Chapter 7
QUINN
“Cara! I can’t believe you’re here!”
Cara Walsh, my best friend back in Boston, has arrived for her first visit since I returned to Florida.
“We haven’t spent a Galentines Day apart since college. No need to break that tradition now. Besides, I’m here to support my bestie with her grand reopening!”
“And I appreciate the help. I can’t wait until you try out all of the authentic Irish family recipes I found. I want your honest impression.”
I’ve been racing against the clock to remodel and decorate the bar, and get the new menus ready for a Valentine’s Day re-launch.
Maeve has been fabulous, sharing stories about the old-timers and previous celebrations, and now that Cara is here, she can help me appeal to a younger crowd, as well as get the word out to the local press with her connections as a food critic for the Boston Globe.
The thing I’m most excited about are the recent collaborations I’ve been able to establish with some of the local women-owned businesses in town.
Merri Gallagher, owner of the Sassy Siren Brewery, is a former classmate and beer maker who trained at some of the best craft breweries out West. She’s providing some new local brews for my taps, and Julie Harper, owner of Seaside Sweets, is bringing my great-grandmother’s dessert recipes back to life.
Tonight will be the debut of Kavanaugh’s three featured desserts: Irish apple cake, chocolate Guiness cake, and as a nod to Pelican Point, a chocolate and sea salt Irish cream tart.
I hired extra kitchen staff since it looks like we’re going to have a full house.
Maeve scanned the reservations book and pointed out a number of prominent couples from generations-old families in Pelican Point on the list. Among them, Brennen and Joselyn Murphy, as well as Emma and Miles Dawson.
Seems my promotion of the re-opening event has hit the right targets.
And I’m looking forward to rekindling a friendship with my old school chums, whose names I recognized right away, Joselyn and Emma.
Fortunately, I don’t have any competition from across the alley this evening. Kane’s pre-Valentine’s singles night already took place and there shouldn’t be any overlap in attendees, since tonight is about celebrating couples, rather than singles.
As I’m reviewing the evening’s schedule once more, Julie’s significant other, sheriff’s deputy Marcus King, knocks on the back door.
“Hey, Quinn. I’ve got your baked goods from Julie.
” He rakes a hand over his close-cropped military-style haircut.
“She sends her regrets that we won’t be able to make it tonight.
She got a last-minute rush order and will be busy baking all evening.
We’ll definitely be by for dinner one night soon, though. ”
“Thank you, Marcus. I appreciate it. Anytime you guys can come over for dinner, it’s on the house. Tell Julie thank you and I’ll talk with her soon.”
After Marcus finishes bringing in all of the pastry boxes, the new chef approaches with a worried look on her face.
“What is it, Celeste?”
“Based on the number of meals and anticipated customer flow, I’m not sure your equipment can keep up. We really could use another cooking space. Otherwise, patrons might have long wait times for their food.”
Gah! “But we ran these numbers before we cut off reservations. I thought we were okay.”
“I’m really sorry. I thought so too, initially, but now that I’m set up logistically, I’m not so sure. I want everything to go off without a hitch for your big night.”
“Okay, give me a minute to think.” I begin pacing back and forth. The only option I can come up with on such short notice is the least desirable one. Kane.
I’m a jumble of nerves as I cross the alley over to the other pub. If Kane doesn’t help me out, my grand reopening could be a grand disaster.
When I enter, he looks up from the bar, sporting a devilish grin.
“Quinn! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your big night?”
“Actually, I need a favor. Would you be willing to rent out your kitchen space to help with overflow? Our chef is concerned about my kitchen’s capacity.”
He doesn’t hesitate to respond. “Sure. I think we can work something out.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank goodness. “Great. What do I owe you?”
I can’t help but notice the twinkle in his eye, in addition to his mischievous smile, but his response leaves me speechless.
“I don’t want your money. I have something else in mind.”
My stomach drops with a thud. What the hell? As my mind races with the thoughts of all kinds of unpleasant possibilities, he continues with his proposal, as if he had it all planned out, just waiting for an opportunity for me to owe him.
“Here’s the deal. First, you work over on this side with me tonight. Second,” he pauses dramatically, “if you can’t turn a profit by St. Patrick’s Day, you agree to sell out to me.”
Has he lost his mind? But what choice do I have?
I swallow all the pride I can muster and extend my hand.
Actually, this just might give me all the momentum I need to fight like hell to preserve the Kavanaugh legacy.
I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.
As he returns my handshake to seal the deal, I voice my agreement to the bet. “You’re on.”
Within an hour, all the details are sorted out.
Celeste and her crew are serving as the base of operations in my kitchen, while Kane’s staff will handle the side dishes in his kitchen.
I’m running point between the two to keep everything flowing smoothly.
Unfortunately, that means I’m not able to mingle among my customers and be the face of Kavanaugh’s tonight, but I’m leaving that duty in Cara’s capable hands.
As a notable food critic, she’ll be an amazing host for tonight’s dinner.
Following an uneventful start, the tension literally becomes heated to a crisis point in Kane’s kitchen when an entire batch of colcannon, traditional Irish mashed potatoes with some special ingredients mixed in, is scorched beyond repair.
The pungent smell of burnt potatoes drifts through the kitchen.
As Kane rushes to throw open the back door for better air circulation and to dissipate the smell, the overwhelming odor gets to me and I suddenly can’t breathe.
I sink down to the floor as my muscles give way, gasping for breath in an attempt to keep from passing out.
The next thing I know, Kane is squatting on the floor in front of me, gently taking my hands in his and rubbing them as he locks eyes with mine.
“Slow down, Quinn. Take deep, easy breaths. Breathe with me.”
He proceeds to inhale and exhale slowly in front of me, encouraging me to mimic his movements, gradually calming me until I’m breathing regularly.
He then gently releases my hands and wipes away a tear that I didn’t even know was shed.
The subtle touch of his rough fingertip on my cheek awakens a tingling of awareness in me.
It’s as if all of my other senses have shut down and there’s nothing but him.
Our faces move closer until our lips connect in a dance as old as time.
Unlike his fingers, his lips are amazingly soft.
I’m not sure how long the kiss lasts, but I’m suddenly jerked back into reality by the clatter of pots and pans.
I open my eyes to find Kane appearing as shocked as I am. He then smiles softly and helps me to my feet.
“Are you okay now?”
I simply nod, not yet ready to speak about what just happened, either my sudden panic attack or the unexpected kiss.
He seems to know now is not the time to talk about it, so he lightens the moment with humor. “Good. We need to make more potatoes.”
Later that night, I lie awake in my bed, reflecting on the surprising success of the night and the interactions with Kane. Instead of replaying all the congratulations I received about my reopening event, my brain is on a repetitive loop, playing over and over again the scene of the kiss we shared.
Focus on what’s important, Quinn. Don’t risk Gramps’ legacy by falling for the competition. Even worse, another warning sounds alarm bells in my head when I remember the St. Patrick’s Day deadline. Did I make a deal with the devil?