“Madeleine isn’t ill,” Gabe, the barkeep, said to Olivia as he stepped out of the walk-in fridge carrying a tray of lemons, limes, and oranges. “But she’s scared. She has family in Wilson and wanted to drive west before the rain got heavier.”
“It’s a reasonable excuse, but an irritation all the same,” Olivia answered, following Gabe to the bar. “Now I’ll have to man the podium and I don’t possess an ounce of Madeleine’s charm.”
Gabe slid a tumbler filled with Chivas Regal across the polished wood bar. “This might help.” He smiled and Olivia accepted the glass with gratitude. Gabe, who was in his late twenties and looked every inch the sandy-haired surfer that he was, had attracted a loyal following the moment The Boot Top opened its doors. At first, the area’s well-to-do women filled all the barstools, eager to flirt with the hunky barkeep. But soon enough their husbands came too, enjoying Gabe’s affability as much as their wives.
Because much of the restaurant’s profits were dependent on the sale of liquor and wine, Olivia paid Gabe well above the going rate. As a result, he took great pride in his job, viewing the bar area with its leather chairs, padded barstools, and tasteful nautical décor as his treasured domain. No one’s snack mix bowl ever stayed empty and no one’s drinks ever ran dry. And though Gabe could have his pick of the majority of The Boot Top’s female staff and clientele, he never allowed the line between his professional and personal life to blur.
Of all Olivia’s employees, Michel was the most likely to get entangled in an ill-fated romance. He’d been involved with a married woman before, and though it had wreaked havoc on his emotions, it seemed as though he was ready to repeat the agonizing experience.
“I think I have a serious crush on your Laurel,” he confessed, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchen.
One of the sous-chefs stopped chopping mushrooms and gestured at Michel with the tip of his knife. “His accent got much thicker when she was here. He actually sounded like a real Frenchman. Très debonair.”
Michel glowered at his subordinate. His Parisian accent was nearly undetectable and only surfaced when he was angry, drunk, or flirting with a pretty woman.
Olivia put her hands on her hips. “Do you have amnesia? Your last affair with a married woman was ruinous! You went on a champagne bender and your cooking was way off. You used far too much salt and your meat was overdone. I don’t think any of our customers will stand for that again.”
Shaking a raw shrimp at her, Michel smiled. “But ah, the passion! It is worth all the pain.”
“Forget about Laurel.” Olivia’s eyes flashed a darker blue. “She has enough to juggle without adding a crush to the mix. Set your sights on someone else. Join a gym. I’m sure you could cajole someone into committing adultery between spin and yoga classes.”
Michel tossed the shrimp into a frying pan coated with sizzling butter and browned garlic. “Laurel is special. She has a pure heart and believes that love can overcome all things. She is a rare flower, an orchid in a greenhouse of daffodils.”
“Spare me.” Olivia crossed her arms. “I don’t see how you arrived at this conclusion after spending thirty minutes with her.”
“She was here longer than that, chérie. You’re the one who flew from here as though your tail had just been seared.” He tossed half a dozen sautéing shrimp into the air. Once, twice, three times. They landed neatly back into the frying pan. He gave the pan a final shake and then scooped the shrimp onto a small bed of linguine. Handing the plate to a waiter, Michel glanced at Olivia. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were having man trouble. I can’t imagine any friction arising between you and your debonair bookstore owner. Actually, I can imagine friction, but the good kind. The kind two people produce on a summer night when they—”
“That’s enough, Michel,” Olivia retorted. “Why don’t you focus your energy on cooking? I believe that is what I hired you to do.”
Michel gave her a dreamy smile. “Tonight, my food will taste like nectar and ambrosia. Every drop will be filled with visions of Laurel, my muse. Beware, those who are brave enough to order my chocolate torte. It will be such exquisite torture!”
Olivia shook her head. “You’re hopeless. I’m going out to seat our patrons. Try not to burn the place down while you wallow in inappropriate fantasies.”
A party of four awaited her at the hostess podium and Olivia smiled at the mayor, his wife, and two children. “Sorry to keep you,” she said and led them back to the mayor’s favorite table.
The mayor glanced around the nearly empty dining room and frowned. “Do you think the out-of-towners are all gone?”
Olivia nodded. “They’ll be back for the Cardboard Regatta. I’m booked for three nights from five until eleven at night.” She swept an arm around the dining room. The flickering candlelight, the bud vases filled with sprays of wild chrysanthemum, and the pumpkin-colored napkin fans created an atmosphere of sophistication and warmth. “Your family and the couple enjoying the shrimp scampi linguini won’t be dining alone this evening. We’re expecting a decent crowd tonight, though some may cancel due to the inclement weather.”
The mayor’s wife laughed. “You’re the only person in Oyster Bay who’d call a category three hurricane ‘inclement weather.’ ”
“Ophelia’s been upgraded?” Olivia tried to recall the wind gusts of a category three. She didn’t need to tax her brain, however, as the mayor’s son looked up from his menu, rubbed at his glasses with his napkin, and spoke in the fluctuating voice of one on the cusp of puberty.
“Wind gusts of one hundred eleven to one hundred thirty miles per hour,” he recited with a distant look on his young face. “Likelihood of structural damage to wooden structures, loss of immature trees and a few big ones too, flooding to structures along the coast, and damage from floating debris to structures near storm surge or flooded rivers. Power outages are definite, lasting from three to nine days depending on level of isolation. Estimated total cost is four hundred million. Expect a tax hike this year.” Upon finishing, he returned his gaze to the menu.
“You are such a dork,” his sister said with a sneer. “Can I order my Coke now?”
While his wife argued with their daughter over the perils of caffeinated beverages on the developing teenage body, the mayor begged Olivia to get him a dirty martini. Relieved to escape the argument brewing between the females at the table, Olivia sent a waitress to collect the rest of the family’s orders.
At the bar, Olivia asked Gabe for the mayor’s drink. “He’ll be wanting several of those by this time Monday night,” a familiar voice said. Olivia turned and smiled at Flynn, remarkably pleased to see him. She knew that Flynn’s charm could help her set aside all thoughts of Rawlings and the man’s continued silence.
Flynn regularly stopped by The Boot Top for a drink after work and managed to visit Olivia’s restaurant without ever behaving as though his presence bore the slightest connection to her. Olivia liked that about him. He could sit and chat with Gabe and the other patrons and then casually ask her to join him for a round. When she was too busy or not in the mood to comply, he was neither offended nor ruffled by the rejection. Yet he never failed to request her company and Olivia was flattered by his persistence.
Flynn took in her form-fitting black sheath dress and necklace made of amber and turquoise and toasted her with a frosted beer mug. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”
Olivia perched on the stool next to him. “Have your customers fled for the hills too?”