by Candace Shaw
“Really? And why is the main door unlocked? It shouldn’t be unlocked until ten minutes till opening.”
“Damn, man. I didn’t realize…” Rasheed looked guilty as he walked toward the double glass doors.
“I already locked it, but please make sure it’s locked in the future. If Brooklyn were here, it wouldn’t be a big problem, but she’s not. She knows it’s Friday. Where is she, Rasheed?”
“Man, I don’t know exactly. Somewhere in the back.”
Justin didn’t want to become frustrated with his best friend, but when he hired Rasheed’s sister for the head hostess position a few months ago, he expected nothing but professionalism. He walked behind the bar and pulled a bottle of water from the mini-fridge below.
“Going to my office.” Justin untwisted the cap and gulped a deep swig of the chilled water.
“Are you hanging tonight?”
“Yep. I may stick around for a while and do some work on my barbecue sauces for the competition.” Justin couldn’t believe the food critic told him his sauce was bland and tasted store-bought. It was his mother’s recipe. He’d changed it slightly over the years and was working on a few others as well.
“Man, I’m excited about the Pride of Tennessee Barbecue Sauce Competition! This could really put us on the map! I can’t believe they are upping the ante this year!”
“That’s why I have to win.” Justin leaned on the bar. “Just think, the grand prize will be a southeastern distribution contract, not just the state of Tennessee like last year. Glad I waited to enter this year’s competition.”
“Jay, you’re going to win. I mean, who wouldn’t like your sauce?”
Justin laughed sarcastically in his head. Well, apparently a sexy little food critic didn’t care for it. But what does she know?
“Say, were you here when a food critic from The Memphis Tribune stopped by a few nights ago for a surprise visit?”
A wide, devilish smile formed across his friend’s lips, which meant he was definitely present and had probably flirted with Shelbi.
“Yeah, man. Sexy little caramel-coated babe with hips…” Rasheed stopped to demonstrate with his hands exactly how wide Shelbi’s hips were.
A sudden tinge of jealously crept into Justin’s being at his friend’s description of Shelbi. He was surprised, considering he’d only just met her, but for some reason he didn’t want anyone else to think about her the way he did. Sassy. Witty. Cute. He wanted her all to himself, which surprised him even further. Though he had neglected to ask for her number, he was sure he could call the Tribune and ask for her.
“What did she order, and did she enjoy it?” Of all the times for him to be on vacation, a food critic made a surprise visit, and a sexy one at that.
“How did you know a food—”
“Don’t worry about that. Did you greet her? Offer her an appetizer or two, drinks from the bar, dessert? What entrée did she have, and who prepared it?”
“Slow down with the twenty-one questions, man. The copy of the receipt is on your desk. Anthony prepared her dinner.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Naw, man. She just typed some notes into her cell phone and took most of her food to go. I was the perfect gentleman in your absence.”
“You asked for her number, didn’t you?” Justin dreaded the answer.
Rasheed Vincent was a ladies’ man. Female customers always scoped out the bald mocha Adonis, hoping he would give them the time of day. An ex–professional basketball player, he had more women calling and texting him than Wilt Chamberlain claimed to have slept with. If Rasheed were a rock star, women would literally throw their panties at him, and he would happily catch each pair.
“Nope. Not my type.”
Good. Justin breathed a sigh of relief. He would hate to challenge his boy to a duel.
Justin was anxious to get back to his office to see the receipt, not because of the amount, but to know which of his recipes had touched her lips. He was disappointed he hadn’t been in town to make the meal himself. He would love to cook for her, watching her pouty, kissable lips taste a dish he prepared. Maybe she wouldn’t be so critical about his barbecue sauce and he could go into greater detail as to why he didn’t serve pork.
“Was she alone?” he asked with a tight feeling in his chest. A woman as fine and intelligent as her probably had a man. Lucky fellow to have all those damn hips to hold on to.
“A distinguished-looking dude was with her, but I don’t think they were a couple. He was too busy checking out all of the honeys, stealing my action.”
“What’s up, fellas?” The men turned to see their other best friend and restaurant manager, Derek Martin, stroll in. He joined them at the bar. “Just came back from the cardiologist.”
“Are you all right, man?” Rasheed inquired with a concerned face.
“I’m good. That’s why I go often, to make sure my blood pressure and cholesterol levels stay low. You know heart disease runs in my family, and yours too, Justin. You may want to go for an exam soon.”
“I’ll pass.” Justin turned to go. He had work to do.
Derek chuckled in a sarcastic way. “Exactly, you will pass if you don’t know you have a problem until it’s too late.”
“Derek, let’s not start this conversation again.”
“Man, I know you despise doctors, but…”
“Look, your mother didn’t die at the hands of a surgeon who didn’t try hard enough to revive her. Doctors don’t care whether or not a patient dies. So no thank you, but I’m glad to know you’re doing well.”
“No problem, Jay. I just want to make sure my boys are healthy. You know we’ve had each other’s back forever. You guys are like my brothers.”
Justin had promised his childhood friends when he was finally able to open his Lillian’s, they would be a part of it. Rasheed, the general manager as well as a part owner, and Derek, the business and financial manager, were the only people he trusted to help run his restaurant.
Once in his office, Justin noticed a business card paper-clipped on top of a receipt lying on his desk. He picked it up and was elated to see whose name was on it. The card was light pink with bold burgundy writing and Shelbi F. Arrington typed in a cursive font, but most importantly, it had her cell phone number. He turned it over and read a note, not so neatly scribbled: Have your executive chef call me soon for an interview.
