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Authors: Elley Arden
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furrowed. “I don’t really have a home, Charlie. I need money to get a home, and I need a job to get money.”
He reached to the pot rack overhead and ripped down a skillet. If the money he had wasn’t already tied up as an investment in this restaurant and the renovation of his house, he’d have paid her every last drop of back child support she deserved just to get her out from under his skin.
Corbin walked into the room with his hands raised. “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever is going on in here, but we have a situation out there. People need food. Can we do that and handle this later?”
“Where do I get one of those notepads?” Morgan asked, pointing at Corbin.
“No,” Charlie said again, but nobody was listening to him.
Corbin dug into the basket beside the door and tossed Morgan a tablet. “The menu changes weekly, so a mini-copy is taped to the notebook’s cover. For God’s sake, remember: absolutely no substitutions. Other than that we’re BYOB. Most people bring a bottle of wine. You just open it and pour. Take the five tables to the left of the main aisle—only two are full right now. I’ll take the rest.”
And then they were gone, like a bad nightmare, leaving Charlie rattled and unable to find the “center” his sponsor talked so fondly about.
Deep breaths
, Charlie thought as he dressed the chicken. He needed this restaurant to work if he ever hoped to prove he was more than a chip off Johnny Cramer’s block—a guy who was a liability to this town and his family instead of an asset. He wanted to be the kind of man a child could look up to. And he needed to be able to face Morgan without falling apart if he ever wanted that child to be a regular part of his life.
But if she thought this was going to be easy, she was crazier than he was. And he was the least of her worries.
The people out there had chased sweet, little Hannah away. They wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to Morgan.
• • •
One fast glance around the dining room told Morgan nobody particularly intimidating was here. Still, she’d thought the same thing while inside the credit union and the mini-mart, too.
Her hands shook.
You can do this.
It was waiting tables. How hard could it be?
“Good evening. My name is … ” Her throat made a clicking sound when she swallowed. “My name is Morgan how can I help you? Can I start you off with something to drink?” She spoke fast and ran the words together hoping her name would get lost in the jumble.
“Morgan?” The sort-of-familiar-looking woman batted her lashes double time.
“That’s my name.” There was no use in denying it.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The woman patted the skin framed by her V-neck sweater. “Jessica Plant. I played trumpet at your wedding. Well … I suppose I can still call it that. We did get to play the wedding march before Alice Cramer stood up and stopped the rest of the ceremony.”
Okay, this was bad, but it wasn’t horrible. Jessica wasn’t being mean. “I do remember you. It’s … nice to see you again.” She smiled but diverted her eyes to the notepad. “Now, what can I get you to drink?” The less small talk the better.
Jessica handed over a bottle of wine for Morgan to cork and pour. And just like that, service for table seven was underway.
That went better than expected.
With her shoulders a little stronger and her back a little straighter, she made it to the kitchen, where Charlie was clutching a stainless steel bowl. One arm manned a whisk. The rapid whirling motion drew her attention straight to his tattooed forearm.
Her face heated. There was something about a man who knew his way around a kitchen. “Where would I find a corkscrew?” Her last word taunted her until the heat from her face nosedived straight into the depths of her belly.
He glanced up and his wrist slowed. When he shook his head, it was clear he still didn’t want her here. “In the drawer beneath the glass
He reached to the pot rack overhead and ripped down a skillet. If the money he had wasn’t already tied up as an investment in this restaurant and the renovation of his house, he’d have paid her every last drop of back child support she deserved just to get her out from under his skin.
Corbin walked into the room with his hands raised. “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever is going on in here, but we have a situation out there. People need food. Can we do that and handle this later?”
“Where do I get one of those notepads?” Morgan asked, pointing at Corbin.
“No,” Charlie said again, but nobody was listening to him.
Corbin dug into the basket beside the door and tossed Morgan a tablet. “The menu changes weekly, so a mini-copy is taped to the notebook’s cover. For God’s sake, remember: absolutely no substitutions. Other than that we’re BYOB. Most people bring a bottle of wine. You just open it and pour. Take the five tables to the left of the main aisle—only two are full right now. I’ll take the rest.”
And then they were gone, like a bad nightmare, leaving Charlie rattled and unable to find the “center” his sponsor talked so fondly about.
Deep breaths
, Charlie thought as he dressed the chicken. He needed this restaurant to work if he ever hoped to prove he was more than a chip off Johnny Cramer’s block—a guy who was a liability to this town and his family instead of an asset. He wanted to be the kind of man a child could look up to. And he needed to be able to face Morgan without falling apart if he ever wanted that child to be a regular part of his life.
But if she thought this was going to be easy, she was crazier than he was. And he was the least of her worries.
The people out there had chased sweet, little Hannah away. They wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to Morgan.
• • •
One fast glance around the dining room told Morgan nobody particularly intimidating was here. Still, she’d thought the same thing while inside the credit union and the mini-mart, too.
Her hands shook.
You can do this.
It was waiting tables. How hard could it be?
“Good evening. My name is … ” Her throat made a clicking sound when she swallowed. “My name is Morgan how can I help you? Can I start you off with something to drink?” She spoke fast and ran the words together hoping her name would get lost in the jumble.
“Morgan?” The sort-of-familiar-looking woman batted her lashes double time.
“That’s my name.” There was no use in denying it.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The woman patted the skin framed by her V-neck sweater. “Jessica Plant. I played trumpet at your wedding. Well … I suppose I can still call it that. We did get to play the wedding march before Alice Cramer stood up and stopped the rest of the ceremony.”
Okay, this was bad, but it wasn’t horrible. Jessica wasn’t being mean. “I do remember you. It’s … nice to see you again.” She smiled but diverted her eyes to the notepad. “Now, what can I get you to drink?” The less small talk the better.
Jessica handed over a bottle of wine for Morgan to cork and pour. And just like that, service for table seven was underway.
That went better than expected.
With her shoulders a little stronger and her back a little straighter, she made it to the kitchen, where Charlie was clutching a stainless steel bowl. One arm manned a whisk. The rapid whirling motion drew her attention straight to his tattooed forearm.
Her face heated. There was something about a man who knew his way around a kitchen. “Where would I find a corkscrew?” Her last word taunted her until the heat from her face nosedived straight into the depths of her belly.
He glanced up and his wrist slowed. When he shook his head, it was clear he still didn’t want her here. “In the drawer beneath the glass
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