“Guess your father lost track of a lot of things,” Lorenzo said.
“He’s been sick,” she snapped defensively.
Her hazel eyes cut daggers in his direction, and Lorenzo was quick to wave his hands in the air.
“Look, I’m here because your old man needed help.”
“After which you told me to change my menu.”
“And I’m backpedaling on that front,” he insisted. “You do the cooking. I’ll get the word out. We each have a role to play.”
Lorenzo watched her ponder the pronouncement, thinking that she might be gearing up for round three when Michelle simply nodded her head.
“So… I can cook what I want, and you’ll just take your cut?” she asked.
“Something like that,” he said. “Or… I mean…”
“What?”
Here was the leap of faith. The flight toward something close to what Val had with Cait. “I could help out.”
Michelle laughed at his response.
“Is that so funny?” he challenged.
“No. Of course not. I’m sorry.”
“Then why are you laughing?” he demanded.
Michelle cleared a few file folders bursting with paperwork from a nearby chair and sank slowly into the supple faux leather seat.
“I apologize,” she said. “Anything that you can do to help is greatly appreciated. If you get the word out about—”
“I can get the right people at the tables,” he insisted.
“Then please, just do that.”
She seemed sad at the end of her statement, and Lorenzo took the chance to move closer to the desk.
“You have my word.”
He watched her eyes soften around his promise and bit his lip when she stood again, her body close to his, her breath just brushing against his cheek.
“More breadcrumbs.”
“I… excuse me?” he asked.
“I’ll show you what I mean.”
Guiding him back to the kitchen, Michelle took up his empty plate and offered more mac and cheese. When Lorenzo took another taste, he forgot all matter of melted cheese and lunch meat.
“Who am I to argue with perfection?” he asked.
Michelle smiled, leaning back against the countertop with her arms folded across her chest.
“You’re just saying that,” she said with a smirk. Lorenzo responded by cleaning his plate and leaning closer, his free set of fingers just brushing against her arm.
“I’ll take seconds. Or thirds, I should say.”
Michelle smiled before dishing out another helping, sprinkling a bit more paprika atop the dish.
Lorenzo took another taste. “You should serve this,” he said, reaching for the nearest dishtowel and dabbing the corners of his mouth with the cloth. Michelle sighed as she looked at the mac and cheese, her eyes suddenly hungry. Lorenzo picked up on the longing on her face and brought the seasoned pasta to her lips. He had no other point of focus as she chewed the shells languorously, seeming more than satisfied with the flavor. And the man who was giving her a taste.
“Can’t argue with perfection,” she finally said. “I like your suggestion.”
Lorenzo laughed as he set the plate aside and reached for her hand. “I think we’re on the same page now,” he said.
“We are,” she conceded. “And I…”
Her voice trailed off, and Lorenzo waited to hear what she might say next when a short, barrel-chested man barged into the kitchen.
“Mich? Everything okay?”
Lorenzo tensed as he observed the sweaty man who looked ready for battle with a ladle in hand. He pulled back his hand, not even sure if he had been reaching for a handshake from Michelle…or more.
“Everything is fine, Rodolfo,” Michelle insisted. “Mr. Parisi and I have an understanding.”
“But he’s just the front office, right?” Rodolfo asked. “Not like we’re going to let him cook.”
“Not for the guests. I—”
She looked as if she wanted to take those words back as soon as they slid off her tongue. “I mean—”
“Your guy has a point,” Lorenzo conceded. “I’m not up to the task.” He left with the promise of packing her restaurant come the following Friday.
“Wait… Lorenzo.”
When he looked back, she appeared on the verge of retracting her previous statement… or at least revising it in some way.
“My father and I thank you,” was all that came out.
Lorenzo bowed his head and took off into the night, frustrated with himself. Silly to think that she could take a shine to him. He was still the enemy who she had no choice but to crawl into bed with, figuratively if not literally. He was about to leave when he heard the back-door squeak open, and Rodolfo was there.
“Hey college boy,” Rodolfo asked.
“What’d you say?” Lorenzo challenged, spoiling for a fight, and still fuming with frustration at himself.
The short, sweaty man stepped forward and awkwardly patted Lorenzo’s back. “Was this your way of trying to score points with her?”
Having been found out and thinking that there was no way to crawl back, Lorenzo gave Rodolfo a weak nod and readied himself for an insult.
“You’ll have to do more than eat her food if you want to show her you’re a good guy.”
Lorenzo straightened his stance at the promise of maybe making this work when Rodolfo looked back at him again.
“You can start with the food,” he said. “But be advised; Mich can always spot a fake.”
It was far from a vote of complete encouragement. But it was the best he would get as far as any intel.
And Lorenzo knew that he had his work cut out for him.
6
“Looks like this was a good night.”
An exhausted Michelle smiled at Rodolfo. He was starting to scour the pans and she offered to help. They were short on staff, but the dishes still needed to be washed.
“No, no,” he said. “You already worked too hard. This is on me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“You’ve earned a rest.”
And she wasn’t about to argue the point. Point of fact? Her legs were like jelly, and her hands were sore. She did not relish the idea of plunging them into the murky waters of a soapy sink, and she thanked him with a pat on the shoulder before retreating to the back office with the recorded receipts in hand.
“My God,” she muttered under her breath. Two thousand in one night, plus tips. They hadn’t seen that turnout in the better part of four months. Maybe it wasn’t as strong as they had been in the not-so-distant past. But it was a far better alternative than surviving on fumes, and she sank into her father’s battered leather chair before his desk.
“He was good as his word,” she spoke aloud, laying her head back and thinking of how Enzo proved himself a skillful marketer. He had been at the restaurant during its first rush but made himself scarce in the waning hours, saying that he might swing back by before the night was out. No sign of him yet. Was that because he believed she had the matter well in hand? Because he had other pans in the fryer? Maybe hers wasn’t the only restaurant on his radar.