Creed (The Marquette Family Book One) (3 page)

“Thanks.”

“The numbers are from the previous owner. The growth in the last month was some of what we did with Stefan’s ideas. The reopening was great, but, well, now it’s dying fast.”

“You’d do better to sell.”

“No!”

“Damen, don’t be stubborn.”

“No, Creed. We’re not selling. Remember, we need two signatures.”

Creed’s temper flew out the window. He slammed a fist on his desk and heard the wood creak at the joints. “So you’re saying you two are standing against me on this?”

“Come to New Orleans, Creed. I promise you. You won’t regret it.”

“I already do.”

“Well, get the stick out of your ass and get down here.”

Creed ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Tell me something, Damen.”

“What’s that?”

“If you own a restaurant—”

“
We
own it.”

With his brother’s words, he pictured the family name on a poor, dilapidated excuse for a restaurant, or worse, a
diner
. “If we own this place—”

“Marquette’s.”

Creed repeated the word with a sour taste in his mouth, hating that it was the same as their surname, which he protected like a beast because it was the only thing they could call their own growing up. “Sounds like you’re at a pretty popular place. Why aren’t you at the restaurant, having lunch?”

Damen uttered a shaky laugh. “Funny you should ask. We can talk about it later. I have to go. Later, bro.”

Before Creed could say anything else, Damen disconnected the call. Creed was left to wonder just what his brothers had gotten him into. He stabbed the button on the desk phone that would connect him to Jeff and waited for his assistant to answer.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Jeff, find out the going rate for restaurants in New Orleans. There should be paperwork filed here for one called Marquette’s. I want it on my desk, ASAP, and get me a flight for…let’s say Thursday.”

“You got it.”

“Oh, and Jeff?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Coffee, black and strong.”

“On my way.”

Creed turned to his computer and did a quick Internet search for local news in New Orleans. After a few clicks, he found what he was looking for. A food critic had written up a restaurant reopening not far from Bourbon and Royal Streets in the French Quarter.
“Charming ambience, amazing food, and a relaxing setting were the promised experience at Marquette’s grand reopening, but did the eatery, originally established in the 1800s, live up to its vow?”
the article read.
“Ambience, yes, setting, meh, but food? Well, all this reporter can say is YAWN...”

Creed read on to learn that, while supposedly skilled, the chef, a man who studied in the great Paris, had failed to please the eye—let alone the palette—with his creations. The critic questioned whether Marquette’s chef had ever been outside of Louisiana and denounced the owners for forming such an obvious fabricated background for him.

Why should Creed be surprised? They had skimped on the chef, the most important element for a restaurant’s success. Up until now, he had been the one to screen staff. His brothers gave their input, but their strengths lay elsewhere. Damen built the original website that brought them success, and he couldn’t be bothered with anything that didn’t have wires. That is, until he turned over a new leaf and became more social. Stefan had an artist’s eye, which should have meant he insisted on the best presentation for the food. Whatever was happening down there, Creed needed to investigate.

He considered his contacts for replacing staff in a hurry and then thought of Shada. What was her full name? He didn’t know if he had ever found out. Yet he had a clear picture of big brown eyes in his mind, and a curvy figure. He had failed to get the woman her job back, a fact he needed to remedy. She was a chef, he recalled, but he didn’t know the particulars. That could be corrected quickly, and if she wasn’t right for what he needed, well, he would think of something else on her behalf. A favor didn’t amount to him inconveniencing himself or risking his business.

As he scrolled through the contact list on his phone, a sense of excitement came over him. What if he forgot about selling and helped his brothers make the restaurant a success? Could he do it? That aside, what would it be like to see Shada again when he wasn’t naked and passing out? Now that the experience had passed, he could see the humor in it—and appreciate the view she presented. Yes, he definitely needed to see her again. Just to look. And then, after everything settled down, he would search around him for the perfect woman to have his heir.

* * * *

Creed stepped from the taxi onto the very narrow Saint Louis Street and surveyed the property before him. The name “Marquette’s Restaurant” was emblazoned in bold forest-green over the first-floor windows and door. On the second story were balconies protected by wrought-iron railings and accented with large hanging ferns. He appreciated in particular the old-fashioned street lamps at intervals and the signpost that displayed the menu. So far so good, he supposed.

“Creed, you’re here!”

He glanced up to see his youngest brother in the doorway, a ready smile on his face. Creed’s gaze ventured up to his brother’s hair, and he smirked. The three of them were so alike in coloring and build, people often mistook them for triplets. Stefan managed to set himself apart with frosted tips at the top his of hair and by spiking it with gel or mousse.

“Hey,” Creed said and shook his brother’s hand.

Stefan drew him closer and slapped him on the back. “Come in. You’ll love it.”

Creed followed his brother. “Have you seen or heard from someone named Shada Howard?”

Stefan frowned in concentration. “I don’t think so, but there’s this new chef. He got here this morning, and, well, the other guy was pissed.”

“I can’t help that. I looked into his background and found he’d embellished his resume. That’s putting it mildly. You know you two could have done that for yourselves.”

Stefan charged ahead. “This is the main dining room. Would you get a load of the piano? A baby grand, and it’s tuned. The music we send out of here brings them.”

“But you can’t keep them,” Creed countered.

He glanced around, taking in the large room, and he had to admit his brothers had done a good job. The place had a certain elegance. But as he inspected the building, going from room to room, he also spotted some problems, places where it looked like they had rushed repairs to get to opening. He imagined all Stefan had dreamed of was the entertainment portion.

“This isn’t ready for opening, Stefan.”

His brother gaped at him. “But we’ve been open for a month.”

He shook his head. “You called me down here for a reason, didn’t you?”

The sheepish look he expected surfaced. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, bud, but you don’t open a restaurant in a month or even three. I did some reading on the plane, and I’m far from an expert, but I got a little idea. We need to get someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“No way.”

“Stefan.”

His youngest brother stood firm, and Creed tried to recall when Stefan and Damen stopped listening to him. Maybe back in high school, a long time ago.

“It’s not that I want this to fail, Creed, but I think we’re forgetting where we came from.”

Creed frowned. “I know where we started.”

“This is going to be hands-on, not delegated.”

“We don’t know—”

“We’re going to learn.”

Creed ground his teeth, but Stefan smiled, the grin lighting his emerald gaze. While Creed knew they all had those same eyes, he had always thought his youngest brother’s were different. He had done everything in his power to make sure Stefan was happy. Both he and Damen did, all during their childhood.

“And if it crumbles around our ears?” Creed grumbled.

“Then we’ll deal with it.”

“I’m not going to allow anything to sully our name.”

“Sounds good to me,” Damen announced as he entered the second-floor room where they stood. Creed’s middle brother shook his hand and left it at that. He didn’t hug him as Stefan had. Creed took in the pressed dark slacks and the wrinkle-free sky-blue button-down shirt. Damen shoved black-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, his green eyes sparkling with suppressed excitement.
Yeah, he’s not a nerd at all.

They moved to the office, which would be shared among the three of them. This wasn’t a problem, since the property was generous in all respects. Next, Creed inspected the kitchen. He sighed in relief to find it to be in the best shape of the entire restaurant. Updated appliances, new tile, ample storage, and best of all, a larder full of food greeted him.

Creed met the small staff in person for the first time, and the head chef. He shook the man’s hand and noted the arrogant attitude. Maybe it came with the territory, but at least this one had potential. He had already met with him and even sampled a few of his creations. Creed still felt there was some dynamic he missed, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“So what do you think, Creed?” Damen joined him as he reentered the office, and Stefan brought up the rear. “It’s going to be good, isn’t it? Now that we have your new chef?”

Creed pushed his hands into his pockets. “The floor in the main hall. It can’t stay like that, Damen, and you know it. If someone were to catch their foot…”

Damen groaned. “You’re right.”

Creed glanced at Stefan. “
We
don’t fix floors. Understood?”

Stefan caved. “Okay, we can get workmen in for that.”

“And a few other things.”

“But we’ll stay and oversee it,” Stefan insisted.

“Whatever.” Creed saw the way his brother bounced on his heels and knew Stefan hadn’t revealed all of his plan.

“How cool would it be to have the Marquettes serving?”

Creed stared. “Are you insane, Stefan?”

“Damen’s already agreed.”

“Bullied into it, more like,” Damen said.

“I’m not serving tables.” Creed folded his arms over his chest.

“I already have your uniform.” Stefan winked, reminding Creed of someone else with the same overeager attitude.

“Do you want me serving fools, Stefan, and lose my temper?”

Both his brothers paled.

“We might be out of business in a week,” Daman said.

Creed bristled.

“Okay, okay,” Stefan conceded. “You can be the manager. Keep all of us on point. Oh, wait, you already do that. Boring.”

Creed started to respond to this second dig at his personality and general usefulness, when they were interrupted.

“Hello, I called from the door, but no one answered.” A young woman with long, flowing blond hair and beautiful blue eyes gave them a wave. “I’m supposed to start here today, waitressing.”

Both Damen and Stefan darted forward to take her hand, and Creed took his time joining them. He did appreciate the beauty, but he switched his mind into work mode. Might as well get started and at least try to rein in his brothers while he was at it.

Chapter Three

Shada held up a blouse and frowned at it. “Sis, are you sure about this one? I think it shrank in the wash the last time.”

Her foster sister, Marisa, turned to examine the top. With tiny buttons that ran from the bottom hem to the top hem at the front, it had once been cute. The Victorian-style ruffles at the neck and the short bell sleeves always gave Marisa a look of having escaped from the past, and Shada loved the blouse on her.

“How can you tell?” Marisa asked. “It’s a belly shirt.”

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t be so short your boobs hang out the bottom.”

Marisa chuckled and then coughed, making Shada worry. Shada tried to keep her sister cheerful, but half the time she ended up regretting making Marisa laugh, especially when it turned into an exhausting coughing fit.

“Are you okay?” Shada dropped the blouse and rushed to her sister. She gently rubbed her back.

Marisa waved her off. “I’m fine. Stop worrying. I let you pack for me, didn’t I?”

Shada smirked and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you let me. I’m throwing this thing out. We can buy new clothes.”

Marisa had gone back to her reading, but at Shada’s words, she looked up with a frown. “We shouldn’t spend the money we don’t have too quickly. Let’s wait until we get down there and get settled.”

“Why does that sound like you expect me to get fired?”

“No way, Shada. Anyone who tastes the deliciousness of your food couldn’t help but hire you. You even tried to kill Creed Marquette, and he still wants to employ you.”

Shada burst out laughing. “Damn, do you have to rub it in? I feel like crap about it as it is. But, girl, you should have seen his—”

“Ah!” Marisa held up a hand, her pale cheeks going pink. “I dreamed about it the whole night after you told me. All I could imagine was…well, never mind. I don’t need a repeat of it. No one but Shada Howard could have stripped a man naked and then saved his life.”

“I didn’t strip him. Although I could have, because he was yummy.”

Marisa blinked at her. “I wonder what my book has to say about that.”

“Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me, Marisa. This was not some Freudian slip.”

“Freud would disagree.”

“I don’t want to hear from him, and that’s final.” Shada suppressed a grin and got back to packing Marisa’s things. “I’m so excited! Can you imagine? He hired me as the chef at his restaurant?
Me?
It’s a dream come true. I’ve always been fighting to get recognized, and one mistake gets me here. I call that fate, not Freud!”

Marisa smiled, but Shada noted the dark rings starting to form around her sister’s eyes. She needed her rest, and Shada intended to insist she hit the sack earlier than usual because of their flight in the morning. A three-hour plane ride would wear Marisa out, even if she napped while they flew. Shada had made sure to take care of every detail, including having their things shipped down, unpacked, and placed in their new apartment before they arrived. Because he was offering a job in another state, Creed had given her an advance for relocation. Already, the man was shaping up to be a fantastic boss, better than all the others she’d had. They had embarrassing history, but if he could get past it, so could she.
I definitely will, for the salary he’s offering.