Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

Chapter 1

I’ve heard it said that life is a series of moments.

All moments encompass the same amount of time, and yet, not all moments are created equal. Most pass inconsequentially. You won’t remember them. They might build toward some bigger thing, but they aren’t the bigger thing itself.

This is not one of those moments.

I inhale and exhale a final breath, adjust my tie, and exit the manager’s office at the back of Paprika, a five-star, urban-chic restaurant that serves a bunch of fancy dishes I’d never normally eat. But I cooked them, back when I was just a lowly chef’s apprentice straight out of grad school. That was before Dale saw my potential and plucked me from the program, placing me on the path to management.

Sometimes, I really miss those days of anonymity in the kitchen. Not that it was stress-free. Let’s just say that working with food is easier than working with people. But if being the manager of one of the most popular restaurants in Los Angeles is what I have to do to make my dream come true—to get back into the kitchen, and with my own recipes—then so be it.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Even now, as I walk onto the restaurant floor with purpose—the scrape of silverware hitting platters, the boisterous laughter of foreign businessmen, the soft hum of jazz music floating—I’m flagged down by the hostess. She knows I’ve got a meeting with Dale and that I’m not to be disturbed if she can help it.

I’d say it’s good to be needed, but when it’s a twenty-four-seven situation, it gets a little exhausting.

I glance at my watch as I stop at the hostess station. “What’s up, Denise?” Turning my back to the customers who are hanging out in the lobby, I face my very pregnant lead hostess. “I only have a moment.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry, Blake. Mr. Moffitt.” Denise looks like she’s going to cry, and that’s no small thing given she’s usually tough as nails. Maybe it’s the hormones. She told us all the other day that she sobbed at some commercial featuring puppies, and that her husband was concerned for her well-being. Still, I don’t like the idea of my people being so stressed that they’re crying. I might work eighty-hour weeks and let the pressures of this job get to me from time to time, but that’s not what I want for them.

“It’s fine.” My voice is gruff and short, but thankfully, Denise doesn’t seem to notice. “Now how can I help?”

She grips the deluxe hostess stand—which looks more like a secretarial desk you’d find in a fancy law office, given its size and the fact it’s made of the finest oak—and keeps her eyes focused on something behind me. “Somehow we’re double booked. The gentlemen by the door have a party of twelve, and the women over there want a twelve-top for their bachelorette party. Both of them have reservations for the same table. And the men have been…testy.”

I jerk my head up and glance back. I’ve seen enough to know that the men are those kind—the ones in suits who think the importance of their jobs and the size of their bank accounts entitle them to treat “the help” poorly. Pursing my lips together, I glance back at Denise. Study her closely. “Did they threaten you?”

She rubs her finger against the corner of her right eye and blinks. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Denise straightens. “Sorry for getting emotional.”

“Hey, if I need to throw them out…”

Denise glares at me. “I’m not letting you do that. Not tonight, with Dale here.”

I shrug. “Dale supports how I run this place.” Not that he knows about every jerk I toss out of here. Maybe he wouldn’t be okay with the effect on the bottom line. But he cares about his employees. He’s a decent guy.

I wouldn’t be potentially staking my future on him if he weren’t.

My stomach twists at the idea of said future. But I have to deal with this problem before I can contemplate what Dale’s going to say to me tonight. Why he sent me that email this afternoon. “How are wait times looking?” I ask.

“An hour at least. Probably closer to ninety minutes. Another eight-top just got seated.”

Not unusual for a Saturday night in the city. Personally, I don’t get it—I mean, our food is good and service impeccable, but is any food worth waiting two hours for? I rub the bridge of my nose and think. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll appeal to their sense of chivalry—whether they have one or not—and comp them fifty percent off their meals. Let’s clear a spot at the bar and give them a free round as well.”

Denise nods along with my plan. “Great idea. But I’ll handle it. You go.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You sure?”

“Yes. I know this meeting is important.”

She may not know why it’s important—because I haven’t told a soul about the fact that I finally submitted to Dale the business proposal I’ve been tweaking for the last three years—but Denise is perceptive. It wouldn’t surprise me if she somehow knew my dream of opening my own restaurant, or that I finally got up the courage to ask my boss and mentor to become an investor.

“All right.” I point toward one of our nearby busboys. “But if you need backup, Trent can assist.”

Denise lifts her chin. “I’ve got this.” Then she flicks on a smile and approaches the gentlemen—though I hesitate to call them that, honestly. The lead guy, with his pomaded head and Ray-Bans tucked into the collar of his expensive shirt, curls a lip at her. But thankfully, he listens. Finally, he nods, gives another dude a fist bump, and directs the group to follow Denise to the bar.

Phew. Another crisis averted.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out. My chef’s asking me a question about the special tonight, and my thumbs fly as I answer him and stride as quickly as I can across the floor to the back corner where Dale is tucked into a booth we usually save for VIPs.

He sets down his menu—as if he doesn’t know every single item on it—and glances up at me, his bald head catching the light of the glass wall sconce behind him. His tan leathery skin nearly glows against the stark white of his modern-fit dress shirt, under which strain the muscles he works daily at honing. Dale Gunderson may be fifty-four (and more than twenty years my senior), but he’s fitter and more stylish than I’ll ever be. Definitely richer too.

Dad would have approved of my choice of mentor.

“You’re late.” The edges of Dale’s voice tease, and the corners of his eyes crinkle.

I stuff my phone away and slide across from him. “Your restaurant is going to be the death of me.”

Laughing, he snaps, and Beth—one of our best servers—appears with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Oh, none for me, thanks,” I say. “I’m still on the clock.”

“Nonsense.” Dale waves away my protest while Beth pours the red liquid into the glasses and disappears. He lifts his glass and swirls the wine, then looks me in the eye. “We’re celebrating tonight, after all.”

I stiffen. “We are?” All I know is what his email said: Read your proposal. Let’s do dinner and discuss.

It was very Dale-like—direct and to the point. And yet, mysterious, keeping vital information close to the chest.

“Well…” He draws out the word like silly putty. “There are obviously details to work out, but I’ve always known you had something special, Blake. I was just waiting for you to realize it too.”

My jaw drops and my chest aches. Words I’ve waited my whole life to hear—though from a different source that I’ll never hear it from now—and yet, there’s a flicker of apprehension too. “Thank you, Dale. I don’t know what to say.” Leaving the glass of wine alone, I fold my hands on the table and lean forward. “So, you liked the proposal?”

“It needs work.” He takes a sip, then snaps again at Beth, who brings out two sizzling steaks. Despite owning thirty restaurants across L.A., Dale’s not much for fancy food either. Quality food, yes. But give him a hunk of perfectly grilled meat and veggies heaped with butter, and Dale Gunderson is a happy man.

I thank Beth as she and her assistant Shelby bring out the shared sides of asparagus, mashed potatoes, and house-made sourdough. On the outside, I’m calm and collected. On the inside, my mind is roiling.

Finally, the food is all in front of us, and Dale lifts his knife and fork to his steak as if he didn’t just drop a bomb into my carefully laid plans.

Because I’d hoped this would go differently—that Dale would jump at the chance to invest in a restaurant that’s basically an expansion of the food truck I opened in college as a side gig. Not tell me it needs work, whatever that means.

I reach for my fork, but don’t lift it, instead running my finger across the cool silver neck. “So, um, what work do you think it needs?” Man, could I sound any less professional? At least my voice didn’t crack like a pre-pubescent ninny. But the uncertainty in it definitely shouldn’t belong to a guy who has his MBA from UCLA.

Dale lifts an eyebrow as he pushes a slice of steak into his mouth, groaning at the taste. “That’s good. You really should try it.”

I’m not exactly hungry right now—not with my future in the balance—but I want Dale to take me seriously, to know he can count on me to be steady, so I cut off a piece of steak and follow his example. The crisp, buttered edges of the cooked meat melt against my tongue, and something in me relaxes.

That’s what good food does.

And maybe Dale knows me better than I think he does, because a tiny smile flits across his lips. He reaches for his cloth napkin and pats his mouth. “The proposal was good, Blake. I like the basic ideas. The city isn’t overrun with restaurants specializing in grilled cheese, so the market research section was spot on. However, I think we need to push it more upscale than you proposed.”

“Really? More upscale, like this?” I glance around and hold in a shudder. Paprika is nice and everything, but a little fancy for my tastes. And these aren’t exactly the kinds of customers I pictured serving when I created my recipes. To be honest, I pictured the people in my hometown of Hallmark Beach, four hours north of here. I’ve spent the last twelve years since leaving there—first for college in Phoenix and then for grad school in L.A.—perfecting my recipes, always wondering what residents like my sister Marilee and Alberta Jenkins and Burt Reynolds (not the actor) would think of them.

Can’t help but wondering what she would think of them too.

“She” being Lucy Reynolds, the girl who got away.

Rather, the girl I left.

Two weeks ago, on the first weekend of April, I finally got the chance to cook for my hometown. In a bizarre twist of events, I landed back there for a last-minute wedding thrown by one of my sister’s friends. They needed a caterer, and even though I hadn’t returned to Hallmark Beach since my parents’ funeral six years ago, my sister was desperate.

I’d already failed her more times than I can count. I didn’t want to do it again. So I begged Dale for the time away, dusted off the truck I hadn’t used in three years since I started managing Paprika, and fired up the grill.

I was only in town for six hours, but it was heaven.

All but the interaction—or non-interaction, really—with Lucy, who shot me glares all night from afar. Not that I blame her, especially after what happened the last time I saw her. Still, she never seemed like the kind of woman to hold a grudge.

She didn’t even hold a grudge when I spent a year flirting with her and then left for college—just acted normal whenever I’d come home for the summer. After that, it was me who pulled away, who held her at arm’s length, and for good reason.

Part of me wishes I’d had a chance to clear the air with her a few weeks ago. The other part is kind of glad she hates me.

“It doesn’t have to be quite this upscale, per se.” Dale’s voice breaks into my thoughts, and I blink to refocus and remember what we were talking about. “But we also don’t want to run a fast-food joint that feels accessible to just anyone.” He says “fast-food joint” like it’s a dirty word as he scoops a heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “We want gourmet, dressed-up food. Like your mama made it, but put a tuxedo on it, you get me?”

I get what he’s saying, yes. But it’s not what I pictured for my restaurant. Still, all businesses have to compromise a bit, right? And I don’t have a lot of other contacts begging to invest. I’ve got a small nest egg tucked away, but Dale’s my best shot at getting the right location and exposure for success.

And if there’s anything I know, it’s that this restaurant has to be successful.

“I can work with that.” I sit back in my seat. “What did you think about the recipes I submitted? Will they work?”

“Yes, absolutely. But I want more.”

“More?” I blink.

“More.” Dale shovels in a bite of potatoes and studies me. After swallowing, he continues. “I know you pictured a limited menu of four or five sandwiches, and while that might work for a food truck, it won’t work for a real restaurant like the one I’m picturing. While there’s merit to doing something and doing it well, I just don’t think that’s the brand we want for you or this place.”

Though I understand it, branding was always the thing I hated talking about in grad school. Honestly, most of grad school wasn’t my cup of tea. But I knew that to find the sort of success Dad always wanted for me, I needed to understand the ins and outs of business.

Even branding.

Too bad I can’t just be myself. That’s never been enough, though, so not sure why I’d think things would change now. “And what brand is that?” I ask as I take another bite of my steak.

He studies me again, and I start to squirm under his assessment. Finally, he speaks. “You’ve got the potential to go the distance here, Blake. To not only create a dining experience that will be scalable and unique, but to have wealth and fame like you never dreamed of. I know you’re all about the cooking—and I know you’ve missed it since coming to work for me as manager—but you could be so much more. We’re talking Michelin stars. We’re talking franchises. We’re talking brand endorsement deals.” Dale taps his plate with his fork. “We’re talking celebrity chef status. I’ve got a buddy at a local TV network, and they’ve been looking for the next best thing. I want to put you on his radar.”

My head is spinning. Dale’s vision for me is so much larger than the one I have for myself. But it’s still fully in line with my goals. Even Dad—if he were here—wouldn’t be able to laugh at my chosen career as too “unstable” if I was a celebrity chef, now could he?

But wow. It’s still a lot. I grab up my glass of water and chug half of it down. What Dale is saying…it sounds too good to be true. But it still will require more of me. More recipes. More creativity.

I don’t want to throw away this opportunity, but I also don’t want to lie to my mentor. “I love where you’re going with this, and I understand the vision. I want to get you more recipes. But I’m just not sure how I’m supposed to find adequate time or energy to do that, and at the same time, continue to run a top-notch restaurant for you here.”

Dale steeples his fingers, nods. “Do you think you could train a replacement manager over the next month?”

“What? Why?”

“Just as you said. You don’t have the space for it. So, make the space for it.”

I blink at him. The man’s gone mad. Is he really telling me to quit my job? “I wouldn’t even know what that looked like.” What would I even do? Just sit around my kitchen in the cramped apartment I share with three other dudes and “dream up” recipes? I don’t think so.

“How did you go about creating the original recipes in your proposal?”

“Trial and error, mostly. When I opened the food truck, I started with a basic grilled cheese.” Just like my mom taught me, back when I was in elementary school and cooking became the thing we did together. My escape from the world, from the pressures Dad put on my grades and the sports he wanted me to play, all ways to ensure I made a different sort of escape—one from Hallmark Beach someday.

An escape he never made, to his everlasting regret.

“And how did you expand from there?” Dale asks.

“Customers would ask for variations and tweaks to the original, and that sparked my creativity, I guess. Allowed me to let loose in the kitchen.”

“That’s what you need to do, then. First, train a replacement—my nephew has been looking for a job, so this is a great opportunity. Then, reopen the food truck. Take the summer and give yourself room to create, room to dream again.”

Room to dream…what would that be like? “To what end?”

“So by the end of summer, you’re ready to start hiring staff and get things under way with the restaurant. I’ve already got the perfect location in mind. Checked with my realtor, and the lease will be available come August. We can take over and launch by the new year—maybe even sooner, depending.”

Whoa. This is exactly what I’ve wanted for years, but after thousands of moments of no movement, time is moving at a rapid-fire pace. “Um, I?—”

“Blake.” Dale locks me in with his gaze once more, his eyes cutting me with their intensity. “I can tell you’re freaking out a bit. Don’t even try to protest it. I know you.” Then his expression softens a bit. “This is what we’ve been working toward. It’s why I took you from the kitchen in the first place and made you manager. You needed to know everything there was to know about running a restaurant—for this moment in time. I see greatness in you, but you’ve got to see it in yourself too.”

“Thank you.” My mouth is dry, but my water cup is empty now. I’d snap at Beth like Dale did, but what for him is simple efficiency and command would feel like rudeness from me. “I am really grateful for this opportunity. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“And you won’t.” He cocks his head. “You know, sometimes a change of scenery can inspire creativity and greatness. You didn’t really tell me much about your trip back home a few weeks ago, but when you returned, something in you seemed…I don’t know. Lighter, maybe?”

He’s not wrong. At first, I dreaded going back to Hallmark Beach, especially with the way I’d left after the funeral. After my conversation—or rather, disagreement—with Lucy. After the way, in my own grief and determination to not let Dad down (even in death), I abandoned my sister.

But two weeks ago, Marilee—and almost everyone else I encountered—treated me better than I deserved.

Everyone except Lucy.

Shegave me death glares from across the vineyard where the wedding was held.

But everyone else was friendly and polite, not telling me—to my face at least—what a lousy brother I’d been. My sister even told me her roommates were moving out at the end of this month, so that by May first, my old room at the family home will always be available whenever I want to visit.

Maybe Dale is on to something. Because if anything, being back in Hallmark Beach recently was more than penance. It was an escape from the big city—from the pressures I live with every day. Pressures that have become normal, yes, but still burdensome at times.

I mean, I’m still determined to reach my dreams.

But wouldn’t it be nice to reach for them and be somewhere that feels a little more like me than L.A. does? Dale’s offering me that chance. To spend a summer in Hallmark Beach. To create again. To cook again.

To reconnect with my sister. To be a better brother—the chance to turn around my one regret.

Well, the only regret I would ever consider doing something about anyway. The other one…yeah. Best to leave that in the past.

“You’re right, as you always are, Dale.” And maybe it would be more prudent to get all the details down in writing, to hash everything out now, but in the six years I’ve known him, Dale has always looked out for me.

I trust him. And if he thinks this is what I need to do to make it in the big leagues, then this is what I’m gonna do.

I offer him my hand across the table. “And you’ve got yourself a deal.”