as they’d planned. She was pregnant.
*
By the end of the first evening as head chef of The Drumcliffe, Shelby had cooked and plated nearly a hundred meals. Not bad for a newbie who’d started a stove fire only a couple hours earlier.
There was something else she’d realized. Earlier, when she’d looked into Conor Delaney’s eyes, she’d known without a doubt she’d hurt him to the core. That drove home the point how unworthy she was for a good guy like him, when she’d so easily been seduced by a player’s charm.
But she still owed Conor an apology, and the truth. Hell, she’d owed him that for over two years, when she should have used her ticket and flown home anyway. It would’ve been the right thing to do. But she’d been too messed up to face him then, had felt too guilty. Couldn’t bear the thought of owning up to one more mistake while feeling so raw and vulnerable. Now he’d find out soon enough anyway. Who knew? Maybe Mark had already told him.
After cleanup and shutting down the kitchen and restaurant for the night, Maureen came in.
“I just wanted to congratulate you,” Maureen said. “I’ve heard so many raves about your food. I’m positive word will get out.”
“That’s great.” Normally, she’d be thrilled to hear it, but Shelby’s mind was elsewhere, and she couldn’t lay her head down on the pillow that night without confronting Conor.
Shelby and Maureen walked together out of the kitchen. “Can you tell me where Conor lives? I need to talk to him,” Shelby asked, just before they turned out the lights.
Maureen looked puzzled. Surely, she knew how Shelby had hurt her son.
“He still lives here in one of the family suites at the back. I just saw him at the hotel pub. But now might not be a good time to talk to him. I’m a little embarrassed to say he’s been drinking.”
*
Conor finished his second beer and ordered a chaser. “Whiskey, please.” His second cousin, Brian Delaney, grandson of Grandda’s baby brother, Néall, and the new bartender straight from Ireland, raised a dark brow above intense blue eyes.
A bony ancient hand, cold like ice cubes, came out of nowhere and patted his forearm resting on the bar. From the feel of it, Conor wondered if his eighty-five-year-old grandfather was still alive.
“Are ya sure, lad?”
“I’ve only had a couple of Guinnesses,” Conor answered defensively.
“And you have a whiskey, you’ll be skuttered. What might be botherin’ you?”
Conor resented his grandfather stepping in and telling him to slow it down. If he did that to all his customers, Padraig’s Pub would go broke. But he also knew the old man cared about him. Truth was, he had to work tomorrow, and having a hangover wasn’t something he needed. Or wanted. “Brian, make that a glass of water.” He remembered he’d also had a beer with dinner, so he’d already gone over his personal limit.
Why did he have to remind himself about dinner—the best meal he’d ever
had—and seeing her?
“Have something on your mind?”
“Nah, Grandda. Just had a surprise earlier, that’s all.” A surprise that nearly knocked him on his ass—seeing the girl he’d known since fourth grade and loved since the tenth.
Padraig Delaney wedged himself between the guy sitting on the stool next to Conor and his grandson. Far too close for Conor’s comfort. “A little birdie told me about the new chef.”
Conor had never told a single person how Shelby had stood him up the night he’d intended to ask her to marry him. The man lived in blissful ignorance where his grandsons were concerned, and seemed to like it that way. Grandda couldn’t possibly be heading in that direction. “What about it?”
“That Mark hired Shelby Brookes to help our restaurant compete in town.”
“Well, from the meal I had tonight, I’d say he made a good choice.” He’d do his best not to give himself away. Even though he intended to personally ring Mark’s neck for hiring the one person he never wanted to see again. If Grandda had a clue how messed up seeing Shelby had made him feel, he’d start spouting Irish jibber-jabber about the fates and fairies and how life always worked itself out, often in mysterious ways. The Irish version of fortune cookie sayings.
“It’s your turn, you know.”
Conor almost spilled the water Brian had just delivered. Grandda wasn’t really going there, was he? Tonight of all nights? He held up his free hand. “Don’t say it. Please.”
“We can’t deny fate.”
There it was. Give me strength. Was it too late to reorder the whiskey? But there was no arguing with the man from Ireland with a head full of fanciful thoughts, as his father called them.
“You boys saved that seal. How much proof do you need that it was a selkie? Both your brothers have found their ladies.”
Last year, worried about Mark moping around for so long after being discharged from the army, Conor and Daniel had rented a boat for some deep-sea fishing in an attempt to cheer him up. They’d wound up coming upon a pod of orca giving a lesson to an orca calf on how to catch a meal.
Reunited with the Sheriff Page 2
