No Ordinary Love: Sweetbriar Cove: Book Six Read online

  Linda looked faint. “Lizzie! Don’t even joke about it. Everyone needs someone to love.”

  “What I need is a part-time job.” Eliza skillfully changed the subject. “I saw a notice down at the restaurant, I’ll go see if Declan is still looking for a hostess.”

  “Declan?” Her mom perked up again. “Is he single?”

  “Terminally.” Eliza laughed.

  She changed into a pair of restaurant-friendly black pants and a white blouse, and went to fetch her bicycle from the dusty garage. Her legs burned pumping the pedals up the hill, but by the time she coasted down the other side to town, she was almost feeling like her old self again. Being in Sweetbriar worked like that, every time. As much as she loved the pace of city life, there was something about the grassy lanes and wide-open skies that always spoke to her, filtering out the hum and static of all that time she spent staring at a computer screen.

  And the chocolate croissants didn’t hurt either.

  Eliza detoured via the bakery on Blackberry Lane and found her friend Summer holding court behind the counter, her hair tied back in a flower-print rag and a streak of flour on her cheek. “Eliza!” Summer cried, brightening. “When did you get in?”

  “A couple of days ago, but I was tied up with family stuff.” Eliza eyed the counter hungrily. “Any croissants left?”

  “I just rolled a fresh batch. Come on, I’ll put them in the oven.”

  Eliza followed Summer into the kitchen, inhaling the delicious scent of butter and sugar. She sighed with happiness. “I missed you.”

  “You missed my pastries,” Summer laughed. “Although, I’m branching out into savory recipes now in honor of the Lobsterfest.”

  “Don’t let Aunt June hear you,” Eliza warned. “She’s gunning for another blue ribbon for her chowder.”

  Summer winced. “She says there’s no hard feelings, but I still don’t think she’s forgiven me for stealing her trophy at the eggnog contest over Christmas.”

  “It’ll be butter knives at dawn,” Eliza teased.

  Summer slid a tray of croissants in the oven and poured Eliza a cup of coffee. “So, what’s new with you? Working on anything fun for the newspaper?”

  It was Eliza’s turn to wince, and she quickly filled in Summer with the developments from the Herald . . . and Cal Prescott and his tires. “You didn’t!” Summer spluttered on her drink.

  “I did,” Eliza admitted, still feeling guilty. “I shouldn’t have, but you know I act first and think later. I wonder if he found a ride OK . . .”

  “It was just the highway, not the middle of nowhere,” Summer reassured her. “I’m sure he’s fine. I wish I’d seen his face!”

  “His handsome, chiseled face,” Eliza said without thinking. Summer arched an eyebrow. “What? Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I’ve had my fill of trust-fund playboys, believe me.”

  “Shame. Well, we’ll have to find you someone . . .” Summer looked thoughtful.

  “Why?” Eliza replied lightly. “Because being single is a fate worse than death?”

  “No,” Summer laughed. “Because you deserve someone amazing to worship and adore you.”

  “Funny, my mom said the same thing. Kind of.” Eliza shrugged. “Anyway, that’s the last thing on my mind. I’m unemployed, remember?”

  “Good point.” Summer tugged the tray from the oven and set it down on the stovetop, steam wafting. “I’d offer you something here, but I’m fully staffed. And I don’t think you’d go for the early-morning wake up calls.”

  “How early?” Eliza asked.

  “Four a.m.”

  “Maybe not,” she agreed quickly, and they both laughed. “How does Grayson deal with your schedule?” she asked curiously, thinking of Summer’s intense other half.

  “Oh, he’s fine with it. Some days, he’s the one waking me. Of course, that just means we’re both in bed by eight like a pair of old folks,” Summer grinned.

  “Early nights with your hunk of a boyfriend, you have my sympathies,” Eliza teased. “Anyway, I better get going. See you at the pub tonight? We can catch up properly.”

  “As long as it’s an early one!” Summer said, slipping a couple of croissants into a paper bag and delivering it with a flourish. “Good luck.”

  * * *

  Back on the road, it was only another mile until Eliza reached Sage restaurant, nestling in a leafy hollow. She propped her bicycle out front and ventured inside the old carriage house, the bell above the door ringing out with a gentle ding! The place was quiet, closed before lunch, with the tables all set and waiting crisp with white linens and polished silverware. She wandered over to the smooth wooden bar and looked around for signs of life.

  “How’s my favorite journalist?”

  Declan’s voice made her leap, and she spun around to find him emerging from the kitchen double doors, sleeves rolled up and a chef’s cap set at a jaunty angle.

  “Hoping she can become your favorite hostess,” Eliza said, greeting him with a hug. “Tell me you’re still looking for help.”

  “That depends, what’s your experience like?” he asked, with a teasing twinkle in his eye.

  “Handling customers, or handling you?” she shot back.

  Declan grinned. “Good point, the job’s yours.”

  Eliza let out a sigh of relief. For all her joking, being between jobs made her feel like walking an anxious, uncertain tightrope. This might not be the journalism career of her dreams, but it would help keep her student loan payments under control, and give her breathing room again until she figured out her next move. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “I promise, I’m not useless. I waitressed all through college, and I’m guessing this crowd is easier than Boylston on a Friday night.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Declan said with a smirk. “Come on, I’ll show you the ropes.”

  He took Eliza through the menu and reservation book, and then took her into the back to introduce her to the rest of the kitchen and wait staff.

  “Thank God,” one of the waitresses greeted her, a pretty auburn-haired woman in her mid-twenties. “We’ve been short-handed all week. This one keeps breaking all their hearts.” She gave Declan a look, catching her wild curls up in a bun and shoving a pen through it.

  “You should be happy,” Declan protested. “Fewer ways to split your tips.”

  The woman snorted, her blue eyes full of mischief. “You try serving a party of ten while some poor girl weeps in the vichyssoise,” she said. “I deserve a raise.”

  “And I need to get the lamb on.” Declan beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, leaving Eliza with the group alone.

  “I’m Jenny,” the woman said, breaking into a smile. “I think I’ve seen you around, you’re friends with Mackenzie, right?”

  “Yes!” Eliza beamed, and introduced herself. “You know Mac?”

  “Since high school,” Jenny said. “Cape Cod, born and raised. And not to be over-familiar, but please tell me you’re happily married. Or celibate. I don’t think I can take another of Declan’s restaurant hookups blocking the aisle.”

  “None of the above,” Eliza said, laughing. “But don’t worry about Declan, I’m immune to his charms. His pork belly hash, on the other hand . . .”

  Jenny grinned. “I like your priorities. Well, just let me know if you need anything,” she said, tying on a crisp waitress apron. “The diners can be, ah, demanding, but at least the tips are good.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Eliza stationed herself out front by the front desk, and was all set to go by the time the first few guests arrived for lunch service. “Welcome to Sage,” she greeted them smoothly. “Let me show you to your table.”

  As the dining room filled up, it was clear the kind of people who traveled for miles to sample the artfully plated delicacies and fine wines. There were tasteful pearls, designer watches, and more seersucker than Eliza had seen in one spot since the Fourth of July. The ring of elegant silverware filled the room, blending with the
tasteful jazz soundtrack and hum of conversation, and Eliza tried to keep the amusement from her smile as she deftly fielded questions about wine vintages and local farm provenance from slim, brittle blondes who barely nudged their salads. By the time the first seating was over, she was worn out, and paused a moment by the stand to ease an aching foot out of her high-heeled pumps.

  “How’s dinner looking?” Declan ducked out to check the reservation book.

  “Standby seating, only,” Eliza replied. “Things must really be going well around here.”

  “Can’t complain,” Declan replied easily. “The Herald review really kicked things off over here. I’m guessing I have you to thank for that.”

  “I may have mentioned those short ribs around the office,” Eliza laughed. “A few dozen times.”

  “Just wait until you taste my tenderloin.” Declan kissed his fingertips.

  “Is that on or off the menu?” Eliza arched an eyebrow, and he laughed.

  “Darlin’, that’s entirely up to you.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  They both turned, and Eliza’s laughter caught on her lips.

  It was him—Cal Prescott. He’d traded his suit for a pair of dark-wash jeans and a rumpled button-down, but he was standing right there in front of her, as handsome as she remembered.

  Looking at Eliza with clear annoyance in his eyes.

  She gulped.

  “Cal, mate. Just giving my new hostess a spin.” Declan made the introductions. “Eliza, this is a buddy of mine, Cal.”

  “We’ve met,” he said, in a clipped voice. “It was . . . memorable.”

  Eliza forced a smile. “Oh look, customers! I’ll go see to them.” She dashed away before anyone could say a word and busied herself at the door. It turned out to be a tourist who only wanted to use the restroom, but she gave her a guided tour and sat her down with a glass of ice water, hoping that Cal would be on his way.

  She was wrong.

  “So, you’re a waitress,” he said, lounging by the bar when she returned.

  “No, I’m a person who works as a hostess,” Eliza corrected him, feeling her hackles rise. “And I’m sorry, but you’ve missed lunch.”

  “No problem. I’ll have a glass of wine. Cabernet. The 2012 vintage, if you have it.”

  He was watching her with that half-smirk on his face, probably expecting her to say something rude, so Eliza took a deep breath. “Coming right up!” she said brightly, and she slipped behind the bar to find him a bottle.

  “I finished my journey just fine, in case you were wondering,” Cal continued, still lounging there looking impossibly handsome. “Should I invoice you for the tow truck now, or later?”

  Eliza glanced up sharply. “You mean, the tow truck you would have needed even if I’d never stopped to help?”

  “Is that what you call it, help,” he echoed, still smirking, and for some reason, it made Eliza’s blood start to boil.

  “Rutherford, 2012,” she said, setting the glass down in front of him. “Shall I open a tab?”

  “Sure,” he said, sliding a black AmEx across the bar. “And you can leave the bottle,” Cal added casually. Eliza glanced at the wine list, and nearly choked when she saw that it cost a week’s rent.

  “Sure. It’s all yours,” she managed to say, before Declan came barreling out of the kitchen again, this time holding a fork out.

  “Taste,” he ordered her, before feeding her a bite of something meaty, with a citrus tang.

  “That’s delicious,” she agreed, and he beamed with pride.

  “Not too much lemon?”

  “You know it’s perfect,” she said, and he laughed.

  “You’re right about that!” He charged back through the doors. When Eliza turned to Cal, that disapproving stare was back.

  “So. You know Declan,” he said, making it sound like an accusation.

  Eliza gave him another breezy smile. “Yup. We go way back. Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Cal’s scowl darkened, and she couldn’t resist adding,

  “He’s so talented. In the kitchen, I mean. There’s always a line out the door.”

  “Sure, if you like that kind of thing,” Cal said. “He gets around though. To different restaurants,” he added, meeting Eliza’s gaze.

  She arched an eyebrow. “But he’s worth it, don’t you think? When a chef is so skilled, it doesn’t really matter who else he cooks for.”

  Cal looked stormy enough to shut the bar down, so Eliza figured her work was done. “I better get back to work,” she said sweetly. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  She waltzed away to straighten up the silverware. Childish? Sure. But Cal had insulted her and implied she was sleeping with Declan while barely pausing for air. Besides, she and Declan were just friends. Despite the harmless flirting, they both knew she had no interest in joining the long, long list of his conquests.

  Not that it was any of Cal Prescott’s business.

  * * *

  Cal’s new relaxed, take-it-easy mood had lasted long enough for him to walk through the doors at the restaurant . . . and find his siren flirting with Declan.

  She wasn’t his, of course. He didn’t know why he thought of her that way. Or even why he thought of her at all. But however he’d pictured running into her again, it wasn’t laughing over something Declan had said, with that smart mouth beaming in the kind of smile a man would kill to have inspired.

  He should have known she was off limits. The wanton destruction of his property had been his first clue. Still, she didn’t seem the type to buy his buddy’s lothario routine. She seemed smarter, more discerning than that—

  Cal caught himself and gave a rueful laugh. He didn’t know what type of woman she was—besides a devious, hot-tempered one. He didn’t know anything about her at all. And if his goal was a calm, relaxed mind, he was guessing it should stay that way.

  He detoured via the harbor on his way back and took a stroll down to the water, trying to take his time. Three days in, and his brain was already restless, itching to get back to work, and it took everything he had to keep his phone set to silent, ignoring his calls. They could wait.

  Except Arthur Prescott. His uncle’s name flashed up on the caller display. Cal braced himself and answered.

  “Would you like to tell me what you’re playing at?”

  Cal winced. His uncle was scrupulously polite—the kind of man who valued tradition and manners above all else—so for him to dispense with the pleasantries and cut straight to it, things must have really been bad.

  “Taking a vacation,” he answered lightly, taking a seat on the bench that overlooked the cove. “You know what they are? A brief spell away from work, often someplace warm.”

  “Don’t be glib, boy,” Arthur replied.

  Cal took a breath. Somehow, his uncle always made him feel like he was fifteen years old again, in trouble for sneaking a beer from the cellar. “I can take a few days without the company crumbling to the ground,” he pointed out, trying to keep his voice even. “The rest of the team is still there, and they know where to find me if something comes up.”

  “Something always comes up, that’s part of being CEO,” Arthur replied. “You’re there to set an example, show some leadership. If they see the captain has bailed, what’s the point of them keeping the damn ship afloat?”

  “I haven’t bailed.” Cal rubbed his forehead. Suddenly, he had a headache coming on. “I’m barely seventy miles away.”

  “Distance doesn’t matter. Now, did you look at those forecasts I sent you? I don’t like the numbers coming out of Wichita. We should close the whole branch and be done with it.”

  “Wait, not so fast.” Cal put the call on speaker and scrolled to his emails to find the data his uncle was talking about, earnings from a paper company they’d acquired last year. “It’s not that bad. We’re breaking even there.”

  “Which means we’re not making any profit.”<
br />
  “Give it some time,” Cal urged him. “The company is the main employer in town. If we shut it down, that will devastate them.”

  “You always did think about people first.” Arthur made a sighing sound. “Of course, what do I know? I’m only here to advise you. The decision is really up to you.”

  “Then I say we don’t go cutting any jobs just yet,” Cal said, more firmly. “I’ll keep an eye on the numbers, and we’ll reassess next quarter.”

  “Very well.” His uncle paused. “I know that this is a big responsibility, taking the reins,” he said suddenly, “but it’s what we’ve been preparing for. I know your parents would be proud, seeing you continue their legacy.”

  Cal was shocked. Arthur never mentioned them. Not even—

  Of course. The anniversary of his parents’ death. It was coming up, next month. Ten years since the car accident that took them from him—and made him the sole heir to the Prescott fortune. Cal usually tried to be far away when the day rolled around, preferably drunk, in some exotic location and in the company of a beautiful woman. But this year, it had crept up on him.

  He cleared the lump that was suddenly in his throat. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “Look, I should get going.”

  “Of course.” Arthur cleared his throat too, clearly uncomfortable. “Just remember, you have a lot of people depending on you.”

  As if he could ever forget.

  Cal hung up and gazed out at the horizon, the blue curve of the bay dotted with sailboats bobbing on the afternoon tide. He wondered what it would feel like to be on one of those boats, with nowhere to be, nobody depending on him. Freedom. For a moment, he felt a wistful pang so sharp he could taste it, but he shook it off and turned away.

  It was crazy to feel jealous of some unknown person on the waves; after all, he could rent a boat like that anytime he liked. Hell, he could buy one, and set sail for the Caribbean if he wanted, spend the rest of his life on a beach somewhere drinking rum and playing cards. Except he had people counting on him. His family, the board, thousands of employees at dozens of businesses all over the country, each of them with families and bills to pay and lives that would be thrown into turmoil if he didn’t take his responsibilities seriously and keep the Prescott Group thriving and profitable.