Chapter 4 #2
Jessie found herself smiling, drawn in by the easy camaraderie. This wasn’t the stuffy formality of investment banking or the cutthroat competitiveness of Wall Street. These people genuinely liked each other, their banter a well-worn comfort like favorite jeans.
The staff gathered around a large table near the kitchen entrance, where Luke distributed printed sheets containing the day’s specials, expected big parties, and announcements. He conducted the meeting with efficient authority, addressing each person’s questions while maintaining the overall flow. It was a side of him Jessie had never seen—the capable leader who’d built this business from the ground up.
“Final item,” Luke said, consulting his notes. “As most of you already know, Jessie James has returned to the island and now holds a fifty percent stake in Seeker’s Paradise following old Jesse’s passing.”
All eyes turned to her, expressions ranging from curious to speculative.
“Jessie will be learning the ropes over the next few weeks, starting with bar service today. I expect you all to help her get up to speed.” He glanced her way. “Any words of wisdom for the troops?”
Put on the spot, Jessie straightened. “Just that I’m here to learn, not to disrupt what’s clearly a successful operation. I appreciate your patience as I figure out which end of a cocktail shaker is which.”
“The open end goes up,” Miguel stage-whispered. “Learned that one the hard way.”
As the meeting dispersed, a formidable woman approached Jessie with an appraising look. Tasha Coleman stood about five foot four but carried herself with the authority of someone twice her size. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a practical bun, deep laugh lines around her eyes contradicting the no-nonsense set of her mouth. Strong, capable hands that had seen years of hard work rested on slim hips as she sized Jessie up.
“Welcome back to the island,” she said, her tone neutral. “Been gone a long time.”
“Fifteen years,” Jessie confirmed.
“Hmm.” Tasha’s dark eyes revealed nothing as they conducted their assessment. “Well, we run a tight ship here. Luke’s built something special.”
The statement carried an unspoken warning: Don’t mess this up .
“I can see that,” Jessie said carefully. “And I have no intention of disrupting it.”
Tasha nodded once, apparently satisfied. “Good. You’ll need different shoes if you’re working the floor. Those Birkenstocks will kill your feet by lunch.”
With that practical advice delivered, she moved away to oversee table arrangements, her efficient movements suggesting someone who never wasted a single step.
Luke appeared at Jessie’s elbow, his expression amused. “Congratulations,” he said. “You passed the Tasha test.”
“There was a test?”
“She doesn’t waste breath on people she doesn’t think will last.” He watched Tasha rearranging table settings with military precision. “Showed up here about ten years ago with three kids and not much else after her husband walked out on them. Walked into the bar, told me she needed a job, and proceeded to reorganize our entire reservation system before I’d even hired her.”
“And you hired her anyway?” Jessie asked, intrigued by this glimpse into the island’s found family.
Luke’s smile held genuine affection. “Best decision I ever made. Those kids of hers are in college now, all on scholarships she made damn sure they earned. Toughest woman I know, but she’d move mountains for the people she cares about.”
He gestured toward Miguel, who was meticulously setting up the bar. “Ready for Bartending 101?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
For the next hour and a half, Miguel patiently demonstrated the fundamentals of his craft. Jessie learned the precise measurements for standard cocktails, the art of properly chilling glasses, and the choreographed dance required to serve multiple patrons efficiently. Her fingers fumbled with unfamiliar tools, and her first attempt at muddling mint for mojitos resulted in what Miguel charitably called “green sludge,” but gradually she began to grasp the basics.
“Your dad once had a standing rule here,” Miguel mentioned while showing Jessie how to properly layer a cocktail. “No servers could approach his table without being called over. First week I worked here, I didn’t know and brought him a water refresh.”
Miguel gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “He grabbed my wrist so hard I dropped the glass. Then he said, real quiet-like, ‘Boy, on this island, people learn their place. Some learn easy, some learn hard. Your choice.’”
A shadow crossed his usually cheerful face. “Luke stepped in, told him if he had a problem with staff, he took it to management, not the kid making minimum wage. Only person I ever saw stand up to Jesse James and walk away without consequences.”
Flashing his characteristic grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, Miguel added, “Taught me two things that day—how dangerous your father could be, and why everybody on this island would walk through fire for Luke Mallory.”
He watched as Jessie completed the layered cocktail with surprising precision. “Not bad for a finance girl. You’ve got good hands.”
“Years of spreadsheets and calculator punching,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Though this is definitely more interesting.”
“Wait until you’re making twenty drinks at once while some frat boy tries to impress his date by ordering something he saw on a reality show.” Miguel’s grin belied the warning. “That’s when it gets fun.”
As staff arrived and the clock approached opening time, they went through a quick pre-shift meeting where Luke reviewed the day’s specials and any large parties expected. At eleven, they removed the last of the protective night screens, and the day officially began. The first patrons trickled in from both the beach path and the roadside entrance—locals mostly, who greeted the staff with familiar ease. Jessie observed from her position beside Miguel, noting how each customer interaction seemed to follow unwritten rules established through years of repetition. This one always sat at the corner of the bar, that one preferred her iced tea with exactly three lemon slices, another had dietary restrictions that the kitchen accommodated without comment.
By noon, the pace had accelerated considerably as tourists discovered the establishment, drawn by online reviews and hotel recommendations. Miguel’s movements became faster, more economical, his banter never faltering even as he juggled multiple orders. Jessie tried to anticipate his needs, fetching garnishes and replenishing ice, learning through observation which customers expected prompt service and which preferred to linger over their choices.
“You’re not half bad at this,” Miguel said during a brief lull. “Most people would be hiding in the walk-in by now.”
“The day’s young,” she replied, wiping condensation from the bar top. “I reserve the right to have a complete meltdown around three.”
“Scheduled meltdowns are the hallmark of professionals,” he agreed. “I have mine every Tuesday at two seventeen. Like clockwork.”
The lunch rush hit like a tidal wave—sudden and overwhelming. Every table filled, the bar three deep with waiting patrons, the waitstaff moving at barely controlled sprint. Jessie found herself thrust into service despite her novice status, relegated to pouring beers and simple mixed drinks while Miguel handled the more complex orders.
Jessie was reaching for another clean glass when the sound of shattering came from somewhere down the bar. The sharp noise sent a jolt through her system that had nothing to do with surprise.
Broken glass on the kitchen floor. Her father’s voice, low and dangerous. “Clean it up.” Her hands trembling as she reached for the broom, knowing that no matter how carefully she gathered every shard, he would find one she missed. Would use it as an excuse.
She blinked, forcing the memory away. Fifteen years, and a simple sound could still transport her instantly back to that kitchen, to the feeling of being small and terrified and trapped. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she took a measured breath, reminding herself where she was. Who she was now.
Miguel was already sweeping up the broken tumbler, joking with the customer who had knocked it over. No tension in his movements, no fear of repercussions. Just an ordinary accident being handled with ordinary kindness.
“You okay?” Luke asked, materializing beside her with uncanny timing. “You went pale all of a sudden.”
“Fine,” she said automatically, the word a reflex as deeply ingrained as flinching at sudden movements. “Just remembered something I need to take care of.”
His expression suggested he didn’t quite believe her, but he didn’t press. Another small mercy she was still learning to expect from him—space when she needed it, presence without pressure.
Some broken things couldn’t be swept away so easily. Jessie pushed the memory aside and refocused on the task at hand, determined not to let ghosts interfere with her present.
Her first solo gin and tonic earned a raised eyebrow from Luke as he passed behind them carrying extra napkins. “Promotion already?”
“Battlefield commission,” Miguel explained. “She has surprisingly steady hands under pressure.”
“Unlike some people,” Jessie said pointedly, “I didn’t spend my college years playing beer pong.”
“That’s an unfair assumption,” Luke protested. “I was equally dedicated to quarters.”
She laughed despite herself, the sound nearly lost amid the cacophony of clinking glasses and overlapping conversations. Luke flashed a genuine smile—the first she’d seen since her return—before disappearing into the controlled chaos of the dining area.
By two o’clock, Jessie’s feet ached, her lower back protested, and she’d developed newfound respect for the stamina required in food service. Yet beneath the physical discomfort hummed a curious satisfaction. There was something gratifying about the immediate results of her labor—the appreciative nod from a patron enjoying their drink, the smooth coordination with Miguel as they established a working rhythm, the tangible productivity of empty glasses replaced with full ones.
Finance had offered delayed gratification—complex deals that took months to complete, investments that required years to mature. This was instantaneous cause and effect, with results measured in minutes rather than quarters.
“Break time,” Miguel announced as the lunch crowd finally thinned. “Go sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”
Jessie didn’t argue, grateful for the opportunity to rest. She claimed a small table near the kitchen, removed her apron, and stretched discreetly to relieve the tension in her shoulders. Looking around the now-quieter space, she felt a flutter of something unexpected—pride, perhaps, at having survived her first service without major catastrophe.
Luke emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates, which he set on the table before claiming the seat opposite her. “Staff meal,” he explained. “Mateo insists we eat properly between shifts.”
The plate contained a perfectly seared piece of fish atop a vibrant salad, accompanied by grilled vegetables and a wedge of crusty bread. Simple but immaculately prepared, the kind of meal that made institutional dining rooms across America weep with inadequacy.
“This is not what I expected from ‘staff meal,’” Jessie admitted, inhaling the aromatic steam rising from her plate.
“Mateo doesn’t believe in culinary hierarchies,” Luke said, breaking his bread. “Staff deserves the same quality as customers. Happy workers make happy food, according to him.
“So,” he said, breaking his bread. “I take it you haven’t spent the last fifteen years in food service.”
Jessie smiled ruefully, rotating her wrist to ease the strain. “Not exactly. Finance, actually. Investment management.”
“Finance?” Luke’s eyebrows rose. “That’s…unexpected.”
“I had a knack for numbers. And a desire for job security.” She took a bite of the fish, closing her eyes involuntarily as flavors exploded across her palate. “Oh my God.”
“I know.” Luke’s expression held genuine appreciation. “That’s his seabass with citrus butter and island herbs. Put us on the map with the foodie crowd.”
They ate in companionable silence for several minutes, the simple act of sharing a meal easing some of the tension that had lingered between them. Jessie found herself studying Luke when he wasn’t looking—the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there at eighteen, the confident set of his shoulders, the capable hands that moved with such assurance whether mixing drinks or directing staff.
He’d grown into himself in her absence, becoming the man those early promising qualities had only hinted at. The realization brought a confusing mixture of admiration and regret.
“Seriously, though,” he continued after a moment. “Investment management. Sounds impressive.”
Jessie shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “It paid the bills. But bartending is definitely more physically demanding than I expected.”
“Wall Street to beach bar. Quite the career change.” His tone was light, but his eyes were curious.
“Savannah, mostly. Though I spent time in New York for work.” She sipped her water. “The firm I worked for handled high net worth clients along the Eastern Seaboard.
“Spreadsheets can be brutal,” she added with a smile. “Paper cuts. Carpal tunnel. The existential despair of quarterly projections.”
Luke laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Poor baby. Forced to calculate other people’s millions while wearing air-conditioning and sensible pumps.”
“The oppression was real,” she assured him solemnly. “Sometimes the coffee machine would run out before ten a.m.”
“The horror.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “How did you survive?”
“Sheer determination and an emergency chocolate stash.” She smiled, enjoying the moment of lighthearted connection. “But I will concede that my feet hurt in places I didn’t know had nerve endings.”
“Welcome to the service industry.” Luke gestured toward her nearly empty plate. “Think you can handle another shift, or has reality crushed your enthusiasm?”
The question contained a challenge beneath its casual delivery. Jessie met his gaze directly, recognizing the test for what it was.
“I’ll be here at five,” she said. “Though I might need better shoes, as Tasha so kindly pointed out.”
“There’s a shop at the hotel that carries decent work shoes. Nothing fancy, but they’ll save your arches.” He collected their empty plates, the gesture automatic. “You did good today, Jess. Better than I expected.”
The simple praise warmed her more than it should have. “Thanks for giving me a chance to try.”
“You own half the place,” he reminded her. “But credit where it’s due—you jumped in without complaining. That matters to the staff.”
He disappeared into the kitchen with their dishes, leaving Jessie to contemplate the peculiar satisfaction of having exceeded his expectations. It shouldn’t matter what Luke Mallory thought of her work ethic—she’d proven herself in boardrooms across the Southeast, built a reputation that commanded respect in a male-dominated industry.
Yet his approval carried weight she wasn’t quite ready to examine.
Miguel reappeared behind the bar, gesturing for her to join him. “Ready for lesson two? We need to prep for tonight’s service.”
Jessie rose, muscles protesting the movement after too-brief respite. “Lead on, sensei.”
The afternoon passed in a rhythm of preparation—cutting fresh garnishes, restocking bottles, cleaning equipment, and learning the specialized cocktails that featured on Seeker’s Paradise’s evening menu. Miguel proved an entertaining instructor, peppering practical advice with outlandish stories from his bartending adventures.
“And that’s why we never, ever serve flaming shots to anyone wearing synthetic fabrics,” he concluded one particularly harrowing tale. “No matter how much they beg.”
“Noted,” Jessie said, filing away yet another unwritten rule of bar service. “Any other potentially fatal drink combinations I should know about?”
“Just remember: Tequila and karaoke are natural enemies, but will inevitably find each other. Your job is to limit the collateral damage.”
By four thirty, she’d absorbed enough information to make her head spin, but felt marginally more prepared for the evening ahead. When Luke suggested she take a break before dinner service began, Jessie gratefully accepted the opportunity to rest her feet and clear her mind.
She found a quiet spot on the covered deck that extended over the beach, settling into an Adirondack chair with a glass of iced tea. From this vantage point, she could appreciate how strategically the structure had been positioned—offering panoramic ocean views while catching prevailing breezes that moderated the island heat.
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her contemplation. Luke appeared, carrying his own glass of tea, his expression questioning. “Mind some company?”
“It’s your deck,” she said, gesturing toward the adjacent chair.
“Technically, it’s our deck now.” He sat, stretching his long legs before him. “For however long that arrangement lasts.”
The reminder of her temporary status hung between them. Jessie sipped her tea, using the moment to gather her thoughts.
“I never expected him to leave me anything,” she said finally. “We hadn’t spoken in fifteen years.”
Luke studied the condensation on his glass. “He talked about you sometimes. In his way.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“Mostly comparing other people unfavorably to you.” His mouth quirked. “‘Jessie would’ve done it better.’ ‘Jessie wouldn’t make that mistake.’ That kind of thing.”
The revelation unsettled her. She’d spent years constructing a narrative in which her father had forgotten her existence, had erased her from his life as completely as she’d tried to erase him from hers. The idea that he’d continued to measure others against her was disconcerting.
“He was a complicated man,” Luke added when she remained silent.
“That’s one word for it.” Jessie stared out at the ocean, its surface glittering with late afternoon sunlight. “Did you ever wonder why I left?”
The question emerged unbidden, surprising her almost as much as it seemed to surprise him. Luke’s expression shifted, guard coming down just enough to reveal genuine puzzlement.
“Every day for years,” he admitted. “You were just gone. Your dad said you’d gone to stay with relatives up north, that you needed a fresh start. When no one heard from you, we all assumed you’d found whatever you were looking for elsewhere.”
The bitterness in his tone was subtle but unmistakable. Jessie weighed her options—truth versus the comfortable distance of half revelations. But before she could decide, a voice called from the doorway.
“Boss! The Ferguson party just called to add six people to their group coming for dinner. Tasha’s having kittens.”
Luke sighed, setting his untouched tea aside. “Duty calls. You should change before the dinner rush if you’re planning to join us.”
“I’ll be back,” she promised.
He nodded, something like approval flickering in his eyes before he turned away to handle the latest crisis. Jessie remained in her chair, watching as the restaurant began its transformation from casual lunch spot to evening destination—lights strung along the perimeter coming alive, candles appearing on tables, music shifting to something more sophisticated than the afternoon’s island pop.
Against all logic, she found herself looking forward to the coming shift. To proving herself capable in this unfamiliar arena. To surprising Luke Mallory with her adaptability.
And perhaps, if circumstances allowed, to continuing the conversation that had been interrupted.
Some truths had waited fifteen years to be spoken. They could wait a few hours more.