Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3) (5 page)

“
T
hanks for meeting me
, you guys.” Carl Marcotti shakes our hands vigorously, and escorts us to our table, gesturing to it with an expansive wave. “Sit, sit. You’re eating lunch, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t pass it up for anything,” Wyatt replies. “The entire way here, I’ve been having visions of your lasagna.”

He laughs and signals over a waiter, who hurries up to take our orders. Once we’ve decided on food, we get down to the real reason we’re here. “You want to expand?” I ask him.

He nods eagerly. “We’re busy every night,” he says. “There’s an hour wait for a table on the weekends. We don’t take reservations, but if we did, we’d be booked every single night.”

I look around. Carl’s right,
Paesano’s
is hopping. Three waitresses weave in and out, carrying steaming plates of pasta, fish, and meat. One of them detours to deposit a plate of bruschetta at our table with a smile. “Compliments of the kitchen.”

We dig in as Carl flips open his laptop. “If you look at the numbers…” he starts.

“Already looked at them,” Wyatt interrupts. “I agree with you, Carl. You’re in great shape, and you’re definitely ready to take
Paesano’s
to the next level. What’s it going to cost to lease the place next door?”

He exhales in relief. “Thirty grand.”

“A month? Fuck me.” I’ve lived in Manhattan for seventeen years, and I’m still shocked at the price of real estate in this city.

He laughs. “Insane, right? But I’m confident we can do enough business to cover it.”

Wyatt doesn’t look surprised at the price tag. “We’re in. You’ll need another couple hundred grand to renovate the space, right?”

Carl shakes his head. “The place is in good shape,” he says. “There shouldn’t be too much remodeling necessary. One fifty should cut it, and we’ll be ready to open in four months.”

Carl’s chomping at the bit. He’s done his homework, and he’s made sure he’s prepared for this meeting. It’s a stark contrast to Piper.

“I was afraid you guys would say no,” he confesses as our food shows up.

“Why?” Wyatt raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you turned down Emerson recently, and word is that you guys bought a stake in Piper Jackson’s restaurant.” He sounds sheepish. “I thought you might not want to take on too many projects at once.”

Everyone knows everyone in the restaurant industry. No doubt Max Emerson’s bitching about how we didn’t invest, and Piper’s probably the target of everyone’s envy. I feel a brief moment of regret about that. I don’t want to throw Piper to the gossiping wolves.

Wyatt leans forward. “You know Piper?”

Carl nods. “We started culinary school together. She was the most talented chef in our class.” He shakes his head. “Great girl, Piper. She’s had a tough time of it.”

“In what way?” Wyatt asks. He takes a bite of the lasagna and closes his eyes in appreciation. “This is fantastic, Carl.”

“You haven’t investigated Piper’s background?” Carl gives us a curious look. “That’s weird. You guys knew my underwear size when we did our deal.”

I chuckle. Carl’s exaggerating, but only just. The background check was painfully thorough. We skipped a lot of steps because of Mendez.

Wyatt clears his throat. “It’s a long story,” he says, giving me a dry look.

Carl elaborates. “Piper’s parents cut her off when she joined culinary school,” he says, chewing on his veal. “She worked her way through the program. It took her almost five years to finish. Then, after graduation, when she was about to start working for
Le Bernardin
, her aunt died and left her
Aladdin’s Lamp
.”

“She inherited the place?”

“Six months ago,” Carl confirms.    

“Well, that sounds like a lucky break,” Wyatt says, echoing what I’m thinking.

Carl snorts. “The place was badly run down when Piper took it over. You think it’s a dump now? You should have seen it at the start of the year. Half the chairs were broken. The walk-in freezer hadn’t been emptied and cleaned in seven years. And that’s not even the worst of it.”

“What’s the worst of it?” I ask.

“You know her staff? The waitress who smells of cigarette smoke, and the sous-chef with an alcohol problem? The waitress makes sixty grand in salary and the sous-chef makes a hundred. A hundred thousand fucking dollars.” Carl shakes his head. “She’s going broke paying for them, but she can’t fire them. The trustees of her aunt’s estate won’t let her.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish,” he says soberly. “The poor kid. Her family is determined to see her fail.”

“How do you know all this?” Wyatt asks curiously. His brows are drawn together in a frown.

He shrugs. “Everyone talks, you know how it is. But mostly it’s because people like Piper. She got a raw deal, and she never once whined. You won’t hear her complain. She just gets quiet, and then she gets to work.”

She’d done that on Saturday. The two of us had yelled at her and accused her of wasting our time, and she hadn’t said one thing to defend herself. Now, to find out she’s been dealt an impossible hand, and she’s doing the best she can to play the game, even if defeat stares her in the face?

Perhaps I should have yelled less and listened more.

Judging from Wyatt’s expression, he’s feeling the same way. “Thanks for telling us this, Carl,” he says quietly. “I really appreciate it.” He takes a sip of water, but his lasagna stays untouched. Like me, he’s lost his appetite.

I
’m determined not
to blow my second chance.

Yes, you don’t like them,
I mutter to myself as I do kitchen prep by myself on Tuesday evening. Josef is, unsurprisingly, late. He doesn’t know the precise terms of Aunt Vera’s will, but he has learned in six months that no amount of bad behavior can get him fired. By any rights, he should have been let go a dozen times over, so he’s reached the conclusion that I’m a pushover.

I’m only a pushover where my parents are concerned. I just can’t afford to fire Josef.

My knife moves rhythmically as my mind wanders. Wendy thought Wyatt and Owen were attractive. She’d practically been drooling at her phone. Are they? I’m trying to picture them, but all my mind brings up is the image of them yelling at me on Saturday night, their lips twisted with disapproval.

Objectively, I guess they are attractive, if you like your men with a side of asshole. I don’t, I never have. Yes, that dark beard of Wyatt’s is all kinds of sexy, and Owen’s shoulder-length blond hair makes me want to run my hands through its thickness.

And then rip it out, because he’s a jerk.

My lips twitch at that thought. Maybe he’ll stop lecturing me then. Maybe Wyatt will stop looking at me with those dark, measuring eyes.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Josef bustles in. “Ah, I see you’ve got the lentils cooking. And you’ve made the hummus too. Excellent.”

I straighten my shoulders. This situation with Josef is deteriorating rapidly. “You’re almost an hour late,” I say coolly. “Do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to be here at three thirty?”

“The subway wasn’t running,” he says sullenly.

If I’m to believe Josef, the subway fails on a weekly basis, and the MTA is made of a bunch of incompetent idiots. I wonder how much of a fool he thinks I am. “Make the salad dressing,” I snap. “Lawless and Lamb are going to be here for dinner, and they’ve asked for us to prepare three dishes that represent
Aladdin’s Lamp
. On Saturday, you served them frozen lamb and dressing out of a bottle. Let’s do better today.”

I brace myself for a resentful silence, but Josef nods eagerly. “Of course. I know the perfect three dishes.”

“You do?” This is a rare display of enthusiasm from Josef. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to squash it. It would be really nice if my sous-chef would actually do the job I pay him for.

“Yes. I’ve a great recipe for a vine-wrapped grilled salmon, served with a basmati pilau,” he says. “I can braise a lamb shank, serve it with couscous. Also, a grilled chicken with pomegranate sauce.” He rubs his hands together. He’s almost bouncing on the balls of his feet; he’s so eager to get going.

I gaze at him doubtfully. The truth of the matter is, my specialty isn’t Middle Eastern food. I’m competent and I can follow a recipe, but I don’t know enough about the cuisine to be able to improvise. I’ve cooked Southern food all my life, and I learned to cook classical French cuisine in school, but ask me to cook anything else and I’m well outside my comfort zone.  

Until I took over at the start of the year, Josef was the head chef at
Aladdin’s Lamp
. Maybe this is the challenge he needs to take an interest in cooking again.

A voice at the back of my head warns me I’m making a mistake.
Sebastian Ardalan didn’t want to hire Josef,
it says to me.
He wanted to hire you.

It’s been a long, hard struggle, and that voice isn’t as confident as it once was. It’s been smothered into silence by crushing bills, ground down by an unending stream of obstacles. It’s been stifled by the cool contempt I saw in in Wyatt Lawless’ eyes on Saturday, by the open disgust I heard in Owen Lamb’s voice. “That sounds good,” I hear myself say. “What can I do to help?”

I
walk
out to the restaurant floor to greet them when they arrive. It’s eight on a Tuesday evening. The restaurant is almost empty — only one other table is occupied, by a young couple holding hands and sighing in pleasure over my macaroni and cheese. Seeing them, my heart fills with emotion. This is the reason I became a chef, for the simple joy of watching someone enjoy my food.

I’m still smiling when I spot Lamb and Lawless, though my smile dims as I approach them. When I see their faces, all my ire from Saturday night comes back.
Well-behaved Southern women don’t show emotion,
I remind myself. “Thank you for coming,” I say politely. My mother will be proud of my even tone. Years of etiquette lessons are finally paying off.

Wyatt looks up, his expression troubled. “Hello Piper.”

“Mr. Lawless,” I nod tightly. I don’t care what’s bothering him. He’s just here to eat a meal. Today, Owen Lamb, who is the expert at kitchen operations, is the person I need to impress, and he’s probably smirking like a fool, the way he usually does.

He isn’t. He doesn’t meet my gaze. A cold fear trickles through me. They can’t be pulling out of the contract, can they? We haven’t signed anything yet. All I have is a verbal agreement. In the state of New York, a verbal agreement is binding, but I know that won’t make any difference. If they walk away, I don’t have money to sue them.

Don’t be silly, Piper. That’s the worst case scenario. That’s not going to happen.

“You wanted to taste three signature dishes today,” I blurt out, a distinct tremble in my voice. “Right?”

Wyatt’s troubled look intensifies. “Yes please.”

Please
, I beg.
Please let the salmon dish be okay.
I’m about to excuse myself to check on Josef’s fish before it leaves the kitchen, when Kimmie flounces out carrying two plates. “Vine-wrapped grilled salmon, served with a basmati pilau,” she says, her lips bared into a smile.

I only swear when I’m really,
really
angry. The instant I spot Kimmie with the plates, I reach that point. What the fuck is Josef thinking, sending the dishes out without my approval? I’m the head chef. Nothing leaves the kitchen without my say-so.

“You’re not joining us, Piper?” Owen asks politely, failing to notice that my blood is boiling with rage.

My fingers clench into fists. I don’t care that well-behaved Southern women don’t punch people. Right now, I want to kick, scream, and lash out at everyone. At Owen and Wyatt for bailing on a deal. At Josef for exploiting a moment’s weakness, and at Kimmie, for that smug smirk on her face, and for the rhythmic movement of her jaw as she chews her ever-present gum.

All I can do is wait silently for them to taste the dish.

Owen Lamb gives the grape-leaf wrapper a dubious look. “In the Middle East,” he mutters, poking at the covering with his fork, “these are typically fresh.”

In the Middle East, perhaps. At
Aladdin’s Lamp
, they come out of a jar.

He doesn’t say anything else; he doesn’t need to. He peels the grape leaf back, and cuts a small piece off the edge. When he tastes it, he pauses. For a moment, there’s complete silence in the air, then he shakes his head. “Food,” he says quietly, “shouldn’t taste of preservatives.”

A fist wraps around my heart, squeezing it tight. Wyatt spears a piece of salmon on his fork, and lifts it to his mouth. He chews experimentally, then his eyebrows rise. “You made this dish, Piper?”

I should throw Josef under the bus. He sent out the salmon without waiting for me. He knew I’d want to taste everything first, and he sent out the food anyway.

You okayed his dish,
my conscience reminds me.
This is your restaurant. No excuses. No whining.
“I’m the head chef,” I answer quietly.

“That wasn’t what Wyatt asked,” Owen says mildly. He pushes his plate away and delivers his verdict. “Too heavy on the pomegranate molasses, drowning out the delicate taste of the fish. The pilaf on the other hand, is distinctly under seasoned.” He lifts his head up and surveys me with his clear blue gaze. “What’s next?”

More pomegranate molasses, unfortunately. “Grilled chicken,” I tell them. “I need to head to the kitchen to see to it.”

Wyatt nods. “Come back out when you’re done. We’d like to talk to you.”

They’re going to back out of this deal. I can sense the words hanging in the air, unsaid for the moment, and my heart aches with grief. My options have narrowed to nothing. Thanks to Wendy’s help, I’ll make rent this month, but what about next month and the month after? By the fall, I’ll be back in New Orleans, and everything I’ve struggled for in the last five years would have been for nothing. “Sure,” I reply tonelessly. “I’ll do that.”

“
W
hat did
they think of the salmon?” Josef’s eager voice assaults me as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

I have no energy left to soften the blow. “The sauce for the salmon had too much pomegranate molasses. The pilaf was under seasoned.”

I swipe my finger through the pan where the sauce was made, and sure enough, Owen Lamb is right. Used sparingly the molasses adds depth and richness. In the sauce Josef made, it is cloyingly sweet. It would have drowned the taste of the fish.

His face flushes. “It did not,” he snaps. “What do they know about food anyway?”

“Everything.” That’s the reason it hurts so much; that’s the reason Sebastian Ardalan’s prediction that
Aladdin’s Lamp
would close in six months cut to the bone. Lawless and Lamb are the best at what they do. Their approval matters to me.

“Is the chicken ready?” I taste the sauce and poke at the meat, and I can hear their voices in my head already. “Passable,” Wyatt Lawless would pronounce. “Generic,” Owen Lamb would say. They’d both be right, but it’s too late to do anything about it.

Sure enough, in about five minutes, Kimmie returns to the kitchen, the barely touched plates in her hands. “What did they say?” I ask, dreading the answer.

Kimmie looks a little dazed. “Mr. Lamb said that it was unworthy of you,” she says, “And Mr. Lawless told you to fight.” Her message delivered, she goes back to chewing gum. “They’re strange.”

That was unworthy of me.

Fight.

I contemplate their words, despair threatening to press in from all sides, then suddenly, a light shines on the truth.

I’m a fool. I’m a stupid, blind fool. I’ve been too busy moaning and moping about money and my parents and all the things I lack, and I’ve failed to realize what I do have.

I have friends who believe in me.

I have talent. Sebastian Ardalan, a two-Michelin star chef ate at my restaurant, and he
liked
my food. The couple at the table earlier had practically licked their plates clean.

Le Bernardin
offered me a job when I graduated. Sebastian Ardalan would have offered me a job. I’ve let the steady dripping corrosiveness of my parents’ words eat away at me. I let Josef suggest the signature dishes? Shame on me. I’m the head chef. Until the doors close, this is
my
restaurant. And I’m going to make Owen Lamb and Wyatt Lawless a dish that represents my cooking.

“We’re not serving the lamb,” I tell Josef. “Get me two skillets. I’m going to serve Owen Lamb and Wyatt Lawless my macaroni and cheese.”

If they’re going to back away from the deal, they’re not going to do it after tasting a dish Josef made. They’re going to do it after tasting one of mine.