Chapter 2
Devon counted to five in his head before addressing the newest cook. “Bryce, how long did you leave these scallops on the grill?”
“Two minutes, just like Chef Carl told me,” he said, his spine hunching.
Devon poked the rubbery scallop with a fork, his patience draining. He could deal with inexperienced cooks, but liars were another story. “It’s like a pencil eraser. If I dropped it on the floor, it’d fucking bounce.”
Devon’s voice reverberated over the hot line, and Bryce looked down. “I might have looked away for a second to fire a steak.”
Devon grabbed the plate and dumped the contents in the trash, disgusted. Maybe if Bryce had been more concerned about cooking than flirting with the waitstaff, Devon wouldn’t be tossing valuable product in the bin. “That’s the third plate off your line that was sent back. You’re off the grill for the night. Switch with Sarah and manage the salads.”
Bryce’s face had gone red, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Devon sighed and pushed his way out of the narrow kitchen, needing a break from the heat and the annoyance. He didn’t want to become that asshole boss everyone hated, but he also couldn’t afford to let food costs get out of control. Elizabeth, the owner, was counting on him to make this place work, and she had little tolerance for incompetence. She would’ve given Bryce his walking papers right there. But Devon believed in second chances, so he’d tell Chef Carl to give Bryce some remedial training before letting him near a flame again. If that didn’t help, Bryce would need to take his rubbery scallops elsewhere.
The soft music and murmured conversation of the Savor Wine Bar wrapped around Devon as he made his way through the restaurant. It was getting close to closing time, and all but three tables of customers had drifted out. On a Monday at this time of night, they were usually dead, but there’d been a big concert at the arena and they’d caught a nice wave of people when it let out. He’d take all the help he could get. Elizabeth had given Devon this job on faith when he’d needed to move out of California to somewhere with a cheaper cost of living to make ends meet for him, his sister, and her daughter. The last thing he wanted to do was let his friend’s fledgling restaurant shut down under his watch.
Devon leaned against the bar and sighed, weariness digging into his bones. “I think the kitchen staff is going to put me on blood pressure medication.”
Paul, the bar manager, chuckled and pushed a glass of Devon’s favorite pinot noir his way. “Nah, you’re too young for that. You just need some time off. Liz will be back from her trip tomorrow. Let her whip the newbies into shape while you get some rest. Or better yet, get laid and forget the rest. I find that helps with the blood pressure every time.”
Devon sipped the wine, the corners of his mouth lifting around the glass. “That does sound like an excellent plan.”
And it did. He’d lost track of how long it’d been since he’d gone out for a drink with a guy, much less taken anyone to bed. Between helping his sister with her three-year-old daughter and working with Elizabeth to launch th
e restaurant, every second of the last ten months had been sucked up.
“You should check out that place that opened over on Delmont on your way home. I went last weekend. Fun crowd, great music. Drinks are overpriced but by the third one, you forget about that part.”
“I might just do that,” Devon said, his spirits perking up at the idea. He didn’t do the dating thing, but a night of dancing and maybe more with a hot guy could be just what he needed.
“But first . . .” Paul said, wincing a bit. “I have one more customer who requested to see the manager.”
“Ah, fuck.” One more complaint tonight and Devon might lose it. “Where?”
Paul pointed to a booth near the front window. “Big guy in the baseball cap. He’s nearly polished off a bottle of cabernet, so be warned.”
Great. Only thing worse than an unhappy customer was a ranting, drunk one.
Devon swallowed another sip of his drink and then headed toward the corner booth. The guy’s back was to him, and he seemed to be staring out the window at the cars passing by on the downtown street. The flatbread he’d ordered was sitting mostly untouched in the center of the table.
Damn, Bryce couldn’t have managed to screw up a simple pizza, could he? Devon squeezed between two empty tables and straightened his suit jacket before stepping around to face the man, an apology poised on his lips. “Sir, how can I help—?”
But the question died in the air as the man looked up from beneath the bill of his ball cap. Dark, soulful eyes stared back at Devon from a face he knew better than his own. Any cogent response melted right out of his brain. “Jesus Christ.”
Hunter looked Devon up and down, his brows knitting in that way that indicated alcohol-blurred thoughts. “Wow, you look . . . important.”
Devon couldn’t help taking his own eyeful. Shaggy black hair peeking out from beneath the cap, tight T-shirt spread over shoulders and pecs honed for top athletic performance—a body Devon had ogled way too many times when he and Hunter had shared a room in the frat house.
“And you look . . .” Fucking amazing. Perfect. Even better than on TV. “Drunk. What the hell are you doing here, Hunt?”
His grin was lazy, lopsided. “I’m on vacation.” He raised a finger to his mouth. “Shh, don’t tell anyone. Top secret.”
Devon braced his hands on the table and sank onto the bench seat on the other side of the booth, not sure his legs were going to continue to hold him up. “Vacation?”
Hunter lifted his glass. “You know I haven’t had alcohol in four years.”
Four years. Which was exactly how long it’d been since Devon had last seen him. He tried to take a breath, but the room seemed to have less air in it than a moment before. He ran through the reasons why Hunter could possibly be here right now. Drinking. In his bar.