Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Valentina
Paesano, New York
Trattoria Rustico
B usiness was slow.
But then business was always slow on Tuesday nights. It would pick up on Thursday and through the weekend—at least I hoped so.
Trattoria Rustico was my family’s fifty-year-old restaurant, and it was up to me to ensure its survival. As manager and owner, I filled in where necessary, and these days that meant being in the kitchen.
It was impossible to keep kitchen staff for longer than a month. I suspected my head chef, Tony, was to blame, but that was a problem for another day. Tonight we had to get through dinner service.
Anne Marie, my best server, walked in, a concerned frown on her face. “Tony, I gotta have that chicken parm. What the fuck is going on back there?”
“Keep your fuckin’ shirt on,” Tony called from behind me. “It’s coming.”
I checked the time on the ticket. “They’ve been waiting almost forty minutes. Why is it taking so long?”
“I had to get a chicken breast from the freezer, Val. There weren’t any prepared.”
The fuck? How could we not have any chicken breasts ready for dinner service?
Now was not the time to get into it, though.
“Douchebag,” Anne Marie muttered under her breath and went back into the dining room.
Tony placed two plates onto the pass with a snap. “Order up! Spaghetti and meatballs and penne alla vodka.”
I wiped the edges of the plates and placed a sprig of parsley on each. Then I found the ticket on the line. Table four. Just as I was about to take the food to the table myself, Christina came into the kitchen. She was younger than me and a terrible employee. But her father was the mayor, and no one said no to the mayor.
She grabbed the plates of pasta from my hands. I could see something was wrong by the look on her face. “What is it?”
“The guy at table seven is, like, a serious asshole.”
Great. A problematic customer was all I needed. “Is he drunk?” We occasionally got one of those if we didn’t carefully track how much alcohol they were served.
“No, he’s foreign. I think Spanish, maybe. He keeps asking questions about the menu and telling me how wrong everything is. Literally like I care.”
“Why is he giving you a hard time?”
“Because he’s a dick?” She took the plates and walked out of the kitchen.
I didn’t like customers mistreating my employees. It was hard enough to find people willing to work here. I looked across the line at Tony. “You okay for a few minutes? I want to see what’s going on.”
“Yeah,” he waved his hand at me. “I got it handled in here. ”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I had bigger problems. My heels clicked on the floor as I pushed my way into the dining room. Seven tables were occupied, even though it was peak dinner hour. Shit. Not great.
Ignoring that for the moment, I glanced over at table seven—and nearly tripped.
Oh, wow. Hello, sir .
A very handsome older man sat in the back of the round booth alone, one arm stretched out along the top of the leather back. He wore an expensive-looking gray suit, and the huge silver watch on his wrist gleamed in the soft overhead lighting. Why were big watches like that so sexy on men?
A weird flutter went through my chest as I took in the dark wavy hair, the strong features, the high cheekbones. He was clean-shaven, so there was no missing the full lips or the small cleft in his chin. His jaw was a work of art. Some men were just born to stop traffic, sculpted by divinity to drive women wild, no matter his age.
Well, one of those was now sitting in my restaurant.
Fine. Okay. I could handle him. Hot or not, he didn’t have the right to be a dick. Not in my restaurant.
Table Seven lifted the full glass of red wine on the table and brought it to his face. I expected him to drink, but he smelled the contents instead. Then his top lip curled and he set the glass back on the white tablecloth, untested.
The nape of my neck tightened and my skin grew hot. Was he implying my wine was bad?
Remain calm. Stay in control. I could do this. This was my domain.
I walked over to his table. “Good evening, sir. Is there a problem with your wine?”
Deep brown eyes met mine. The color of strong coffee, they were filled with intelligence and confidence. And plenty of disdain. “The problem is this wine is an insult to the people of Toscana.”
Italian . I would know those long vowels and rolling r’s anywhere. It reminded me of my father, and a wave of irrational anger rolled through me. I swallowed it down, as I always did when thoughts of my father threatened to ruin my day. “I would be happy to get you a fresh glass. Or a different wine, if you prefer.”
“I was told this is the best wine you offer.”
“Maybe you would prefer a beer, then. Or a glass of whiskey.”
“What I want, signorina, is a decent glass of wine.”
Yeah, this guy was a total dick. Customer or not, I didn’t need this grief in my life. “Well, there are a lot of other restaurants in Paesano. Maybe one of them has a wine that will meet your standards.”
He barely blinked, his stare so intense that I felt it in the toes of my high-heeled shoes. “You are supposed to please the customer, no? Not kick them out. Perhaps I should speak to the owner.”
“You are speaking to the owner.”
His lips twitched, as if this information pleased him. Which made no sense. “I see. So you are the one who pretends to know my language.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “What are you talking about?”
“The name of your restaurant is incorrect.”
“Look—” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the table waiting on their chicken parm standing up to leave, their expressions both angry and annoyed. Shitballs.
I hurried over to see if I couldn’t get them to stay. “Mrs. Taylor, Mr. Taylor. Please, don’t go. Let me go see what’s holding up your food.”
“Oh, Val.” Mrs. Taylor grimaced and exchanged a look with her husband. “Sweetie, we really can’t wait any longer. Mr. Taylor has low blood sugar and if he doesn’t eat . . .”
I held up my hands, pleading with them. “I know you’ve been waiting on your food for a long time. I’m so sorry. What if I bring you something to tide you over?”
“We have to go,” Mr. Taylor said. “There’s a game on tonight.”
“Well, let me send you home with some food. Salad or a dessert, maybe. ”
The older couple started edging away from me, heading toward the door. “That’s alright, honey,” Mrs. Taylor said. “We’ve got some leftover chicken tetrazzini in the fridge.”
Damn it, this was a disaster. I followed them. “Fair enough. But the next time you visit, your dinner’s on me.”
“Sure, Val,” Mrs. Taylor said, but it didn’t sound genuine. Were they placating me to get out of here?
I waved good-bye and let them go, my shoulders slumping in defeat. Forgetting about Table Seven for the moment, I marched toward the kitchen, angry beyond words.
This is your responsibility. You’re in charge. And you’re failing. Get it together, Val.
Chaos met me when I pushed inside. Anne Marie and Tony were screaming at each other. Bits of the conversation started to take shape in my brain.
“—make the food as the tickets come in, bitch,” Tony snapped. “I’m not playing favorites.”
“Bullshit,” Anne Marie yelled. “You’re putting her tickets first because you’re fucking her—even when it costs me customers.”
Wait, were they talking about Tony and Christina? And they were . . . ? Oh god, the mayor was going to kill me.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Tony said. “No wonder your husband left you.”
I legit gasped as Anne Marie snarled, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”
Tony didn’t back down in the least. “You heard me.”
Anne Marie grabbed a plate and hurled it at Tony’s head. “You asshole!” Tony ducked and the plate hit the back wall, shattering.
I shouted, “Wait a minute! Both of you!”
“See?” Tony gestured to the broken plate. “Fucking crazy!”
Anne Marie went for another plate—but a pair of suit-clad arms suddenly wrapped around her, holding her still.
My heart dropped. It was Table Seven. And he looked pissed, his dark eyebrows pulled low, his jaw taut as he kept hold of Anne Marie.
“Let me go!” She twisted, trying to break free.
“Basta, signora,” he said in a commanding tone that no one—man, woman or child—would argue with.
Silence descended.
I didn’t know what to say. Horror and embarrassment had taken hold of my tongue. One of my customers had broken up a fight in my kitchen. Could things get any worse?
“I am going to release you,” Table Seven said to Anne Marie. “No more throwing of plates, per favore.”
She nodded and Table Seven let her go. Then Anne Marie held up her hands. “You know what? Fuck this. I’m done.” It took only a second for her to throw her keycard on the counter. “Good luck with this asshole, Val. He’s the reason no one wants to work here. He’s verbally abusive and completely incompetent.”
I tried to stop her, calling, “Wait, Anne Marie. Don’t go.”
But she was already gone, the kitchen door flapping behind her. I rounded on Tony. “Are you kidding me right now?”
He shrugged. “Eh, she’s a bitch. Whaddya gonna do about it? Besides, you’re better off.”
That was the second time he’d called Anne Marie a bitch, and I hadn’t liked it either time. And I one-hundred percent believed Anne Marie’s assessment of him. Now everything made sense. “You’re fired.”
His jaw dropped open. “You’re firing me ? I’m the only thing holding this place together. Without me, you’re fucked, Val.”
“I don’t care. I’m tired of the late tickets, the sloppy plates, not following directions. You are costing me both customers and good staff.”
His expression twisted with fury as he slapped the metal counter with his palm. “Fire me? Fuck off! I’m the only person willing to work here. You’ll never find another chef.”
“You fired Tony?” The kitchen door swung closed behind Christina as her eyes darted between Tony and me. “You can’t fire him, Val.”
“Why? Because you’re sleeping together and you know your father won’t approve, so this is the only way you can sneak around to do it?”
I heard Table Seven mutter, “ Madre di dio ,” but I kept my gaze on Christina. She lifted her chin like the belligerent teenager she was. “Don’t be such a bitch. He’s the only reason I stayed. The tips are literal shit.”
“If you don’t want to work here without him, then go. Both of you, just fucking go.”
Tony whipped off his apron and threw it on the floor. “You’re gonna regret this, Val. Come on, baby.”
My last remaining waitress threw her order pad and keycard next to Anne Marie’s on the pass. “Yeah, you’re fucked, Val.”
The two of them marched out the back door, letting it slam shut behind them. Mike, one of the two line cooks, walked over and turned off the burners on the gas stove. “What should we do, Val?”
“Can you or Pete take over tonight?” Maybe I could wait tables. God knew I’d filled in many shifts before. Then the evening wouldn’t be a total loss.
Mike and Pete exchanged a look. Neither looked particularly enthusiastic about taking over. I suppose I couldn’t blame them, considering they hadn’t been working here long.
Mike scratched the side of his neck. “I don’t know. Tony was still teaching us.”
I nodded, even though I wanted to scream about the unfairness of all this. But it wasn’t Mike and Pete’s fault that they weren’t ready. It was like this place was cursed.
Do something. This is your responsibility.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I needed to close tonight. Maybe for the entire week, until I hired another chef and more servers. “Why don’t you two take off? I’ll send the customers home and we’ll figure all of this out tomorrow. ”
Ignoring Table Seven, who for some reason was still standing in the kitchen, I went to the back. John, my dishwasher, was busy loading dirty plates into the rack, his head bopping to the music blaring from his ear buds. I flicked the lights to get his attention without scaring him half to death.
He took out his ear buds and grinned over his shoulder. “Hey, Val. Everything okay?”
John was in his late twenties. I knew he’d been in jail a few years ago for stealing a car, but I didn’t judge him. None of us had it perfect in this life. He was an excellent employee, and I’d pushed him for months to go out onto the floor as a server. He claimed he liked washing dishes best because no one hassled him back here.
“We’re closing early tonight. And we’ll probably be closed for a few days.” I swept my arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Almost everyone just quit.”
“Oh, shit. What did I miss?”
“It’s not worth explaining. Bottom line, I should’ve fired Tony a long time ago.”
“Yeah,” John agreed, wiping his hands on a towel. “Him fucking Christina wasn’t ever going to end well.”
Did everyone but me know? “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought everyone knew.”
“I’ll see that you’re paid until I find a new chef.”
“Thanks, Val. I appreciate that.” He gestured toward the stack of dishes. “I’ll finish up for the night. Just bring back anything that needs washing.”
“I will, and thank you.”
I hurried to lock the back door, just in case any recently fired employee tried to return. Then I went to my office to turn off both the online ordering system and the phone. No sense in taking orders we couldn’t fill.
When I returned to the kitchen, I found Table Seven opening a fresh bottle of wine. I nearly tripped. Like, what the hell? Yes, he looked like a contestant on a reality show called Italy’s Hottest Business Daddy. But I didn’t need him to witness any more of my humiliation. “What are you still doing here?”
The man rolled his hand as if the answer were obvious. “I’m pouring you a drink.”
“I don’t have time for that. I have to go deal with the customers.”
He filled a glass halfway with red wine. “I have done that already. Have a drink, signorina.”
He had? I peered through the tiny window in the kitchen door into the dining room. Sure enough, empty. “What happened? How did you clear everyone out so quickly?”
“I gave each table one hundred dollars and told them to get the fuck out. Along with your boy, the one that cleans the dirty tables.”
There had been six tables other than his out there. And he sent my bus boy home, too? Who carried seven hundred dollars in cash on them?
I’d think about that later. He was standing beside me now, his expensive cologne filling my head. Why did he smell so good? A glass of wine appeared in front of my face. “Drink.”
“I really shouldn’t. I have a thousand things to do tonight.”
“No, you don’t. Take a breath and have a drink. Your problems will keep.”
He made it sound so easy. But there hadn’t been time in my life to take a breath, not since before my mother got sick. Who was this stranger to order me around?
Except that glass of wine looked amazingly good.
I stared at it, feeling myself weaken. I did need to relax. Wasn’t that what my friend Maggie always said? And this had been a really, really shitty night.
Still, I didn’t trust men bearing gifts.
I peered up at him. “Is this because you feel sorry for me?”
“No, this is because I have been in this country for two days and am still searching for a decent glass of wine. Maybe this will be the one. ”
Despite all my woes, my lips twitched in amusement. “Are you a wine snob?”
“I am from Italia,” he said with an elegant lift of his shoulders. “Take the glass, signorina. You deserve it.”
I did deserve it. Fuck it.
Our fingers brushed as I accepted the wine and I ignored the little thrill that rocketed through me. “I’ll pay you back,” I murmured before taking a long sip. The wine was rich and flavorful, a delicious explosion of bold fruit on my tongue. “Wow, this is good. Which one is it? The pinot noir?”
“No. I bought a decent bottle from the place next door.” He went to the counter and poured his own glass. He held it up to his nose and smelled, his eyes closing in concentration. “ Bellissimo .”
A wave of heat went through me at the Italian word in his low, pleased tone. My cheeks grew hot, so I hid my face with another drink of wine. I watched him do the same, the thick cords of his throat working as he swallowed. Why was this attractive man here?
“ Allora , this is proper wine,” he declared.
“Why are you here?” I blurted. “In my kitchen, I mean.”
His dark brown gaze slid over my face, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. There was something dangerous and enigmatic about him. “Because I feel sorry for you,” he replied, confirming my earlier suspicion.
Oh, god. That was depressing.
I tapped a finger against my glass. “When I came to your table, you said the name of the restaurant was wrong. What did you mean?”
He set his wine glass carefully on the counter. “Trattoria Rustica. Not rustico . Trattoria is feminine.”
Whatever way you spelled it, the name sounded incredibly sexy rolling off his tongue. Sexy or not, though, this was insulting. My voice turned frosty. “My family has owned this restaurant for over fifty years. No one has ever pointed out that the name is wrong.”
“Ma dai,” he muttered and dragged a hand down his face. “You know nothing of your heritage. ”
“Yeah, well. We live here, not there.” And some of us hadn’t ever visited Italy, either. I wanted nothing to do with my father or his homeland.
“That is no excuse.”
I downed the rest of my wine. “Thanks for this. But if you don’t mind, now I have to clean up so that I can go home and take the world’s longest shower before dropping into bed and catching three hours’ worth of sleep before coming back here in the morning.”
He heaved a sigh at my rambling and shook his head. Like I was a ridiculous child. “You are better off. These people, they were terrible.”
“True, but no one’s knocking down my door to work here.”
He reached for the bottle of wine and refilled my glass. “Have another drink and tell me why.”
I probably shouldn’t, but what the hell?
Lifting the glass, I took a deep swallow. My shoulders eased slightly and I leaned against the counter. “Because I suck at this job, apparently.”
Oh, shit. I covered my mouth with my hand. Had I really said that? Normally, I had to be super drunk to start letting my insecurities show.
Maybe I should slow down with the wine.
“From what I could tell, the food and service were awful. But these things are not entirely your fault.”
My lips parted as I stared at him for a long beat. “Wow. You just say whatever you want, don’t you?”
The edge of his mouth kicked up, making him appear a hundred times hotter. Why did I find this man so attractive? Did I have daddy issues?
Of course I have daddy issues. I barely know my father. And I’m still grieving for my mother. I have everything issues.
Table Seven waved his elegant hand. “A habit from a young age, I’m afraid. Tell me, why are you in charge here? You are obviously young. Why are you not attending university, partying with friends? ”
Did I honestly want to get into my life history with a perfect stranger?
Granted, a stranger who smelled like heaven and looked like an Italian movie star. And what was I rushing home for? An empty house, a reality show, and a carton of ice cream? Besides, John was still washing dishes in the back, so it wasn’t like Table Seven and I were alone.
Another glass of wine wouldn’t hurt.