Page 3 of Wrong Number, Right Valentine

“No. Not now. Thanks. We are in General, and they’re going to keep him for observation overnight, and then if his oxygen levels stay the way they are, he’ll go home in the morning. But as you can guess, I’m not leaving his side.”

“Nor should you. Promise me you’ll call if you need anything at all and don’t worry about this place. We’ve got this.”

Even as I assured him, I wasn’t so sure. I could pick up extra tables, do less back of the house than I normally did on the fancy days. It would be hectic, but we’d get it done. But even if there was no way we’d be able to handle any of it, I’d never let him know. He had more than enough on his plate.

“Thanks.”

A crash came from the kitchen, and I bolted. It didn’t sound like somebody dropped a tray or a prep dish. It sounded far too loud for that. When I went in, I was right. Foster was lying on the ground, not moving.

“You okay?” Obviously he wasn’t, but it was the first thing that came out of my mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. I just… I just need a minute.”

Foster was my dishwasher and chef-in-training. He had aspirations to go to cooking school, but the cost kept him away. I might not be a cooking school, but I did my best to teach him on slower days and sometimes before work. He was a good kid and had started working for me when he was still in high school.

From the way his foot was twisted, I doubted a minute would be enough.

“I was the one who spilled it. Sorry,” he said. “I was going to get some rags to clean it up. it wasn’t like I didn’t know it was there.”

It took my brain a few seconds to catch up. He had slipped on some oil or maybe dish soap. It was hard to tell from my angle.

“Let me help you up.”

“Okay.” He didn’t sound so sure, and he was right to be nervous.

Holding my hand, he stood and cried out in pain. I quickly told the chef we were going and took Foster straight to the hospital. It didn’t take long to discover that he had broken his foot. He was going to be off of dish duty for a while. I could find some things for him to do so he could still work when he was up for it, but dishes were going to be a no go for weeks.

I wasn’t sure what we would do next as far as the restaurant, but I knew we’d figure it out. There had to be someone who could wash dishes for us. If not, I could do it. It wouldn’t be easy, but that wasn’t something I wanted Foster to even think about.

After dropping him off at home, I headed back to the restaurant, where chaos had fully ensued. I immediately jumped in, washing dishes for tonight. Valentine’s Day would be the real test, but at least if we could get through tonight, we might be okay. Or maybe we wouldn’t—but there was only one way to find out.

As I was scrubbing a particularly stubborn pot, my phone buzzed. Foster had left me a message. He said his friend was willing to help us out and asked me to call him with the details.

Normally I had an entire interview process, but not today. If Foster trusted them, so did I. I immediately dialed and was sent to voicemail. I quickly explained the details, thanked him for helping, and gave him the restaurant’s address. Problem solved. I'd follow up with a text if I didn’t hear anything by morning.

Of course, I couldn’t get off that easily. As I turned to see what the chef was asking me, my phone slipped out of my hand and landed directly in the sink—submerged in soapy water. No follow up text would be happening.Please let him just come in.

I groaned, pulling it out and shaking it dry. Not that getting the water off would help. The thing was already probably fried. I’d toss it in rice, but the water was extremely hot and gross. The odds were not in my favor. Well, I supposed it was better to have a ruined phone and someone coming to help than a fixed phone and no help at all.

Please let Valentine’s Day be better than today.

3

BANKS

As I turned the ignition, I was filled with doubts.

What was I thinking going on a blind date based on a rambling phone message?

I sat unmoving, my hand clutching the key. Ignoring the message was a possibility. I could pretend I never received it, it did populate late, after all. Reg and his comfortable shoes would have to solo Valentine’s Day. That was a good option, because the one thing more odd than me accepting the date was for Reg to call out of the blue because my boss said I worked too hard.

But I had to be pragmatic.

I was due for a promotion. It had been hinted at during the cozy lunches I shared with Foster. He thought he’d done me a favor by arranging this date. By not turning up, it’d be a huge F U.

Unless… unless… My Scrambled brain tried to grasp the thoughts as they flitted in and out. What if this was a test? If I bowed out, or chickened out might be a more appropriate term, what did that say about my ability to head a division at work?

Damn. I’d be screwed if I didn’t follow through.

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