All We Need (Sutton Bay #3)

1. Booth

CHAPTER ONE

booth

“You can tell Mrs . Stewart to shove that complaint right up her?—”

Eyes as wide as saucers, the nervous server stares at me from the other side of the stainless steel pass.

I swear the staff here is getting younger and younger.

Or am I getting older?

Last I checked, there were no gray hairs.

I’m a dick for not remembering her name.

She tiptoed in here, during the height of dinner service, quiet as a mouse, to tell me that Mrs .

Stewart —the town’s official Karen —found her clam chowder “subpar” and “cold.”

I explained, “ Yes , it would be cold. Considering she ran the dish over thirty minutes ago.”

I’m cranky, hot, and exhausted.

I’ve been at the restaurant since seven a.m. and running the pass for nine hours.

Flashing a smile, I wipe my hands down the dish towel flung over my shoulder.

“ Tell her we’ll send out two blueberry pies on the house. That usually does the trick.”

“Yes, sir. Um , Mr . Sadler ?” Her voice wobbles, and she fidgets with the notepad clutched between her trembling fingers .

Jesus.

“Chef will do fine. Or Booth ,” I tell her right as the sound of a ticket printing out buzzes in my ear.

Ten minutes before the kitchen closes.

Tracy? Tammy ?—shit, I need to learn her name—leaves the kitchen as Patrick , my oldest brother and bar manager, strides through the swinging door.

“Sorry! Sorry !” he shouts, palms upturned in apology.

“ We have a new team member tonight and they forgot we stopped taking orders at nine thirty.”

Apart from our height and last name, we’re nothing alike.

I have shaggy, dark brown hair; his is wavy and a similar shade of dark blond to our middle brother, Graham .

They both share the same green eye color, whereas mine are light blue.

Patrick is levelheaded; I’m hilarious and handsome.

Most people would hate the idea of working with their family.

After a grueling day like today, it’s usually good to see his face.

Usually .

Snatching the ticket from the printer, I scan it over and groan.

Holding eye contact while flipping him the bird, I read out the order.

“ Last one of the night. I need one seafood platter, two Teddy’s lobster rolls, half a dozen oysters, one extra portion of fries, and two calamari.”

A round of halfhearted “ Yes , Chefs ” echo around me.

Patrick winces and mouths, Sorry .

“The team has been killing me tonight, Pat .” I grab a stack of plates and flip on the heat lamps.

“ Have any of the new staff ever worked in hospitality before?”

His shoulders drop, making me feel bad for grating on him.

“Forget it. I’m burned out and still have prep to do for the fair. Just promise me you’ll get them trained up ASAP .”

He straightens.

“ We’re already on it. I swear…”

Tomorrow, our small town of Sutton Bay is hosting its annual Fall Fair .

It would be blasphemy if a town hidden away in coastal New England didn’t throw an event in honor of the season.

My family’s restaurant, Our Place , has had a table at the fair since opening almost thirty years ago.

Specializing in seafood cuisine, if you come to this corner of the country looking for the taste of Maine , this is where you’ll find it.

When my father, Ted Sadler , opened the restaurant with his closest friend, George Thomas , they imagined somewhere folks could sit down with family and enjoy a meal that tasted like it was whipped up in your grandmother’s kitchen.

The second they step through the doors, they’re greeted by a warm, homey welcome.

As the head chef, I pride myself on maintaining that legacy—even if it isn’t where I saw my career headed.

But things don’t always go according to plan.

My father passing away suddenly—leaving us all lost and heartbroken—almost seven years ago was definitely one of those things.

My brothers and I banded together to keep this place going in his honor.

Only , things continued to not go to plan, and earlier this year, Our Place was in deep water.

Patrick and his now-girlfriend, Johanna , did all they could to stop the restaurant from being sold to a greedy corporate monster.

Ultimately, we had no choice but to sell.

Fortunately—or not so fortunately—a mysterious benefactor stepped in and bought the restaurant.

Who , after dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s five months ago, hasn’t bothered to reveal themselves.

“Tomorrow should be good. I can’t believe the owner signed off on it.” Skepticism drips from his words.

I divert my attention, shuffling around the bottles of oil and sauces lined up on the pass.

“Booth. You got permission, right?” Patrick’s tone grows serious.

He’s got that dad voice nailed down.

Too bad my five-year-old niece doesn’t bend to it .

“Hmm? What was that?” Right on cue, my sous chef, Simon , slides two lobster rolls in front of me.

“ Actually , no time for chitchat, sorry, bro.”

“You stubborn prick.” He’s laughing now.

He knows I’m not kneeling for some faceless dude whose shirt is probably too tight and wouldn’t know how to run a restaurant even if it slapped him in the face.

This is our restaurant.

Our Place .

“Better hope this doesn’t come back to bite you. I’m not holding your hand while you whine about one of their emails again.”

Chucking a rogue fry at his head, I shrug.

“ Only when they pull their head out of their ass and show their face around here will I take them seriously. For now, they sign my paychecks. That’s all.”

He rolls his eyes.

“ Whatever . Get finished in here and I’ll buy you a drink.”

An ice-cold IPA sounds heavenly.

My lips smack together as I imagine the hoppy bubbles on my tongue.

Then I remember the to-do list the length of my arm and throw my head back, sighing.

“ Can’t . I still need to prep for tomorrow and then I’m up at six to set up. Rain check?”

“Next week.” He jerks his chin at me.

“ See you later.”

After he leaves and we send out the final order of the night, the team and I whizz through the clean down until the kitchen sparkles from top to bottom.

Once I give everyone permission to head home, I drag myself to the back office, collapse into the rolling chair behind the desk and stretch out my aching joints.

They crack so loudly, I’m surprised I don’t glow in the dark.

Rubbing my eyes roughly, I mentally go through everything I need to do before powering up the computer.

While browsing for the stock sheet, the cursor pauses over a folder I haven’t looked at in months.

Menu ideas .

Since I was promoted to head chef after Gloria , the restaurant’s longest-serving member of staff, retired, I’ve wanted to spice up the menu a little.

There are no complaints about what we currently offer, and all the dishes are a staple in most households in Maine , but it’s out of date.

The idea of an exciting, modern menu, where I could put my own flare on it, has always been a dream.

I tried for months, only to be shot down by George and my mom, who took over when my dad passed.

It’s not what the people of this town are looking for.

This might be a little unconventional.

I understood what they were saying, truly, but it still stung.

I can’t see myself doing anything else, but sometimes I wonder if this is the future Dad saw for the restaurant.

For me.

The role wasn’t handed to me on a silver platter.

Like anyone else, I started as a dishwasher and worked my way up the ranks.

Not wanting to go too far for school, I enrolled in the local community college for culinary classes.

That once-burning passion has fizzled out over the years.

Especially since the new owner took over.

What if…

No, I scold myself, cutting off that internal voice that creeps into my head occasionally.

This is where I’m supposed to be.

What Dad would have wanted.

Spices and sugary goodness assault my nose, mixing with the fresh, salt air blowing in from the bay.

It doesn’t matter if this is the first or hundredth time, the smell of fall is nostalgic and comforting .

With the restaurant’s table setup for the fair, Dex , Patrick’s best friend, and I are helping my brother, Graham .

For such a quiet, reserved guy, he’s really going all out for his “fake girlfriend.” Quinn owns Just Brew It , the small bakery in town, and because my brother is a complete simp for her, he’s surprising her with her own table after he found out she couldn’t afford it.

Thanks to my genius idea, Graham and Quinn have entered into a faux dating arrangement so he doesn’t have to attend his ex’s—who is the worst—wedding alone.

The best part: he’s fucking crazy about Quinn .

The town hosts four main fairs every year: fall, winter, spring, and summer.

They all started off as small gatherings, put on for the local kids and businesses.

Now , huge crowds from all over flock to Sutton Bay .

It’s a great way to give back to the community and honestly, a nice change of scenery.

I’ll be manning the restaurant’s stall with Simon , Jo , and Pat most of the day.

Currently, Graham stands in front of Quinn’s table, eyes blown wide in panic behind his glasses.

“ She’s going to hate it.” He groans and shrinks away.

“Nope!” I shout and drag him back.

“ Quit doubting yourself. This is nice—really nice. If I were a chick and a guy did this for me, I’d be buying a one-way ticket to pound??—”

“Booth Elias Sadler !” I’d recognize that strict tone anywhere.

She’s usually a pint-sized sweetheart, but as we turn to find my mom strolling our way, with Patrick and my niece, Lottie , in tow, I cower at her stern glower.

“ I raised you better than that.”

“Sorry, Mom ,” I mutter.

“ Sorry, Mommy ,” Patrick mocks.

I fix him with a fuck off glare.

“ I didn’t even call her ‘ Mommy .’ Get your ears checked, old man. Don’t even ge?—”

Something shimmers in my peripheral, distracting me.

Following the flash of light, I find the source of my distraction .

A watch.

The watch hasn’t left me speechless, though.

It’s the person it’s attached to.

I’m not shallow. Shit , I don’t even have a type.

Some would call me a playboy—my brothers do.

But I don’t jerk women around.

I make my intentions very clear.

If they’re interested in having some fun while in town, I’m more than happy to oblige.

I respect them—unless they ask me not to.

I’ll cook them breakfast. Let them use my shower.

Pay for their cab. Wish them all the best.

Both parties know exactly what a night together means.

The fair is the perfect place to find women who are here temporarily.

If I’m honest, it’s been months since I’ve had the time or energy to pursue anyone.

I’ve exchanged a couple of numbers and bought a few drinks, but that’s as far as it went.

Suddenly, I’m very energized.

I take in the inky-black hair falling in thick, shiny spirals.

Porcelain skin, smooth like velvet.

Even the curve of her upper lip as she pouts at the table in deep thought is enticing, and I’ve only seen her side profile so far.

The long, beige duster coat she’s wearing hides her figure, but she’s at least half a foot shorter than my six two.

I’m on the move before I know what I’m doing, and catch Dex mutter, “ Does he ever take a day off?”

Not today, buddy.

Because I want to see this little showstopper face on.

Maybe it’ll put an end to this dry spell.

The fair isn’t open yet, but already the smell of candied apples, cinnamon treats, and chili fills the air.

Right now, I’m grateful for the lack of crowds.

My eyes stay glued to the stranger as I stride across the gravel path, lined on both sides with small tents and marquees.

When I’m ten feet away, I see what grabbed her attention.

Small canvases are propped upright on the table, each painted with a picturesque scenery.

Deep oranges, pale blues, vibrant greens.

They’re beautiful, but when I’m close enough to get a good look at this woman, they’re quickly forgotten.

Shit. She really is gorgeous.

Right, art. I can chat nonsense about paintings for a few minutes, impress her with my “knowledge,” ask her out for dinner, and then…

Clearing my throat, because I’m not one to creep up on women, I sidle up next to her.

“ Pretty good, huh?”

She doesn’t turn, just nods slowly with a low hum.

“I’m more of an oil paint kinda guy. It’s daring. Unique .” Squinting at the table, I think of something artsy-fartsy to say.

“ I love when an artist uses this…brushstroke. Are you a collector?”

Her head tilts a fraction.

“ You’re a fan of the grisaille technique?”

I don’t know what the fuck she said, but I like the way she said it.

Her sultry voice drips over me like warm wax.

She’d make the prettiest of noises, I’m certain.

Focus, Booth . Put your dick away.

What was that word she said again?

“Huge fan. The grizzly is very contemporary.” Nailed it.

“Is that so?” Finally , she twists her body to look at me.

A pair of striking gray eyes—like rings of mercury—pin me in place.

There’s something familiar about the shade, but I’m already scanning the rest of her face.

A straight nose slopes down to two rosy-pink lips.

Thick , coal-black lashes and brows frame her piercing orbs, and there isn’t a mark on her flawless skin.

Her face is cut with sharp lines, matching the scrutinizing gaze she levels me with.

I’m a little intimidated by the way she crosses her arms over her chest with a quirked brow; intimidated and oddly turned on.

I’m man enough to say I’m disappointed her eyes don’t rake down my body like most women’s would.

“Tell me more.” She waves a graceful hand between us.

“I’d love to.” I step closer, giving her a half smile.

“ How about over dinner? I’m dying to hear your thoughts about your favorite artists. Impressionism versus what impression I’m making on you.”

Her mouth doesn’t even twitch.

Nor is she blushing.

Weird . A smile and a cheesy pickup line usually do the trick.

Her expression gives nothing away, but I’m not giving up.

With a flat tone, she says, “ There’s no time like the present. And I think the artist is due back soon. I’m sure they’d love to hear your opinions.”

I’m running out of bullshit things to say and I’d rather jump into the ocean than talk with some hoity-toity know-it-all.

Carefully, I pick up a painting, admiring the orangey-pink sunset behind a city skyline that appears 3- D with the way the paint is layered.

It’s impressive, clearly done by a professional, but that’s as far as my keen eye goes.

“ Not really my thing. Kinda basic, if you ask me.”

I have no fucking idea what I’m saying, and sweat begins to trickle down my spine.

This calls for the big guns.

Lowering my gaze to my white sneakers, I pop out my partners in crime and raise my head to look at her.

Her features are so cold, I shiver.

Not the normal side effect when I flash my dimples.

They rarely make an appearance this early on—she should be flattered.

She’s anything but.

The second thing to surprise me is when she rounds the table to stand on the other side.

She props her hands on her hips and hits me with a stony look.

“ I’m sorry you find my work so basic . I’ll take that criticism into consideration. ”

I blink back my embarrassment and a nervous laugh slips free.

Oh, but she is far from finished.

“And for your awareness. Grisaille was created in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It is associated with oil paint, though. Gold star to you. Now , if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish setting up.” Her tone is dismissive.

I’m stunned silent, which is rare.

So is making a fool of myself, and my brain spins as I think of how to salvage this.

“Listen.” I pull my beanie off and comb my fingers through my static hair.

“ Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Yes , art is not my thing, but when I see a pretty girl, I have to speak to her.”

“ Girl ?” If looks could kill, god rest my soul.

“No, no. Not girl. Grown woman. Old woman. Shit , no, you’re not old. Actually , how old are you?” My T -shirt sticks to my back as I dig my grave deeper with each stupid comment.

I drop my head in my hands.

“ This isn’t how I imagined it was going to go.”

A murmur of voices sounds behind us.

The gates are open, and in minutes, crowds of people will swarm this place.

Last chance, because Momma didn’t raise no quitter.

“Let’s start from scratch.” I do a 360-degree turn, hold out my hand, and grin so wide my jaw is close to dislocating.

“ Hey . I’m Booth Sadler . Head Chef at Our Place . Local to Sutton Bay . Happy to be your tour guide. Nice to meet you. And you are?”

To my surprise, there’s a tiny flare in her eyes, but it quickly disappears.

I don’t know her name, let alone how long she’s in town for, yet I’m desperate for any crumb of detail about her.

Wait, what? No , that sounds like something my lovesick brothers would say.

“Well, Booth .” She brushes some lint off her shoulder.

“ This has been a pleasure, but I have customers to serve. Take care now. ”

Twice she’s dismissed me.

She’s a feisty little thing, but in a cunning way that makes me hard when it shouldn’t.

Chuckling softly, I shove my beanie back on.

“ Okay , okay. Point taken. Let me ask you one thing.” I lean forward and gift her with a megawatt smile and circle my mouth.

“ You’re telling me these did nothing for you?”

Her eyes drop, and slowly, with a manicured finger, the tip stained purple, she pokes the dent in my left cheek.

“ This little thing?”

I smile harder.

“Hmm. I’ve seen my fair share of dimples.” She drops her hand.

“ They really aren’t that impressive.”

My mouth falls open, and before I have the chance to shoot my shot—for what feels like the hundredth time—she busies herself with a box of canvases behind her.

I’m not sure if I should laugh at her candidness or cry at my expense.

As I turn around, ignoring the amused faces of my family and friends, my fingers brush over my deflating dimples.

The fucking audacity.