Page 2 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out. My chef’s asking me a question about the special tonight, and my thumbs fly as I answer him and stride as quickly as I can across the floor to the back corner where Dale is tucked into a booth we usually save for VIPs.

He sets down his menu—as if he doesn’t know every single item on it—and glances up at me, his bald head catching the light of the glass wall sconce behind him. His tan leathery skin nearly glows against the stark white of his modern-fit dress shirt, under which strain the muscles he works daily at honing. Dale Gunderson may be fifty-four (and more than twenty years my senior), but he’s fitter and more stylish than I’ll ever be. Definitely richer too.

Dad would have approved of my choice of mentor.

“You’re late.” The edges of Dale’s voice tease, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

I stuff my phone away and slide across from him. “Your restaurant is going to be the death of me.”

Laughing, he snaps, and Beth—one of our best servers—appears with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Oh, none for me, thanks,” I say. “I’m still on the clock.”

“Nonsense.” Dale waves away my protest while Beth pours the red liquid into the glasses and disappears. He lifts his glass and swirls the wine, then looks me in the eye. “We’re celebrating tonight, after all.”

I stiffen. “We are?” All I know is what his email said: Read your proposal. Let’s do dinner and discuss.

It was very Dale-like—direct and to the point. And yet, mysterious, keeping vital information close to the chest.

“Well…” He draws out the word like silly putty. “There are obviously details to work out, but I’ve always known you had something special, Blake. I was just waiting for you to realize it too.”

My jaw drops and my chest aches. Words I’ve waited my whole life to hear—though from a different source that I’ll never hear it from now—and yet, there’s a flicker of apprehension too. “Thank you, Dale. I don’t know what to say.” Leaving the glass of wine alone, I fold my hands on the table and lean forward. “So, you liked the proposal?”

“It needs work.” He takes a sip, then snaps again at Beth, who brings out two sizzling steaks. Despite owning thirty restaurants across L.A., Dale’s not much for fancy food either. Quality food, yes. But give him a hunk of perfectly grilled meat and veggies heaped with butter, and Dale Gunderson is a happy man.

I thank Beth as she and her assistant Shelby bring out the shared sides of asparagus, mashed potatoes, and house-made sourdough. On the outside, I’m calm and collected. On the inside, my mind is roiling.

Finally, the food is all in front of us, and Dale lifts his knife and fork to his steak as if he didn’t just drop a bomb into my carefully laid plans.

Because I’d hoped this would go differently—that Dale would jump at the chance to invest in a restaurant that’s basically an expansion of the food truck I opened in college as a side gig. Not tell me it needs work, whatever that means.

I reach for my fork, but don’t lift it, instead running my finger across the cool silver neck. “So, um, what work do you think it needs?” Man, could I sound any less professional? At least my voice didn’t crack like a pre-pubescent ninny. But the uncertainty in it definitely shouldn’t belong to a guy who has his MBA from UCLA.

Dale lifts an eyebrow as he pushes a slice of steak into his mouth, groaning at the taste. “That’s good. You really should try it.”

I’m not exactly hungry right now—not with my future in the balance—but I want Dale to take me seriously, to know he can count on me to be steady, so I cut off a piece of steak and follow his example. The crisp, buttered edges of the cooked meat melt against my tongue, and something in me relaxes.

That’s what good food does.

And maybe Dale knows me better than I think he does, because a tiny smile flits across his lips. He reaches for his cloth napkin and pats his mouth. “The proposal was good, Blake. I like the basic ideas. The city isn’t overrun with restaurants specializing in grilled cheese, so the market research section was spot on. However, I think we need to push it more upscale than you proposed.”

“Really? More upscale, like this?” I glance around and hold in a shudder. Paprika is nice and everything, but a little fancy for my tastes. And these aren’t exactly the kinds of customers I pictured serving when I created my recipes. To be honest, I pictured the people in my hometown of Hallmark Beach, four hours north of here. I’ve spent the last twelve years since leaving there—first for college in Phoenix and then for grad school in L.A.—perfecting my recipes, always wondering what residents like my sister Marilee and Alberta Jenkins and Burt Reynolds (not the actor) would think of them.

Can’t help but wondering what she would think of them too.

“She” being Lucy Reynolds, the girl who got away.

Rather, the girl I left.

Two weeks ago, on the first weekend of April, I finally got the chance to cook for my hometown. In a bizarre twist of events, I landed back there for a last-minute wedding thrown by one of my sister’s friends. They needed a caterer, and even though I hadn’t returned to Hallmark Beach since my parents’ funeral six years ago, my sister was desperate.

I’d already failed her more times than I can count. I didn’t want to do it again. So I begged Dale for the time away, dusted off the truck I hadn’t used in three years since I started managing Paprika, and fired up the grill.

I was only in town for six hours, but it was heaven.

All but the interaction—or non-interaction, really—with Lucy, who shot me glares all night from afar. Not that I blame her, especially after what happened the last time I saw her. Still, she never seemed like the kind of woman to hold a grudge.

She didn’t even hold a grudge when I spent a year flirting with her and then left for college—just acted normal whenever I’d come home for the summer. After that, it was me who pulled away, who held her at arm’s length, and for good reason.

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