Page 58 of Long Shot

I purse my lips. Hmm. Reese can be a bit of a diva, apparently.

“Sorry,” Sid mutters, moving to get another one.

“You have your own knives?” I ask.

“Of course.” She beams at me.

“I’d get in trouble if I touched one?”

“Only if you value your fingers.”

“Got it.”

We’ve made progress with the new menu in the past few days. I took Reese back to Food Depot and then to a big farmers’ market where she went crazy for a bunch of fresh local produce. “It’s so much better if we can use local ingredients,” she said happily.

I was a little worried about the cost of the food.

“Look.” She planted her hands on her hips. “I’m not one to be wasteful. Chefs are taught to never waste anything. In past jobs I was judged on profit margins and sales numbers, not just good reviews from food critics. I know what I’m doing. But if you want a quality menu that will keep guests coming back, you’re going to have to spend some money to get that.”

So we sat down in the office to go over numbers, taking food costs, overhead, and payroll plus a nice profit margin into consideration in pricing menu items. When I expressed my concerns that customers wouldn’t want to pay more, she told me to check out other restaurants and what they’re charging for comparable items. So I did. And she was right.

Annoyance mingles with admiration. At one time, that might have pissed me off. But part of running a bar and restaurant has been admitting we don’t know everything we need to and hiring the best people who do. And clearly, Reese is a top-notch chef.

It’s actually hot.

Now watching her parry Sid’s comments about testicles with equanimity all the while slicing up avocados and chopping herbs with flying hands is actually turning me on, for Chrissake.

“Jenn, you can mix up the sriracha mayo.” She picks up two limes and tosses them to Jenn, who catches them with a grin.

She’s effortlessly taken control of the kitchen, and everyone seems happy to do her bidding. She gives clear direction and makes it apparent that she has high standards . . . but she’s not overbearing about it. She has a fun and charming way about her that everyone responds to, and she’s getting results.

I want to fuck her so bad.

Hell. I close my eyes briefly. This is not good.

What’s worse? I’m pretty sure she feels the same. But she’s been avoiding being alone with me since the staff party on Sunday, when I tried to ask too many personal questions.

BANG!

An explosive crack from the alley behind the bar shakes the building, rattling dishes and pots and pans. Everyone in the kitchen flinches, including me.

“What the hell was that?” Paul asks.

I open my mouth to say I think it’s the refuse truck emptying the Dumpster out back, but nothing comes out as I watch Reese dive under a stainless-steel counter. She scrambles backward, whimpering, pushing herself into a corner.

Jesus.

I clock the stunned expressions on the faces of Paul, Sid, and Jenn, then turn my attention back to Reese.

Paul laughs. “Reese, what are you doing?”

The laughter dwindles as they all move to stare at her, cowering, shaking, her arms around her knees, head down.

I slash a hand at the others to tell them to back off and stride over to her. I crouch, then drop my ass to the floor of the kitchen and scoot nearer to her. I’m a lot bigger than she is and have to duck my head. “Reese.” I keep my voice low and firm. “Reese, it’s okay.”

I slide an arm around her shoulders, which are trembling so hard I’m afraid she might break a bone. She starts at my touch, but I pull her closer, wrapping both arms around her, awkwardly given our position. “It’s okay,” I murmur again. “You’re okay.”

Her head jolts back and forth and she makes a noise in her throat, something low and distressed. But she doesn’t push me back or try to get away. If anything, she presses closer.

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