Page 49 of 1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Forty-Seven

Settle down in a long-term relationship.

Devon shook her head hard. “No, Jordan. I’m done with matchmaking and gossip and humiliating attempts to set me up. He’s here temporarily and I don’t want to get involved. Do you understand?”

Jordan chewed her lip. “Sure.”

Devon threw up her hands. “I mean it! Tell everyone to back off and let the poor guy run Vintage for his cousin without interference. Okay?”

“You haven’t even met him yet! What if he’s your soulmate?”

She spun on her heel and began closing up. “He’s not. I’m grateful he’ll be taking Mac’s place so the animals don’t suffer. I’ll be nice and neighborly but that’s it. And I demand your respect. You’re my best friend for God’s sake!”

“I know, but that’s why I don’t want you to leave any stone uncovered. You’re amazing, Dev. The funniest, sweetest personI know and I’m pissed no male in this town has scooped you up yet.”

Her anger softened at the kind words. “Dammit, don’t be nice or I can’t be mad at you.”

Jordan winked. “Then my plan worked. I gotta go, but maybe you should head over to Vintage and introduce yourself? I’m sure he’d love to chat about the Fur Gala.”

“Maybe.”

Jordan chuckled and gave her a quick hug, then walked out, her short blonde curls bouncing over her shoulders. They’d immediately bonded when Jordan first came to town, and Devon had to admit it had been nice having a single girlfriend to hang out with. They’d hit Atlantic City, Bethany Beach, and Wild Wood clubs till late at night, until Jordan ran into the love of her life at a bachelorette party—a curvy, fiery redhead named Sistine, who stole her designer purse on a dare and then stole Jordan’s heart. Now, they were living together happily in Cape May and talking about getting married within the next few years.

Devon was thrilled but a tiny bit sad she’d lost her wing woman. Still, she adored Sistine and traded in one best friend for two. Not a bad bargain.

Maybe Jordan was right. She’d pop into Vintage tomorrow and welcome Jameson to town. It must be overwhelming to inherit a packed itinerary in a restaurant he wasn’t familiar with. She'd offer her assistance and warn him of the town’s shenanigans when it came to single males. They’d laugh about it and have some fun planning the Fur Gala.

Devon locked up the shop and headed home, whistling happily to “Jingle Bells.”

Christmas was the best.

* * * *

God, he hated Christmas.

Jameson Franklin stared moodily at the restaurant he’d inherited for the next eight weeks and wondered how he’d manage. When Mac called to ask for the favor, Jameson didn’t hesitate though he knew it’d be a challenge. Family helped family no matter what. He loved his cousin, but other than their shared passion for food, they were complete opposites.

His gaze took in the cheerful, homey type of décor that he normally avoided at all costs. Years working under one of the best French chefs had given Jameson a love for austerity, order, and restrained elegance. No dish or sauce came without a perfect pairing of red, white, or sparkling wine. He preferred small courses that led up to a finish, but without overwhelming the patrons with excessively sized dishes. There was a story to his menu at all times, and he took pride in running the Bordeaux Café in Manhattan. So far, he’d had no desire to open up his own restaurant, though he knew if he decided to, it would be a success. After a decade of living and studying the food industry, and being taught from the very best the culinary world could offer, Jameson knew all the factors to create a thriving business in a competitive industry.

He just hadn’t felt the ambition or need to go on his own. Owning anything in this world meant not only responsibility but becoming limited in all options.

No, thank you.

He frowned at the limp garlands strung along the rafters of the dining room. The spray of white and colored lights littering the windows. The endless red flowers and cheap décor that made him feel like he’d stepped into one of those chain Christmas stores to bulk up on items for a house party. He’d completed a thorough investigation of the staff, menu, vibe, and setting, coming to one final conclusion.

Vintage was one hot mess.

He fought the urge to throw up his hands and squeak through, allowing Mac to keep his vision and habits, even though Jameson knew the man would be broke within the year. When he’d tentatively asked about profit margins, Mac had laughed it off, calling the restaurant the child of his heart. Besides serving an overabundance of high-quality food for reasonable prices, he seemed to open the doors to any type of not-for-profit party in the beach town, taking a hit on the expenses under the guise of charity. Vintage had been a BYOB place for years, and Mac only recently attained his liquor license—a perfect opportunity to increase profits. Instead, Jameson had almost screamed when he saw the wine inventory offered at cost, and no specialty cocktail menu where drinks were cranked up to fifteen dollars a pour.

Hadn’t his cousin completed a business course?

Even worse? When he inquired why the BYOB sign was still out, Mac told him the customers still liked to bring their own champagne for brunch, and he allowed it.

He’d been struck mute in horror and unable to text his cousin back.

Mac cited large crowds, but it shouldn’t be an element to boast about. From what he’d observed this past week, there were regulars who took advantage of low-balled prices, excellent food, and Mac’s good heart. Even the staff, as lovely as they seemed, had happily informed him of their revolving complicated schedules, telling him when they needed to leave or switch shifts as if he was running a college rather than a restaurant.

Jameson headed to the back, ignoring the slight throbbing of his temples. It was Friday and he anticipated a busy evening. After-work celebrations and family gatherings in preparation for the holidays had them fully booked. If only Mac tookadvantage of the customers’ loyalty and tightened his ship, his cousin could make a killing.

Suddenly, he stilled as the thought hit him hard. His gut twisted with excitement. Maybe Jameson could help. Imagine if Mac returned home from caring for his sister and saw a brand-new Vintage? One with tasteful décor, higher prices, and a cocktail menu. He’d stop the bleeding and present his cousin with a thriving, profitable restaurant with a graceful nod of his head and a humble acknowledgement.

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