CHAPTER 2
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Miguel
Smoke invaded his nose. The nauseating smell sparked instant panic in his gut. “What’s burning?” Miguel whipped his head around and squinted at each stovetop in the kitchen. His gaze zeroed in on the boiling pan of cooking oil, smoking unattended on the furthest burner.
No! Not again!
Dropping the clipboard in his grasp, Miguel lunged for the ticking time bomb and gripped the handle before gently shifting it aside and away from the open flame. “Who’s cooking with this?” he roared with sweat dripping from his brow. He turned off the burner and stared daggers at the smattering of prep cooks and kitchen assistants. Fury built in his chest with each passing, silent second. “I asked, who is cooking with this?”
“What’s wrong, boss?” Michelle’s weak voice echoed in the still kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” Miguel hung his head. “What’s wrong?” he repeated and pointed at the slowly cooling cooking oil. “Who here knows the exact temperature at which smoking vegetable oil turns into a pan of wildfire?”
The eerie silence rang in the kitchen, all eyes focused on the smoldering oil.
Anger bubbled in his belly as their blank stares returned his simple question. “Four fifty,” he muttered and pointed at the smoking pan again. “At four hundred- and fifty-degrees Fahrenheit, cooking oil becomes an uncontrollable flame. I’ll give you three guesses what temp this pan—”
The memory impaled him, the chaos of the freak accident hammering into his mind as flames licked his brain with recall. Releasing a breath, Miguel shook his head and closed his eyes as the screams faded. “Pier Ninety-Two burned to the ground in a grease fire once.” On my watch. “And so help me, God, it will not happen again. We have to be more careful, you guys,” he added.
“We’re sorry, boss,” Michelle whispered.
Lifting his hand to his forehead, Miguel kneaded the brewing headache. He sighed and returned his gaze to the kitchen staff. His heart sank at their stunned, motionless expressions. “Shit, you guys, I just...”
The door to his right burst open and Kate and Callie walked in, both balancing a stack of empty bread baskets. They froze in unison to stare at the still kitchen. “What?” Kate frowned.
I look crazy, don’t I?
Miguel backed away from the hot oil and retreated to the dropped clipboard on the floor. He picked it up with a still sinking heart, witnessing the slow movements of the staff as they returned to their jobs.
“I overreacted,” he mumbled and locked eyes with Michelle as she dunked a utensil in a pot and stirred.
A shy grin lifted her lips. “Must have been one hell of a fire.” She ladled soup into a bowl and stepped away.
The flames reappeared in his mind, the heat returning to sear his skin. Eyeing the pink scars spanning the length of his right forearm, he sighed.
I can’t let it happen again.
“I won’t let it happen again,” he whispered and lifted his line of sight to the orders piling up on the digital screen.
“Oy! Dennis, where are we at with that salmon?” Callie called as she refilled the baskets with fresh bread. “Table ten is complaining about the wait.”
Her voice faded away as Miguel slipped out the side door and into the hallway. Groaning with each step forward, he trudged to his office and shut the door.
The quiet space penetrated his ears; the calls and clanks echoed from the kitchen in the distance. With a heavy sigh, he sank into his seat and rolled toward the desk. Drawn like a magnet, his gaze latched onto the photograph in front of him. The memories of the original Pier Ninety-Two returned to his mind’s eye—Lauren’s beaming smile squeezing his heart with the ghosts of the past.
“I miss you, boss,” he whispered. Resting a finger on her face beneath the glass, Miguel closed his eyes and dropped his head to the surface of the desk. “You ran this place so much better than me.” His body relaxed against the wood. “And who am I kidding? I miss having you by my side.”
But I see why you gave this place up.
The memory of Lauren Templeton-Benson’s laughter sang in his ear, the years spent together, working side-by-side running the restaurant consuming his heart. Miguel opened his eyes and the solitary office looked back—a stark comparison to the lingering loneliness in his soul.
The phone rang and Miguel scooped it up. “Yeah?”
“Boss, it’s Michelle. There’s a lady on line two for you. She says she’s the new head chef you hired?”
“Oh! Okay, yeah, put Melissa through.” He straightened and rolled his neck around his shoulders as the line clicked over.
“Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Yep, hi, Melissa. How are you?”
“Calling with some bad news, I’m afraid.”
His stomach clenched, taking with it the last remaining ounce of patience for the day. Sighing into the phone, he cringed.
“Er, well, I’m not really sure how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m sorry to tell you I can no longer accept the job you offered me. My husband is being relocated to the East coast and...”
Her voice drifted away in a meaningless wave of noise. Dropping his forehead into his palms, Miguel wrinkled his nose.
It took me three months to find and hire you! You were supposed to start next week!
A clank from the kitchen echoed down the hall, rattling his brain even through his closed office door.
Damn it. Now what am I supposed to do? The kitchen is falling apart!
“Mr. Rodriguez? Can you hear me?”
Miguel swallowed. “Umm, yes, I can. Sorry—”
“Well, like I said. I do apologize for the trouble,” she added.
“It’s okay.” It’s so not okay. “My best wishes to you in the future.”
The line disconnected.
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Miguel closed the front door and flipped the lock. Rubbing his eyes at the late hour, he waved at Michelle.
She tugged on a sweater and stepped out from behind the bar. “You heading out, too?” she asked.
Miguel shook his head. “Not yet. I need to post a new ad before calling it a night.”
“For what?”
He sighed. “A head chef.”
“Wait, I thought you just hired one?”
“I did.” He rolled his eyes. “But she can’t take the job anymore.” Miguel leaned forward on the bar and picked at a sticky crumb. “Back to square one,” he murmured.
“Well shit, that sucks! We really need an extra hand back there. And some leadership.” She flung her arms in the air and huffed out a breath. “I mean, you saw the mishap this afternoon.”
Miguel blew out a heavy breath. “Sure did.”
With a frown, Michelle adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder. “Anything I can do?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. You go home. It’s been a long day.”
“You sure? Because I can totally stay and—”
“Go home.” He smiled and sank onto a barstool. “But I appreciate your offer.”
“G’night then, boss.”
“Night, Michelle. Thanks for your work today.”
She nodded and her footsteps echoed down the hall—the tiny tinkle of a bell sounding in the distance as she exited the building.
Groaning, Miguel stood and pushed the barstool back in place. He eyed the swanky new space, recalling the former walls, decorations, and Lauren’s signature style when she owned Pier Ninety-Two no more than a year ago.
“Lauren,” he whispered and tugged a beer from the mini-fridge behind the bar. Miguel brought the bottle to his lips and gulped the cold liquid. It slid down his throat and quelled the scratchy burn from a day spent managing the restaurant. “Job ads and inventory, health inspections and party planning,” he mumbled before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “I see why you handed it over and left.”
Not to mention you were married. And I was hopelessly in love with you.