Chapter 2 #2
With a harrumph, she starts walking away, but she calls over her shoulder, “I won’t be giving you one dollar of my business.”
“Good! We have a firm no assholes policy, you wouldn’t make it past the door. Oh, and if I see your husband checking out my ass one more time when he walks by the restaurant, I’ll make sure to drop hot coffee on his shrimp dick.”
With an affronted gasp, she quickens her pace, like if she’s far enough away, no one else will be able to hear the truths I’m hollering her way.
“Hope that helps!” I call out in farewell, with a jovial wave.
Sadly, these flowers aren’t gonna plant themselves in the cute window boxes I got for the café’s plate glass displays—just like the rest of the restaurant isn’t going to finish itself—and I need to wrap this up.
I wanted to get these babies in their new homes now, before the sun gets any angrier for the day, and with plenty of time to water them and let these bad boys get comfy in the couple weeks we have before the opening.
Heights Bites is going to be the cutest restaurant downtown.
Okay, technically it’s the only restaurant downtown.
I mean, yeah, you can get some type of food at the bar, Smoky Suds, the pizza place, Smoky Slice, the coffee shop, Foamy Heights, the bakery Smoky Sweets, the wine bar Smoky Sips, and the ice cream parlor, Smoky Scoops, but this will be the one and only place to come in, order off of a complete menu, have a full meal, and just allow yourself to be taken care of.
Downtown Smoky Heights hasn’t had a real restaurant since our dad left town, far too long ago.
The diner was the only place to go back then, and since it shuttered its doors when my dad took off for his new wife, we haven’t had options.
Until Rory took on the project of restoring downtown and turned it into something out of a Hallmark movie.
Look at us now! The two-block stretch of Main is full of shops, restaurants, and establishments that are open, or nearly open. The Downtown Smoky Heights grand opening isn’t until the end of the summer, but after the soft opening next month, the place will finally be in full swing.
Doing what I can to give the locals a place that feels like home to enjoy their daily meal feels like a family legacy I had to fulfill.
After all, Rory is doing her part in Mom’s memory.
My stomach clenches and my mouth turns to sand, the way it always does when the loss of her comes back to me. The pain locks in my determination to stay focused. Heights Bites is what I can do for our family, and this whole town.
Running a restaurant is new to me, but it takes a lot to break me.
This place is getting all I’ve got. Starting with making the flower display cute as possible apparently.
Then we can worry about some of the bigger problems. Like what I’m supposed to do for a chef, or how on earth we’re going to open in two weeks.
Footfalls break my concentration on the small floating garden I’m planting—I really need to get my sister to put some more of the commission’s budget toward landscaping—and steal my focus.
It’s not that there haven’t been passersby all morning. There have been. It’s the distinct sound of the footfalls. Heavy, like thuds. And maybe squeaky? It’s a combo I can’t recall ever hearing before, which is what makes me look up. And up. And up.
To the face of a man I’ve never seen. Possibly the largest man I’ve ever seen, he is massive.
Gotta be six and a half feet tall, thicker than a sequoia, and absolutely covered in tattoos that sprawl his gargantuan build.
Arms, hands, fingers, neck, and up his neck to his carved jawline.
My eyes freely wander down his tree trunk thighs and wonder if they’re covered beneath those dark pants too.
A bead of sweat that has nothing to do with the heat or the physical exertion drips between my breasts, my face—my whole body—suddenly flushed from much more than the temperature.
Now this is what I call the universe answering prayers.
Black hair, almost spiky, is held back from his strong face with a black bandana, tied around his forehead.
The face itself is that of a warrior. Chiseled, but flawed.
There’s nothing perfect about this man. He looks like he’s been through battle and out the other side, even though he can’t be over thirty.
Normally way too young for me, but there’s something about this guy that says I might break a few rules for him.
The one thick eyebrow I can see has a scar running through it, and his tanned, olive skin looks almost weathered. I’d like to get acquainted with the rest of him and get to know all the stories his flesh has to tell.
As I’m gawking over his face—hoping it comes off as mere curiosity about the newcomer to town, not like I’m mapping out how to ride it later—I watch it screw up while he takes in the signage above the door, and the logo on the large window display.
He snorts and instantly my blood boils. Where I was running hot for him just a second ago, that little sound he just made, dismissive and patronizing, it’s got my six-and-a-half-foot temper trapped in a five-foot-eight, curvy body flared up in a flash.
“What?” I ask him defiantly, still kneeling on the ground on the edge of the sidewalk.
“Is this for real?” he asks, pointing at the sign. The sleeves on his white chef jacket are rolled up to his elbows, and pushed up a little above that, revealing an entire gallery of artwork along the canvas of his skin.
It’s hard not to gawk, but I’m getting the idea that if he opens his mouth, he’s going to make that easier on me.
“What?” I ask again, even more defensive this time. The acid in my voice should fucking warn him to tread carefully, but doesn’t seem like street smarts is his cup of tea.
“The name? Heights Bites?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Eyes narrowed, my arms cross over my filthy overalls, and his eyes so dark they look black flash as they follow the movement, my breasts pushing up as I stare him down.
The guy looks back at the window and points, outright points with one of those tattooed fingers, turning his body so his outstretched arm gestures at the entirety of downtown in one sweep.
No manners and no taste. The man is wearing black Crocs with his chef uniform. I mean, ew. That explains the squeaky steps.
“The names of every shop on this street are ridiculous.”
My head rears back, eyes blinking rapidly, temper at the ready. “The names of the downtown businesses are charming, asshole.”
Who the hell does he think he is? God’s gift to naming things?
“They’re so cheesy, I need a Gas-X,” he says, barking a laugh.
The rich, deep sound definitely does not scrape against my insides, and my nerve endings don’t respond to it, not even a little. My nipples always pebble when it’s ninety degrees out with just shy of a hundred percent humidity.
I bristle, standing from the ground to face down the outsider with the ego problem. I’m starting to see how he and my sister might’ve been acquainted. “Well, what would you call it then?”
He shrugs a shoulder, bouncing his head a little in the air, not needing much time to think it over. “Homegrown. Or if you made me use this weird word play this town seems to be obsessed with, Palate Palace. I could think of a dozen more if you give me thirty seconds.”
Dammit. Those are fucking good.
“We’re proud of our town,” I tell him, instead of giving him a shred of credit for pulling those out of his ass. “And considering we serve the locals, I think we should stick with our adorable local names. Not that you have any say in it anyway.”
“Please.” The infuriating man laughs again, taking absolutely no offense at anything I’m saying. It doesn’t even look like my pissy tone has affected him in the least. He’s still got a giant grin on his face. “If there was a massage parlor across the street, they’d probably call it Smoky Strokey.”
Shit, I almost burst out a laugh at that, but I bite down, grinding my teeth to hold it in. “Sorry, that name’s taken,” I tell him, moving my hands to my cocked hips. “That’s the name of the cardiac ward at the hospital.”
He laughs again, not trying to hold it back. He sees me as so little of a threat, he is openly laughing at my jokes. What a dick. Can’t he smell an instant rivalry when he sets one off?
“Anyway,” he moves past it all like I didn’t just almost claw his eyes out on the street in broad daylight with the trowel by my feet. “I’ve gotta get to my job interview. Have fun getting dirty.”
His dark eyes heat with something playful, something dangerous, as he looks down my body, covered in soil, sweat, and God knows what else at this point, and then he’s through the doors to the restaurant.
And it’s at that moment, with my blood coursing through my veins, bubbling in my ears, that I decide I don’t have any desire to show up to that interview with what should’ve been our new chef.
Someone that vain, that full of himself, with that little regard for the town he’s invading?
Nope.
I can already tell he would be a terrible fit for the restaurant and there’s not a snowball’s chance in a southern summer I’m hiring him as the new chef. I’d sooner blow him.
An age passes, finding new ways to toil in the boxes I’m planting, beneath the shade of the deep pink crepe myrtle tree in front of the restaurant.
The mountains make a hell of a backdrop for downtown, catching my eye every time I sneak glances through the window, where the chef stands around, getting more and more fidgety as no one shows up to meet him.
Eventually, he pokes his head back out of the door and calls out to me.
“Hey, gardener lady.”
“I have a name,” I bite out, nearly a growl.
“I’m sure you do. You probably know the name of the boss here, too, don’t you?”
No response from me is clearly good enough for him.
“Think you could text them that Wilder Amante is here about the head chef position? They’re late.”
I let my petty streak—okay, it’s more than a streak—out to play.