Page 1 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

one

BLAKE

I’ve heard it said that life is a series of moments.

All moments encompass the same amount of time, and yet, not all moments are created equal. Most pass inconsequentially. You won’t remember them. They might build toward some bigger thing, but they aren’t the bigger thing itself.

This is not one of those moments.

I inhale and exhale a final breath, adjust my tie, and exit the manager’s office at the back of Paprika, a five-star, urban-chic restaurant that serves a bunch of fancy dishes I’d never normally eat. But I cooked them, back when I was just a lowly chef’s apprentice straight out of grad school. That was before Dale saw my potential and plucked me from the program, placing me on the path to management.

Sometimes, I really miss those days of anonymity in the kitchen. Not that it was stress-free. Let’s just say that working with food is easier than working with people. But if being the manager of one of the most popular restaurants in Los Angeles is what I have to do to make my dream come true—to get back into the kitchen, and with my own recipes—then so be it.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Even now, as I walk onto the restaurant floor with purpose—the scrape of silverware hitting platters, the boisterous laughter of foreign businessmen, the soft hum of jazz music floating—I’m flagged down by the hostess. She knows I’ve got a meeting with Dale and that I’m not to be disturbed if she can help it.

I’d say it’s good to be needed, but when it’s a twenty-four-seven situation, it gets a little exhausting.

I glance at my watch as I stop at the hostess station. “What’s up, Denise?” Turning my back to the customers who are hanging out in the lobby, I face my very pregnant lead hostess. “I only have a moment.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry, Blake. Mr. Moffitt.” Denise looks like she’s going to cry, and that’s no small thing given she’s usually tough as nails. Maybe it’s the hormones. She told us all the other day that she sobbed at some commercial featuring puppies, and that her husband was concerned for her well-being. Still, I don’t like the idea of my people being so stressed that they’re crying. I might work eighty-hour weeks and let the pressures of this job get to me from time to time, but that’s not what I want for them.

“It’s fine.” My voice is gruff and short, but thankfully, Denise doesn’t seem to notice. “Now how can I help?”

She grips the deluxe hostess stand—which looks more like a secretarial desk you’d find in a fancy law office, given its size and the fact it’s made of the finest oak—and keeps her eyes focused on something behind me. “Somehow we’re double booked. The gentlemen by the door have a party of twelve, and the women over there want a twelve-top for their bachelorette party. Both of them have reservations for the same table. And the men have been…testy.”

I jerk my head up and glance back. I’ve seen enough to know that the men are those kind—the ones in suits who think the importance of their jobs and the size of their bank accounts entitle them to treat “the help” poorly. Pursing my lips together, I glance back at Denise. Study her closely. “Did they threaten you?”

She rubs her finger against the corner of her right eye and blinks. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Denise straightens. “Sorry for getting emotional.”

“Hey, if I need to throw them out…”

Denise glares at me. “I’m not letting you do that. Not tonight, with Dale here.”

I shrug. “Dale supports how I run this place.” Not that he knows about every jerk I toss out of here. Maybe he wouldn’t be okay with the effect on the bottom line. But he cares about his employees. He’s a decent guy.

I wouldn’t be potentially staking my future on him if he weren’t.

My stomach twists at the idea of said future. But I have to deal with this problem before I can contemplate what Dale’s going to say to me tonight. Why he sent me that email this afternoon. “How are wait times looking?” I ask.

“An hour at least. Probably closer to ninety minutes. Another eight-top just got seated.”

Not unusual for a Saturday night in the city. Personally, I don’t get it—I mean, our food is good and service impeccable, but is any food worth waiting two hours for? I rub the bridge of my nose and think. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll appeal to their sense of chivalry—whether they have one or not—and comp them fifty percent off their meals. Let’s clear a spot at the bar and give them a free round as well.”

Denise nods along with my plan. “Great idea. But I’ll handle it. You go.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You sure?”

“Yes. I know this meeting is important.”

She may not know why it’s important—because I haven’t told a soul about the fact that I finally submitted to Dale the business proposal I’ve been tweaking for the last three years—but Denise is perceptive. It wouldn’t surprise me if she somehow knew my dream of opening my own restaurant, or that I finally got up the courage to ask my boss and mentor to become an investor.

“All right.” I point toward one of our nearby busboys. “But if you need backup, Trent can assist.”

Denise lifts her chin. “I’ve got this.” Then she flicks on a smile and approaches the gentlemen—though I hesitate to call them that, honestly. The lead guy, with his pomaded head and Ray-Bans tucked into the collar of his expensive shirt, curls a lip at her. But thankfully, he listens. Finally, he nods, gives another dude a fist bump, and directs the group to follow Denise to the bar.

Phew. Another crisis averted.

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