Gimme Some Sugar

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “I write fucking romance novels, sweetie. I’m making it up as I go.”

  The deep rumble of a throat being cleared startled the two women from their friendly embrace, and Carly looked up to see her restaurant manager shifting his weight uncomfortably in front of their table.

  “Sorry to interrupt, chef. But there’s a phone call from New York on line two.” Gavin’s eyes shifted to Sloane, lingering for a second before settling back on Carly, his seriousness never wavering.

  “Oh, God. Is it my brother?” Carly jerked out of her chair, but Gavin stepped in with a quick shake of his head.

  “No, no. The guy said he’s calling from Gracie’s? Said it’s important that he speak with you, otherwise I’d have taken a message, since you’re, ah . . . obviously in a personal meeting.” He gestured awkwardly to Sloane, who fixed him with a lifted brow before turning to Carly.

  “It’s got to be Travis.”

  Carly’s exhale sank like a soufflé coming from a lukewarm oven. “Probably.”

  Sloane set her mouth in a firm line, jamming her hands into her hips as she stood up. “Do you want me to take a message? You shouldn’t have to deal with his shit right now. Plus, I’d love to have a little chat with him. After all, I’m the only person he hasn’t tried to lure over to the dark side yet.”

  The fact that Travis had tried unsuccessfully to schmooze both her family and her sous chef in the last few weeks filtered back to Carly, but she shook her head. “Definitely not. The last thing I need right now is to stir up a hornet’s nest with him.”

  Carly’s skin prickled with dread as she tried to think. Having to deal with Travis right now would put her over the freaking edge, and considering she had a packed dinner service that would start in a mere two hours, she just couldn’t handle it. “Gavin, can you tell him I’m not available, please? He’s just going to have to wait until I can deal with him.”

  Gavin nodded, one slight dip of his sculpted chin, hesitating for just a fraction before returning to the bar.

  “I hate that you have to go through this,” Sloane murmured, her ice blue eyes resting on Carly’s dark counterparts.

  “Me, too. Right now, I don’t feel like I’ll ever be free of Travis.” God, look at all the trouble she’d gotten herself into, following her heart like an idiot. She’d do well to remember it.

  Unless, of course, it was too late for that.

  Dinner service was on the downswing before Carly actually got a chance to breathe, which was fine by her. The controlled chaos of her tightly-run kitchen, complete with multi-lingual curse words slung back and forth between chefs, had forced her brain to function at a fundamental level. The steady rhythm of action smoothed the rough edges of her nerves so she could actually think. Not that she was any closer to answering the million-dollar question rattling through her brain.

  Had she told Jackson she loved him in the heat of the moment, or had she truly meant it?

  “Hey, chef Carly. Can I get a tiramisu on the fly? The guy at table sixteen just decided he wants dessert after all.” The server asking the question gave her a sheepish look, but Carly was grateful to have one more task to keep her hands busier than her heart.

  “Sure thing, Kelly.”

  They were slowing down for the night, and rather than holler out the order, Carly flipped a dessert plate from the cold stack and propped open the dessert fridge with her hip. She plated a healthy wedge of the dessert over strategically placed swirls of chocolate sauce. Carefully dunking a whisk in a chilled bowl of crème fraîche, Carly absently whipped it into soft, feathery peaks. The dollop she placed over the fine smattering of espresso powder curved up and over, reminding her of the graceful bend of a swan’s neck.

  A swan’s neck . . . a swan . . .

  The plate dipped in her hand, a bolt of shock arrowing through Carly with startling clarity as the tiramisu landed on the floor with a soft plop.

  Jackson was her swan. And even if it meant putting her heart on the line, she had to get over her past in order to trust what they had and believe he’d love her back.

  Carly plated a new wedge of tiramisu and quickly cleaned up her mess, heading back to the pass with a surge of settling calm. The idea of risking everything for love—again—should be scary, she knew, and yet the fear and unease Carly felt whenever she thought of how Travis had betrayed her was utterly absent in the face of how Jackson made her feel.

  She loved him. Was in love with him. And she trusted him to guard her heart.

  “I need a ribeye special medium rare and a swordfish braciole. We’re moving, people. I want these folks in the dining room fed and happy and telling their friends about it, let’s go!” Carly reclaimed the pass with a grin, snapping up a plate of shrimp scampi and inhaling the pungent, delectable combination of butter and garlic.

  Adrian lifted a wry brow, but a return grin tickled the edges of his lips. “You’re awfully happy over there.” He passed her another plate of scampi, which she garnished and sent out alongside a plate of chicken marsala.

  “We’re nearly done for the night, and the food looks perfect. What’s not to be happy about?”

  Adrian chuckled, calling out in a booming voice, “Yo, Sunshine! Where’s that peasant soup headed for table twenty-three? Chef Carly set the bar at perfect, so I suggest you get it up to the pass that way.” Although he sent the holler over his shoulder to Bellamy’s station, Adrian leveled a knowing hazel stare at Carly, as palpable as if he’d reached out to touch her.

  “You’ve been pretty quiet tonight, until now. Any particular reason for your change of heart?” His hands were a flurry of motion as he situated a perfectly trimmed ribeye on the grill in front of him, ducking down to the lowboy for the ingredients for the sautéed balsamic mushrooms that went with it. Despite his movements and unerring focus on what he was doing, Carly wasn’t fooled for a second about where his attention really lay.

  “I had a lot on my mind, that’s all. But I’m straight now. Or at least, I will be.” Carly paused as Bellamy hustled two bowls of satiny golden-orange soup, brimming with just the right amount of summer vegetables, to the pass.

  “Two bowls of peasant soup, up.” Both smelled seasoned to perfection, and after a quick dip with a tasting spoon confirmed it, Carly shot Adrian a smile.

  “Can’t find anything wrong with this one,” she said, nodding in Bellamy’s direction. The double doors leading to the dining room thunked with purpose as a server whisked the soup away, leaving Gavin room to slip into the front of the kitchen.

  “Someone would like to speak to you in the dining room, Chef. I told him you may not be available since we still have guests, but he said he’d wait as long as necessary.”

  Carly’s heart pinballed inside her ribcage. “Did he give you his name?”

  Gavin shook his head. “I asked, but all he said was he’s a personal acquaintance. I can tell him you’re occupied, if you like.”

  Her thoughts whipped to the way Jackson had come to see her on the sly all those weeks ago, to tell her the truth about that night in his mother’s garden.

  Maybe it was her turn for a little truth-telling now. She steeled herself with a deep breath. He wouldn’t let her down. She’d given him a chance when he came to her with his feelings, and he’d do the same for her. Carly felt sure of it.

  “Adrian, take the pass. Bellamy, tonight’s your lucky night. You’ve earned that grill, for a few minutes, anyway.” Carly watched with satisfaction as Bellamy’s green eyes went as round as Napa Valley grapes on the vine. In sharp contrast, Adrian’s gaze narrowed to I-don’t-think-so slits.

  “Something about this feels off, gnocchella.” The gravel in Adrian’s voice made his disdain clear, but Carly wiped her hands on her apron, undeterred.

  “It’s fine, Ade. Jackson and I have something to work out, but I mean it. It’ll be fine.” She squeezed his wrist, but couldn’t be sure if it was for his reassurance or her own.

  “If you’re not back in five, I’m coming o
ut there.” Adrian snatched a ticket from the queue and barked an order at the line.

  “In five, you’ll be plating the last few dishes of the night. I won’t be long,” Carly promised over her shoulder, nudging her way past the double doors with one hip.

  The dining room seated only a smattering of people, and as Carly’s eyes adjusted to the ambient light from the copper sconces and overhead fixtures, she scanned the room for Jackson’s familiar features. Coming up empty, she caught Gavin as he returned from checking in with the hostess.

  “You said someone wanted to see me?”

  He gestured toward the fireplace by the far wall. “Table sixteen. Do you want me to come get you after a minute or two?”

  Carly swallowed. Sixteen was a two-top, tucked away in a cozy alcove toward the front of the house. No wonder she hadn’t been able to see Jackson at first glance. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. Thanks, Gavin.”

  Carly set her shoulders and made her way through La Dolce Vita’s dining room. The idea of speaking her mind in this case was nerve-wracking to the tenth power, but even though she’d thought she had a gelato’s chance in hell of ever falling in love again, Carly knew without a doubt how she felt about Jackson. And he deserved to hear it, not in the throes of passion, but out loud. For real.

  Okay. Now or never. Carly worked up the words, putting them on the tip of her tongue and knowing they were right.

  Only what came out of her mouth as she rounded the edge of the alcove was nothing more than a shocked gasp, erasing all the words from her head save three.

  Oh, my God.

  “Hello, Carly. It’s been a long time.”

  After the ninth time his eyes glazed over, Jackson pitched his pencil onto the small desk in his apartment in disgust and gave up. So much for keeping occupied with work. Hell, his brain was in cahoots with the rest of him, and all of it was stuck on the sultry, brown-eyed beauty who had taken up residence in his every thought.

  Christ. He had to end it before his organs declared mutiny. Or worse, before he decided not to end it at all.

  “Fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to make his eyes water. Maybe it didn’t have to shake out like this. Maybe Shane was right, and he could make a go of it with Carly.

  Maybe he could love her without hurting her.

  His mother, in a blue and white nightgown, her eye swollen shut . . . sweeping up pieces of broken dishes . . .

  “It’s okay, baby. Your daddy just loves me a little too much, that’s all. But don’t you worry about that now . . .”

  “No.”

  Jackson stood, his chest tight with finality. He couldn’t risk loving anybody too much. No matter how badly the alternative was going to hurt.

  He grabbed his keys from the hook by the phone and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It took a good five or six blinks for Carly’s brain to get on board the reality train, and even then, she felt like she’d been slapped with some kind of really odd practical joke.

  “I know you’re finishing up a dinner service, but I was hoping you could spare me a few minutes of your time.” Richard Buchanan, the man who had unceremoniously fired her from Gracie’s eight months ago, gestured to the seat across from him with a well-manicured hand and a self-deprecating smile.

  Shock flooded through Carly on tiny electric currents, until finally, she forced her mouth to function.

  “What are you doing here?” She clamped down on her lip, heat streaking to her cheeks. Functionality had very little to do with tact, it seemed, and it wasn’t really Richard’s fault Travis had been such a snake.

  Wait a second . . .

  Understanding dawned, hot and quick, and Carly took a step back in surprise. “Did Travis send you to try and get me to come back to New York to do the show?” Of all the underhanded, lowlife things to do, this one had to be the worst! The white noise of anger rushed in Carly’s ears, and she vaguely felt the sting of her fingernails against her palms as she balled her fingers into fists.

  “What?” His graying brow clouded in confusion. “No, I came on my own. And I’m sure my being here is independent of Travis’s wishes.” Richard’s lip curled into a faint sneer as he uttered Travis’s name, and he motioned again toward the empty chair across from him. “Please, Chef.”

  Whether it was curiosity or just plain gob smacked auto-pilot that guided her legs to the chair, Carly couldn’t be sure. She tossed a quick glance over the dining room, but the crowd had thinned to the point that she knew Adrian would be fine without her.

  “I’ve got five minutes,” she lied, sitting stiffly on the edge of her seat.

  “That’s one of the things I always liked about you. Straight to the point.” Richard’s smile hinted that the words were a compliment rather than the sideways insult Travis always managed to lob her way when saying the same thing.

  Carly laced her fingers together and propped them on the table, trying mightily to hide her confusion. “Something tells me you didn’t come all the way from New York to check out the menu, and I do have a kitchen to break down for the night.” Her words held no bite, but stood firm regardless. He had fired her, after all. “So how can I help you, Richard?”

  “I’ll get right to it. I’m not above admitting I’ve made a mistake, which is exactly what I did eight months ago when I let you go.” His patrician features hardened into steely lines. “I want you back at Gracie’s, Carly. And I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make that happen.”

  A high-pitched chirrup escaped from Carly’s lips without her permission. “Are you nuts? I’m not working with Travis again.” She heard her tone only after her words were out, but she’d left decorum in the dust the minute her butt had hit the chair, anyway.

  Richard’s smile returned, and he fastened Carly with a knowing look. “We no longer require Mr. Masters’s services at Gracie’s. I’m in the market for an executive chef. One executive chef. Specifically, you.”

  Ice water seemed to have replaced every ounce of Carly’s blood, and it pumped through her veins with dizzying speed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Did you . . . are you saying you fired him?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Oh.” Considering the circumstances, the single syllable was all Carly could force from her lips. Richard took her near-silence as a sign to start talking, and he didn’t waste any time plunging into the hard sell.

  “Look, Carly, after you left, it became clear who the talent was. And more to the point, who it wasn’t. Between his lackluster skills and his poor kitchen management, Travis has done a number on Gracie’s, and I’ve been running damage control for months. Business is tanking, the bad reviews are piling up, and I need a change. I need you.”

  “When did you fire him?” she breathed, finally starting to gather her wits. Richard was offering her a chance to go back to New York. To redeem herself.

  To go home.

  Richard measured her with a careful glance. “Officially? About six hours ago. But the writing’s been on the wall for a few weeks now. Look, Carly, I’m well aware that the circumstances of your departure were . . . abrupt. I’m willing to make up for that.”

  Carly kicked up an involuntary brow. “I’m listening.”

  The hard sell turned into solid oak. “You’d have carte blanche over the staff. I understand Adrian is still with you here.” It came out sounding like a question, even though she was sure he knew the answer already, and Carly nodded once in reply. “Well. We’d be happy to welcome him back at Gracie’s, should you choose to continue as a team.”

  She pressed a humorless smile between her lips. Richard was no dummy. He knew that keeping her sous chef would be Carly’s number-one priority. “What about the restaurant manager?” Now this part ought to be interesting.

  Richard paused, no doubt remembering his daughter’s penchant for his recently fired executive chef. “Alexa has been heading up the management team at another of my restaurants f
or about a month now. I’m sure you’d replace her wisely.”

  Carly’s mind flashed, tumbling with so many thoughts she couldn’t keep them in line. The offer had just gone from good to great, and her chance at redemption was within reach. She could go back to the city she loved, reclaim a kitchen she’d damn well earned, and be close to her mama and brothers to boot.

  It was almost too much to process.

  Sensing her momentary hesitation, Richard jumped right back in. “All recipes you bring to the menu would be yours. If you ever left Gracie’s.” He stopped to clear his throat delicately before continuing. “You’d be free to take them with you and we’d remove them from our menu. Also, all final decisions affecting the back of the house, from whom we hire as dishwashers to how many pounds of Roma tomatoes we need in a given week, would be up to you. Just say the word, and you’ll have what you want. Whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want?” she echoed in disbelief. “How about salary?”

  Richard smiled, this time a colder gesture that didn’t reach his eyes. “While I like to think your previous salary was competitive, I understand you’d be taking on extra responsibilities as the only executive chef.”

  Not really, Carly thought. She’d pulled both her own weight and Travis’s while they were there.

  “I’d be prepared to match what you’re making here at La Dolce Vita, plus 10 percent, as well as cut you in on a percentage of Gracie’s profits.”

  All the wind left Carly’s lungs on a hard gasp. “You’re serious.” The salary alone was one thing. A cut of the profits . . . for someone with less than ten years’ experience, it bordered on legendary.

  “Deadly,” Richard agreed. “Look, I realize I’ve tossed this at you, and that you need time to think about it. I’ll be at the resort for the rest of the weekend. Call my cell and we’ll talk more tomorrow.” He slid a crisp, white business card across the table. “Just know that while I wouldn’t make this kind of offer to just anybody, it’s only on the table for a short time. I need you in there, Carly. The sooner, the better. You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”