“Hey.” I raised my cup and kept on going toward the hotel. Given my mood, it would be better to stay in the kitchen today and avoid conversation.
The fall air was crisp and clean. Normally I’d take a few minutes to breathe it in, slow my pace, but at the moment, all I could focus on was the coffee on my damn shirt.
Downtown Quincy was quiet this morning. Kids were in school. The shops and restaurants on Main were open, but the bustle from summer was mostly over. People were enjoying the September lull and recovering from their months spent pandering to tourists. This was the time when locals took vacations.
I’d planned one. A vacation at home. Finish a few projects in the yard before winter. Find out if I still remembered how to turn on the television or read a book. But with Memphis there . . .
Vacation was canceled, effective immediately. I didn’t trust myself around her. Not with those pretty brown eyes flecked with honey and brimming with secrets.
I sipped the last of my Americano as I walked, hoping the half cup remaining would fuel me through the morning. Instead of heading through the hotel’s front doors, I ducked around the corner, following the length of the brick building to the alley and the service entrance to the restaurant.
The key was tight in the lock, something I’d fix on my canceled vacation. The door slammed shut behind me as I stalked toward my small office off the kitchen.
My desk was clear except for the staff schedule I’d been putting together this morning. Bills had been paid. Payroll information was off to my bookkeeper. One benefit of being here before dawn was that for the first time in months, my office work was done before breakfast instead of after the dinner rush.
I tossed my coffee cup in the trash, then went to the closet in the corner, reaching behind my head to yank off my shirt. With it shoved into a backpack, I tugged on the spare shirt I kept here in case of spills.
Try harder.
The shame on Memphis’s face was punishment for my sharp words. What the hell was my problem? She lived in the loft. I’d agreed to let her move in. It was time to stop grumbling and deal.
“Damn it.” I owed her an apology.
The Friday lunch hour would be busy with plenty of locals here to enjoy the end of their week. I was covering all meals today, which meant I wouldn’t get home until after dark. My window to track down Memphis was now. So I strode out of the office and left the kitchen, weaving through the restaurant.
“Hey, April.”
“Hey.” She smiled from her seat at one of the round tops, where she was cleaning check folders. “I’m almost done with this. Then what would you like me to do?”
“Would you mind checking the ketchup bottles in the walk-in?”
“Not at all.” April had only been waitressing here for a few months, taking the job after she and her husband had moved to Quincy. He was a truck driver and gone more often than not, which meant April was always up for an additional shift because home was a lonely place.
“I’ll be back in a few. If Skip comes in before then, would you tell him to start on the list I left on the table?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks.” My footsteps thudded in the empty room.
The restaurant was my favorite like this, when it was quiet and still. Soon there’d be people at the tables, conversation mixing with the clink of silverware on plates. But seeing the tables set and ready for customers was about the only time I could really appreciate what this space had become. Later, when it was busy, I’d be too focused on the food.
For most of the building’s life, this had been a ballroom with gaudy wallpaper, worn carpet tiles and no intimacy. Now it was utterly different, save the tall ceilings.
Knuckles.
The vibe was as moody and smooth as the food. I’d carved pockets out of the large space, shrinking the number of tables. Along the back wall, I’d built a room for the waitstaff to fill water and soda. Beside it was a cooler for wine and beer. There were no available liquor licenses in Quincy, but I’d left space to add a bar one day should one open up.
The tables were a rich walnut. A row of caramel-leather booths hugged one wall. A black grid separated a corner for large dining parties. One of the original, exterior brick walls that had been hidden beneath sheetrock had been exposed. The hanging pendant lights and sconces cast a golden glow onto the tables. The windows along the far wall let in light during the day and added to the mood at night.
This was my dream realized. And part of why I loved it so much was because I could push through the glass doors and walk into the hotel lobby.
As a kid, I’d spent a lot of hours here with Mom. While Dad had been busy running the ranch, Mom had taken charge of the hotel. How many coloring books had I filled sitting beneath her feet at the lobby’s mahogany reception counter? How many toy cars had I sent flying across the floor? How many Lego sets had I built on the fireplace’s stone ledge?
This was the scene of my youth. Griffin had preferred to ride shotgun with Dad on the ranch. I’d tagged along with Mom. When I’d moved home after finishing culinary school and working for years in San Francisco, it hadn’t even been a question of where I’d wanted to start a restaurant.
Mom and Dad had been renovating and updating the hotel for the past five years. Knuckles was the last major project for a while. Eloise had some ideas of her own, but those would have to wait.
At least they would if I took over.
She was talking to a guest at the reception counter. I turned the opposite direction and headed for the laundry room. One of the washing machines was churning while two dryers hummed as the sheets inside tumbled. There was a cleaning cart outside the break room so I moved to the doorway, finding Memphis at the coffee pot.
Her shoulders were slumped forward as she filled a ceramic mug. The phone in her pocket rang and she dug it out, checking the screen. Then as she’d done in my kitchen, she silenced it and shoved it away.
“Thirty-nine,” she mumbled.
Thirty-nine what? Who was calling her? And why didn’t she answer?
Those questions were not my business. And not why I was here.
“Memphis.”
She gasped and jumped, the pot in her hand shaking. “Oh, hi.”
“Sorry to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” She stared at my clean T-shirt. “Sorry about your other shirt.”
“It’s fine.” I eyed the mug. “You didn’t get a coffee from the shop?”
“No, I, um . . . just changed my mind. This coffee is good.”
That was a damn lie. It was bitter and boring, hence why I went to Lyla’s each morning for espresso.
When we’d collided, I’d been focused on my cup, wishing I had put a lid on it. Wishing I hadn’t been texting Talia. I’d sent her a note this morning asking if it was normal for a two-month-old baby to cry so fucking much. She’d replied with yes and an eye-roll emoji.
Memphis’s head must have been down too. And there’d been the distinct sound of coins clattering on cement.
She’d been digging for change. That was why she hadn’t seen me walk through the door. She’d planned to pay for a coffee with loose change. Change that I’d knocked out of her hand.
Maybe she hadn’t collected it after I’d left her on the sidewalk. Or maybe she hadn’t had enough.