Summer at Seaside Cove (9 page)

He shrugged. “I've never heard of a restaurant manager having the entire summer off. Plus that whole bossy thing. Doesn't seem a far stretch that you'd have pissed off someone and gotten canned.”

Warmth rushed into Jamie's cheeks, prickling irritation along her every nerve ending. “There's a difference between being bossy and being the boss.
Someone
has to be in charge. And for your information, I wasn't fired. I'd just saved up a lot of vacation and decided to take it all at once.”

“And came to Seaside Cove for the summer.”

“Yes.

He studied her over the rim of his coffee cup through intense green eyes that didn't give anything away. Finally he said, “Must have been a hell of a breakup.”

Jamie froze as another wave of heat washed through her, and darn it, here came the blotches. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it must have been a hell of a breakup between you and your boyfriend to result in you abandoning ship for two months to lick your wounds. Either that or you committed a crime and skipped town to avoid prosecution. But if I was a betting man—and I am—I'm going with bad breakup.”

“You fancy yourself a fortune teller?” she asked, her voice thick with sarcasm.

The way his eyes seemed to pierce into her soul gave her the uncomfortable sensation that he could see every emotion, every pain and heartbreak that had driven her away from the life she'd always known. “No. I just call 'em like I see 'em. I'd also bet you were the dumpee, not the dumper.”

“And why is that?”

“First, because if
you'd
dumped
him
, if the decision had been yours, you would have stayed in New York, flipped him the proverbial finger, and continued on, business as usual. Second, when you remarked that Maria and Ira's story was very romantic, I detected a bit of a lip curl—like you'd bitten into a lemon and wanted to say ‘blech,' which indicates a romance gone bad. Which leads me to believe the reason for the breakup was because he was cheating. Since you wanted to get away from New York, that makes me think he was someone you couldn't avoid. So that's my guess—he cheated, and he was in some way related to your job.”

Okay, out of all the men she knew—many of whom she'd known for years—she couldn't name
one
who was in any way perceptive, yet this hungover stranger had hit every nail right on the head. It was weird. And uncanny. Totally unnerving. And really, really irritating.

“You're making an awful lot of assumptions for someone who's known me for”—she pursed her lips and made a big show of consulting her watch—“less than two hours.”

“Maybe. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong.”

“You sound more like a lawyer than a repairman.”

Something flickered in his eyes, something that disappeared too quickly for her to interpret. Touched a nerve, had she? Good. And two could play at his game. “Since you seem to think you have me all figured out,” she said, “now it's my turn.”

She allowed her gaze to wander over him, then said, “You're the big kid who ran away from home. Black sheep of the family, your parents—probably your father—didn't approve of your lifestyle, and rather than keep fighting all the time, you just left. Probably there was a woman—or five—involved at some point who got tired of you going off on your benders. You decided you didn't need the hassle and moved away. You don't like people telling you what to do, you're not big on relationships or commitment, and you enjoy being your own boss. You took advantage of the down real estate market and managed to scrape together enough money for a minimum down payment on a couple of rundown places that were probably short sales or in foreclosure. You're up to your eyeballs in debt, but now there's no one to answer to but yourself.”

“Now who's playing fortune teller?” he asked in a casual voice, but the muscle ticking in his jaw had Jamie giving herself a mental high five.
Ha, Mr. Smarty Pants. Hit a couple nails myself, didn't I?

She was saved from answering by the arrival of their food. Jamie had ordered the eggs Florentine, and with the first bite, she closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Oh. My. God. I'm not sure if it's because I'm starving or that this is just that good, but I think these are the best eggs I've ever tasted. Ever.”

“They're that good,” Nick said. “Try this.” He held out his fork, laden with a tempting morsel of his grilled challah bread toast topped with mascarpone and homemade raspberry syrup.

When Jamie hesitated, Nick rolled his eyes. “I haven't eaten off the fork yet. Jeez, you really are anal.”

“No, I'm not. I'm merely . . . cautious.”

“Got that. You want to taste this or not?”

The restaurant manager/foodie in her couldn't resist. She leaned forward and opened her mouth. Then once again her eyes slid shut at the burst of delicate flavors. As was her habit, especially when tasting new dishes, she chewed slowly, savoring the melding of textures and tastes. When she opened her eyes, she found him staring. At her mouth. She swallowed again, then said the only word she could manage.

“Yum.”

Her voice seemed to yank him out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into and he scooped up another forkful of his breakfast. “I hate to say I told you so . . .” he said, then wolfed down a big bite.

“Somehow I sincerely doubt that, but I'm too in love with this meal to argue with you.”

His lips curved up in that slow, lopsided grin. “So the trick is to keep you fed. Good to know.”

Since that darn grin of his had stolen her ability to speak, she merely looked toward the ceiling and kept eating. She'd just mopped up the last of her eggs with a piece of perfectly toasted semolina bread when Maria stopped by the table to drop off their check. She eyed the empty plates and beamed.

“That's what I like to see—healthy appetites. You enjoy?”

“Best eggs
ever
,” Jamie said, patting her stomach.

“A masterpiece, as always,” said Nick.

“
Grazie
. You come back for dinner this week. The specials are my lasagna—she is the best you've tasted; I make the gravy from my grandmother's recipe—and Ira's brisket.”

“Sounds delicious,” said Jamie. “I absolutely love your restaurant, Maria—the food, the décor, the whole concept. It's eclectic and unique and fun, and the meals are seriously delicious.”

Maria's smile could have lit the entire room. “
Grazie
, Jamie. The recipes are from my childhood, while the shells have been collected by family from beaches everywhere. But the sand dollars on the mantel are from Seaside Cove. I love them so much because they remind me of Roma.”

“How do sand dollars remind you of Rome?” Jamie asked.

“It is because of the legend,” Maria said. “In Roma, we have the Trevi Fountain. Legend says that if you throw a coin in the fountain, you will come back to Roma. Local legend here says that if you find a whole, unbroken sand dollar—which is very rare—you shall not only have great luck, but you are ensured a return visit to Seaside Cove. You see? The legend here is the same as that of my beloved Roma.” She smiled at Nick. “Have you found one yet?”

“No. But I don't need one. I have no intention of leaving Seaside Cove.”

“But it is a talisman of good luck, so you still must always look for the unbroken sand dollar.”

“I'll keep an eye out,” Nick promised. “Maria, did you know that Jamie manages a restaurant in New York City?”

Maria's eyes lit up. “No! Then I am doubly honored by your kind words, Jamie. Ira and I love Manhattan. So many fun things to do, so many great places to eat. What's the name of the restaurant?”

“Newman's.” Just saying the name of the restaurant where Jamie had poured so much of her heart and soul filled her with a conflicting sense of pride and relief that she was here and not there.

“Ah, a family-owned restaurant,” Maria said, nodding. “Just like we had back in Italy. That is the best kind. Where in the city is Newman's located?”

“West 44th Street, in the theatre district.”

“We'll make it a point to eat there the next time we visit,” Maria promised. Then her eyes widened and she clapped her hands together. “Oh, but this is perfect that you know so much about managing! Has the Clam Committee paid you a visit yet?”

“Clam Committee?” Jamie repeated. Uh-oh. This sounded like trouble.

“For the Clam Festival,” Maria clarified, her brown eyes alight with excitement. “It's a huge event on the island—takes place the end of August, right before Labor Day. All the islanders volunteer. Ira and I have a food tent and we help decorate.” She turned to Nick. “Aren't you helping to build the parade float this year?”

“I am.” He grinned across the table at Jamie. “I'm sure the Clam Committee will have plenty for you to do.”

Crap. She wanted to be on the Clam Committee like she wanted a hole in her head. Really, what she wanted was to be left alone. Seriously, why couldn't people just
leave her alone
?

“Oh, they will be so happy to have someone with your experience,” gushed Maria, “especially since Walter Murphy is out of commission due to his hip-replacement surgery. You are
come il cacio sui maccheroni
!”

Probably that meant destined to die at the hands of the Clam Committee, Jamie thought darkly.

“She's like . . . cheese on macaroni?” Nick asked with a laugh.

“
Eccellente!
” Marie reached out and pinched his cheek. “You're getting very good at the translations, Nico! Yes, like cheese on macaroni—so, how you say—just what the doctor ordered.”

Maria then grabbed Jamie's hand. “Oh! And you must put your name on the ballot for Clam Queen, Jamie.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I heard that
strega
Missy Calhoun”—Maria practically spit out the woman's name—“from Coastal Beach Island has been bragging that one of her daughters is going to win again this year. We need someone from Seaside Cove to win.” Still gripping Jamie's hand, Maria turned to Nick. “She's
molto carino
—very cute, no?”

“No,” Jamie interjected.

“Very cute,” Nick agreed, completely ignoring the Stare of Death Jamie shot him. “Definitely has Clam Queen potential.”

“Ah! It is settled then,” Maria said with a beaming smile.

It totally
wasn't
settled, but Jamie didn't see any point in arguing about it with Maria. What the heck did she care if Missy What's-her-name's daughter won? It was really a nonissue as Jamie simply wouldn't put her name on the Clam Queen ballot, and she'd save all her refusals for the actual Clam Committee if they solicited her help.

Maria's gaze bounced between Jamie and Nick. “How long you two know each other?”

“It's been about two hours,” Nick said.

“More like two and a half,” corrected Jamie. “But it feels like five.”

“More like ten.”

“Years,” Jamie said, nodding. “Ten years.”

Maria laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “Ah,
amore
!”

Jamie nearly choked. She didn't know much Italian, but she certainly knew that
amore
meant love. “Uh, no.
Seriously
no. Not
amore
. In fact, pretty much the opposite of
amore
. Very much
un
-
amore
.”

“È stato amore a prima vista!”
Maria said, her eyes gleaming.

“What does that mean?” Jamie asked.

“It is, how you say, love at the first sight. The chemistry, the sparks—they cannot be denied. It was the same way with me and my Ira. You are both beautiful and it is
bellissimo
babies you will make.” She blew them each a kiss, said, “Arrivederci,” then sauntered away to visit another table.

Jamie pressed her fingers to her temples. “Holy cannoli. I feel like I just got hit by an Italian Mack truck.” She glared across the table. “Since when did you turn into a mute? You didn't say anything to disabuse her of her crazy love-at-first-sight notions and all that
bellissimo
babies jazz.”

“I learned a long time ago there's not much you can do to correct someone's wrong assumption about you other than to let time take care of it. And besides, I avoid arguing with women whenever possible.”

“Because you know we'll win?”

“Because women base their opinions on emotions rather than facts. That makes arguing with them about as productive as smacking rocks against my head.”

“Smacking rocks against your head . . . That could be arranged, you know.”

“I'm sure it could. But you might want to remember that it's a ten-mile hike to the Piggly Wiggly.”

Jamie sighed and opened her purse to extract her wallet. “I have
got
to arrange for a rental car.”

“You can try, but I wouldn't plan on anything being available until after the Shrimp Festival.” He smiled. “Looks like you'll need to be nice to me for the next couple of days, Miss No Car.”

“I am being nice to you. Have I smacked you in the head with a rock?”

“No, but you've looked like you wanted to.”

“
Wanting
to isn't a crime.” She hoped.

He reached for the check, but she slipped her fingers on top of the bill and his palm came down on the back of her hand. “This one's on me,” she said, dragging her hand and the check from beneath the warmth of his broad, callused palm, a move that for some inexplicable reason zoomed tingles up her arm. “For taking me to the Piggly Wiggly.” He frowned at his hand that had been on top of hers for several seconds, then slowly pulled it back, flexing his fingers. When he appeared about to argue, she added, “And so I have something to hold over your head until my stairs and roof are fixed.”