Scratch the Surface

“Out,” she demanded. “You can yell in the lobby.”

“He’s the new mayor,” McCauley assured her, forgetting he wasn’t in his hometown.

“Since I know who the mayor of Sacramento is, and that isn’t him, I’m going to warn you again: if he yells one more time, I will call security.”

“Why are you threatening me?”

She grunted, pivoted quickly, and was gone.

“I always say the wrong thing to her.”

“Yes, you do,” I affirmed. “You need to work on that.”

“Yes, I…yes,” he agreed, staring at me.

I forced a smile. “Well, thanks for coming by to let me know about those guys, and I appreciate hearing about Savannah.”

“You know, Jeremiah, there are some nice apartments near my house down on Lindstrom. I could––”

“Lance quit,” Merrell announced, moving to the end of my bed so he could glare at me.

“Yeah, I figured he would,” I confirmed. “He was just waiting for a sign.”

“What?”

“Connie,” I stated, “his girlfriend. She’s psychic.”

“What?” he repeated, sounding like he was going to hyperventilate.

“Connie’s had him waiting for a sign, and last night was it. The thing is, Rita doesn’t know her son. He was never gonna stay.”

“There’s no head chef at Kingman’s,” he declared like it was news.

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. You might wanna see if Jenny Bowen will come in and train your guys on the house recipes. Or you could change the menu, I guess.”

“Change the menu?” he gasped, looking a bit pale.

“Like I said earlier, you can still sell to the Country Porch people if you want. You’ve got all those other companies comin’ in, and without the Bowens, it won’t technically be Kingman’s anymore anyway, so”––I shrugged––“maybe you sell it after all.”

“That wasn’t the plan!”

Why was he yelling at me?

“You were supposed to run the restaurant, and Lance was supposed to cook, and—what the hell is happening?”

He was shouting and flailing his arms around, and any second now I was betting Chyna would be back with security, and they’d not only escort him out of my room but off the floor and out of the hospital altogether.

“Who’s cooking now?” I asked to divert his attention.

“I have no earthly idea,” he confessed in a whisper.

I winced. “You might wanna get over there and see,” I suggested, glancing at the clock on my wall. “You’ve got a weekend lunch rush coming on. I’m not there and neither is Cheyenne, and all I’ve heard about Brent is that he likes to give away free drinks.”

“I––” His phone rang, and he checked the display, then swore. “I still need to speak to you.”

“Maybe after you hire a general manager, huh? And a chef?”

“But––”

“You probably shouldn’t have fired and rehired everybody before you knew who was and wasn’t planning to stay.”

“How––”

“I would get the posting up today.”

“This is insane!” He was back to yelling.

“It is,” I agreed. “I’d come help you, that’s how bad I feel about this clusterfuck you’ve found yourself in, but I have an IV in my arm.”

“I––”

“At the moment, though, I absolutely think you should call Jenny Bowen and see if you can pay her and her husband under the table to come in and cook for you today, and every day until you hire someone. That is, if she’s not too sad about her grandson leaving town. But if you don’t at least try, you’re gonna be totally screwed.”

His phone stopped ringing and then started again.

“You also realize this is Saturday. Did anyone cancel the band, or are the Rattlers still going on stage at ten thirty?”

“How did this happen?”

“Poor planning,” I deadpanned. The man was so hosed.

“What do I––”

“You need to go,” I advised him. He opened his mouth to say something to me, then glanced at McCauley, and without another word, bolted from the room.

“As I was saying,” McCauley began before his phone rang, interrupting him. Excusing himself, he walked out of my room as Cameron Gallagher breezed in.

He looked good, fresh, crisp, in a tan herringbone blazer, gray waistcoat and dress shirt, black jeans, and oxblood wingtips. What I knew, from being in bed with the man, was that the real treat was having him naked. Underneath his clothes, he was covered in sculpted muscle from his broad shoulders and wide chest to his narrow waist and very long legs that had been wrapped around me most of the night.

“Wow,” I husked, barely breathing, following his movements intently as he walked around my bed so he could stand at my right. Staring up at him, I watched as he took the Ray-Ban Aviators from where he’d pushed them up into his hair and placed them on the tray table next to my shake.

“Hello,” he greeted me, smiling.

I struggled to sit up, but he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder to keep me still for a moment before he took hold of my hand.