Once Upon a Christmas Eve Page 7

  The rest had to do with Max, and the way he watched her every move. Specifically with the way he watched her mouth when she spoke and the feel of his glance moving down her throat.

  Already far more aware of him than she wanted to be, she reached under the plating station and pulled out a shallow bowl. “Cassoulet,” she replied, now conscious of his eyes on the nape of her neck. “It’s a peasant dish from the south of France.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “In this one, there’s chicken, pork, bacon, sausage, seasonings and white beans.” Ladling a scoop into the center of the bowl, far more comfortable with her food than his effect on her nervous system, she told him that the French usually used duck confit with garlic sausages and bacon. “Basically it’s a stew of white beans and meats.” Closing the oven, she added a fork to the bowl and handed the bowl to him. “The best part is the crust.

  “So aside from cutting wages and benefits,” she continued, leaving him to contemplate what she’d just given him, “what are the other things I can do to make a better profit?”

  Glancing back, she saw him poke at a bite of beans and sausage.

  “You could relocate.”

  She went utterly still.

  He didn’t seem to notice. His attention remained on the meat he lifted with his fork, then let cool a moment before he tasted it. After a quick pause, his eyebrows rose in silent approval.

  “Relocate?” she asked, too busy rejecting the possibility to care about his obvious approval of her current house specialty.

  He forked up another bite.

  “Just hear me out.” He sounded as if he’d expected resistance. He just didn’t seem too concerned about it as he settled more comfortably against the counter. “You didn’t add to the few dollars you spent on advertising when you started staying open for dinner, but your dinner business picked up pretty quickly. You only have an ad in one free local magazine, a website and phone listing. What do you think brings in your customers?”

  The man had obviously known what he was looking for in her books. Since he hadn’t answered her question, though, she wasn’t totally sure where he was going with his.

  “Mostly word of mouth. And the reviews.”

  “What keeps them coming back?”

  “The service. The food. The atmosphere.”

  The nod he gave was thoughtful. She just couldn’t tell if he was considering what she’d said, or what he was eating.

  With the timer about to go off on the other oven, she grabbed her mitts again, pulled out the baguette slices she’d left crisping and slid them onto a cooling rack.

  “Exactly my point,” he informed her, eyeing what she would serve under melted Gruyère in French onion soup with the same curiosity he had the fullness of her lower lip. “People come here because they like what you’ve created, not because you’re convenient. That was mentioned in your reviews,” he reminded her. “You’re not near anywhere most people are likely to be going. All you have here is a neighborhood of old apartment buildings that are stalled on their renovation.

  “On this block you have a dry cleaner and a bookstore. The storefront next door is empty. When I was in the other day, most of your customers didn’t appear to be tenants of these buildings. Since they were leaving in cabs, I assume they came from uptown. If you’re doing as well as you are here, imagine what you’d do in a better location.

  “That was great, by the way,” he said, holding out the suddenly empty bowl.

  She should have felt pleased by his unqualified assessment. She supposed that at some level she was. It was just that the pleasure she usually took in knowing her efforts were appreciated happened to be buried under a pile of disagreement and misgivings.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, and set the bowl in the sink.

  The large pan of bread pudding sat cooling near the chocolate tortes she’d prepared that morning. Since it now had his attention, she disappeared into the refrigerator and walked back out with a stainless-steel bowl full of the crème fraîche she’d made yesterday.

  On her way to the pudding, she picked up a dessert plate.

  Resistance was veiled by an accommodating, deceptive calm. “Where would you suggest I move to?”

  He recommended one of the more affluent, upscale walking neighborhoods. Magnolia, Queen Anne, Capitol Hill. “This area has the potential of being a draw when all the renovation is finished around here,” he then admitted, “but that’s probably another five to ten years off. You have a good concept. It could be great in a better location.”

  She couldn’t argue with his assessment of the little neighborhood. The area was so nondescript it didn’t even rate a name. It was simply a quiet, tree-lined spot in the city that hadn’t made it through the transition it had struggled for years to make. But it was affordable, the people were friendly and despite the skeletal scaffolding on the empty buildings on some of the blocks, the place was charming in its own modest way.

  As for her concept, he didn’t understand it at all.

  “Cut my employees’ pay and relocate.” Having recapped what he’d said would be necessary so far, she dished pudding onto the plate and topped it with the crème and a dusting of nutmeg. She had no intention of doing either, but he’d come all this way. She should at least feed him while she heard him out just in case he came up with something she could actually use.

  “What else?” she asked, and held out the plate.

  Max didn’t trust her almost studied calm as he took what she offered. He’d have thought for certain that she would balk at his conclusions. He just didn’t get a chance to wonder what he was missing as he searched her face, or to respond to what she’d asked.

  Syd walked in carrying a magazine-like newspaper. Pointing to the page he held up, the elderly gentleman grinned at Tommi.

  “They printed my letter,” he announced. “They edited it by half, but the gist is still there.

  “See?” he said, including Max as he angled the page toward him.

  Tommi’s smile came quickly. So did her congratulations. But Syd’s train of thought had just totally derailed. He’d no sooner lowered the paper than he noticed the plate in Max’s hand.

  “That’ll take you home, son. It sure does me. She makes good cobblers, but you can’t beat her bread pudding. I think it’s the extra butter and cinnamon.”

  Swallowing a mouthful of it, Max’s only response was an unexpected, and agreeing, nod. The old guy was right. It did take him back. But not to his own home. What the bready custard instantly reminded him of was sitting at the rickety table in an old next-door neighbor’s kitchen. The lady, Mrs. Hopp, he remembered, had watched him in the evening while his mom worked her second job.

  He remembered little else about the woman, other than that she’d seemed huge, that she’d been nice to him, and that after she’d moved, he’d had to stay by himself at night.

  He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine at the time.

  The memory wasn’t particularly bad. Not like so many others he’d buried. It just…was.

  The plate clinked softly against the work surface as he set it down.

  When he looked up, it was to see Tommi’s quick concern.

  “Is something wrong with it?”

  That old memory had just brought another—of him lying to his mother about sleeping in the closet because he’d been playing fort rather than admit he’d been afraid and risk seeing her cry.

  Ruthlessly cutting off the thought, deliberately avoiding Tommi’s eyes, he forced a smile.

  “Not at all. Syd’s right. It does take you home.

  “So, what’s your letter about?” he asked Syd, thinking any subject preferable to the past he’d been utterly determined to escape.

  The old guy pushed up the bridge of his dark-rimmed trifocals.

  “It’s about all the condo conversions going on around here. These developers come in, buy up the old apartment buildings and kick out the tenants to do their renovating,” he muttered. “
Then the folks can’t move back because they can’t afford to buy a unit, or to pay more rent to whoever did buy it, so they have to start all over away from their old neighbors…”

  Two double raps on the back door underscored Syd’s lament. Wondering vaguely if Layman & Callahan invested in what concerned her, too, when she had the energy to worry about it, Tommi glanced at the security monitor—and stifled a groan on her way to let Shelby in.

  She hadn’t realized how late it was getting. She opened in half an hour and she still had major prep work to do.

  “Thanks, Tommi,” her waitress murmured, closing out the cold.

  Unzipping her shiny silver raincoat, Shelby automatically started for the office to stow her purse, wraps and gym bag. Three steps later, her smile went from bright for the man whose electrified hair could give Einstein a run for his money, to curiosity for the imposing businessman towering beside him.

  “Hey,” she said, recognition in her kohl-rimmed eyes. “You were in here the other day.”

  “He’s Max. Tommi’s accountant,” Syd told her. Still totally focused on his cause, he held out his magazine. “They published it.”

  “Your letter? That’s awesome, Syd!”

  “Is that you, Shelby?”

  “It’s me, Essie,” she called back, wrestling off her coat. “I’ll be right there. I need to get rid of my stuff.”

  Tommi stepped forward, holding out her hands. “Give me your things. I need to talk to Max in my office, so I’ll put them away. Do me a favor and get their salads, will you?”

  With an easy “Sure thing,” her spike-haired server handed over coat and bags.

  “Come on, Syd,” Shelby continued, edging the man she regarded as a surrogate grandfather toward the door. “I want to read your letter. Did they leave in the part about ‘indigenous economic inequity’?”

  “Nah,” he muttered as they headed out. “They cut that part.”

  “She eats here, too?” Max asked as they disappeared.

  “All my staff does.”

  “What sort of a discount do you give them on their meals?”

  Except for the vague unrest she’d sensed before about him, nothing betrayed the quick distance she’d noticed when he’d set aside the dessert she’d given him, and which she’d immediately taken away. She’d hoped he’d enjoy what she’d offered. Instead, it had clearly reminded him of something he didn’t care to dwell on. Just as clear from his comment was that whatever that something was had to do with his childhood.

  The realization had brought a quick stab of sympathy. She knew how hard some childhood memories could be. Yet, what she felt as she motioned him toward her office was the need to defend herself.

  “I don’t give them a discount. Their meals are free because they need to eat and I want them to know what we’re serving our guests. I’m sure you know that it’s easier to answer questions about a dish if you’ve actually tasted it.”

  In the space of seconds, she’d hung Shelby’s coat on the peg beside Max’s, stowed everything else in the bottom filing cabinet drawer where her staff kept their things and turned to the man filling her doorway.

  Max studied her openly, doing nothing at all to mask that unapologetic scrutiny. The way his eyes narrowed on her face made her feel as if she were some sort of specimen on a slide, something vaguely incomprehensible to him. Or, maybe, something…hopeless.

  “Come in, will you?” she asked, moving as far back as she could from whatever conclusions he was drawing. And to make room for him. Shelby would be returning to the kitchen. There was only one way to insure that they wouldn’t be overheard. “And close the door?”

  Between the computer desk, filing cabinets and bookcases, the eight-by-ten foot rectangle of space was tight to begin with. The quiet click of the door latch seemed to reduce its size by half.

  Being trapped in such close confines with all that latent tension was simply one more reason to get what she had to say over with.

  “I truly appreciate you coming here. I really do,” she admitted, sincerely. “But I’m afraid we’re not on the same page at all. You’re talking about me needing to do things that I just can’t do.”

  One dark eyebrow arched. “Can’t?”

  “Won’t,” she quietly amended. “I won’t cut my employees’ pay. Except for Mario, they’ve all been with me since the day I opened. Mario’s been here for nearly that long.” For all she knew, the man silently messing with her nerves had already figured that out. He had a way of gleaning information from her records that she hadn’t realized was even there.

  “The only night he’s missed was the night of his high school graduation last June,” she continued. “He just started a culinary arts course at the community college a couple of months ago and this is his only source of income.

  “Alaina is a single mom.” Her growing appreciation of the woman’s responsibilities added a touch more defense to her tone. “She can’t afford a pay cut. With three kids, she definitely can’t afford to be without good insurance.

  “Shelby works two jobs to support herself and her younger brother,” she hurried on. “She teaches over at the gym between lunch and dinner shifts, but she does that to pay for her brother’s membership. If he’s there working out, she doesn’t have to worry about him getting into trouble. She’s also worth every dime I pay her. So is Andrew. He knows wines and remembers customers and he’s a huge help when it comes to pairings. He’s also a fabulous artist. He just doesn’t make enough off his paintings to live on, so he really needs what he earns here.

  “As for relocating,” she told him, dishearteningly certain she was kissing any hope of a partnership goodbye, “if I moved across town, Syd and Essie wouldn’t get a hot meal as often as they do. Essie has been afraid to cook since a pan caught fire on her stove last year and she got burned trying to put it out. Syd doesn’t cook at all. Then, there’s Mario. He walks here to save bus money. He couldn’t do that if I move.”

  He regarded her with unnerving calm. “Anything else?” he asked.

  She opened her mouth, closed it again. Having said what she needed to say, figuring she’d said enough, her response was the shake of her head and a quiet, “That’s it.”

  Max couldn’t remember the last time he’d witnessed that much fervor from someone who wasn’t seeking something solely for herself. She had to know that refusing to cut such a huge expense could jeopardize her dealings with him. He just didn’t know what to make of the odd mix of stubborn refusal and worry he sensed in her as she stood with her arms crossed, waiting for his response.

  Her refusal to make changes didn’t surprise him, even if her reasons did. Given how proprietary she’d sounded the other day when she’d insisted the bistro was all hers, he’d expected resistance. Like the plea that had underscored her defense, it was the worry he sensed in her that threw him.

  That quiet plea lingered in her eyes, too genuine to succumb to her attempt to blink it away, too desperate to exist solely because she needed another chef in her kitchen.

  “I didn’t say you had to move for us to do business,” he reminded her mildly. “I just said it would increase your profits.”

  She hesitated, wary as much of what he’d just said as the way the quiet tones of his voice seemed to caress her nerves. “But I’d still have to cut pay?”

  “And some of the insurance.”

  “Both?”

  “The points are non-negotiable,” he explained, struck as much by her loyalty to her employees as her lack of common sense.

  “What you want isn’t logical,” he pointed out, wondering at how that indefinable concern robbed the light from her eyes. “You don’t want to cut expenses, yet you want to hire a chef that you’ll pay more than you take for a salary yourself. This place isn’t big enough to support two chefs at that level—that money has to come from somewhere.

  “But we still have things to talk about,” he assured her, wishing that light would return. He knew it existed. He’d seen it in h
er smile. “There are other ways to boost your bottom line. You just need to start thinking outside the box.”

  He didn’t want her shutting the door on their company. For Scott’s sake, he hurried to remind himself. And because she did have a great prototype here. He never thought small. He was sure his partner would see the franchise possibilities, too.

  Concentrating on his partner’s interest in this woman seemed infinitely wiser just then than thinking about the woman herself. He couldn’t believe how fragile she looked with her arms crossed so protectively. Or maybe it was the deep, shuddery breath she drew and the relieved fall of her slender shoulders that made him aware of how vulnerable she seemed.

  The disquiet shadowing her eyes was what he noticed most.

  That distress felt like a tangible thing to him. Drawn by it, by her, he found himself fighting the wholly unfamiliar need to touch the silky-looking skin of her cheek, and tell her she didn’t need to look so concerned.

  He curled his fingers into his palm as he checked the thought. He had no idea where the disturbing impulse had come from. As he turned to pull his jacket from the back of the desk chair, what he did know was that he knew little about offering reassurance to a woman—and that he had no business thinking about touching her at all.

  “I’m going to run some numbers tonight and drop something off for you to look over.” Mindful of the room’s confines, he pushed his arms into his jacket’s sleeves, shrugged it onto his shoulders. “What time do you open in the morning?”

  Tommi’s pulse scrambled as he turned back to her. He was closer than he’d been moments ago, close enough for her to feel the tension radiating from his big body. Close enough for that tension to taunt the nerves he’d managed to calm when he’d made it clear she hadn’t killed her prospects with his company.

  “Seven. But I’m usually in the kitchen by five-thirty.”

  His eyes held hers, unreadable despite his faint smile. “I’ll be here at seven then.”

  She gave him a small nod, then watched his smile fade as his glance skimmed her face, and settled on her mouth.