With No Reservations. Laurie Tomlinson

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       CHAPTER THREE

      GETTING THE RESTAURANT ready had spoiled Cooper, and now that he’d gotten used to the loose cotton of his work clothes, his go-to suits felt like wool straitjackets. But today he was leading a training seminar at the J. Marian corporate offices, so he had to be on his game and look the part for the group of franchise owners who’d flown in from across the country.

      To mentally prepare, he’d taken his black Lab Maddie to their favorite park. The mechanics of throwing the ball and watching her bound after it had reset his focus from repairs and recipe testing. A long shower had washed the smells of the kitchen from his skin and gave him the chance to rehearse talking points for the training he’d led countless times.

      But in the clean confines of the old Land Rover Defender he’d rebuilt, Cooper’s mind veered from the gray Dallas streets to his sawdust-covered restaurant, alternating between his massive to-do list and scenes from the mind-boggling encounter he’d had with his new PR person.

      He’d been too busy to do his research before the meeting. Totally unprepared for how stunning she’d be in her own unassuming way. She reminded him of those cartoons he used to watch with his sister, a fairy-tale princess who’d been forced to get a real job—milky skin, a healthy rose to her cheeks, immaculate braid in a warm, golden blond. Natural, he could tell, not bottled. But she’d traded in her ball gown for business garb. And judging by the revolving door of faces he’d seen on the woman, she’d traded in her happily-ever-after, too.

      As he parked in his spot in the garage next to his brother’s limited edition Audi R8, he shuffled the few facts he’d collected about Sloane Bradley. She was hesitant yet professional. Bold, yet there was something fragile about her that had nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t be much taller than five feet.

      He moved on autopilot through the dim parking garage, remembering how Sloane had practically bolted when he told her about Simone. Cooper recognized the pain in her eyes like he was looking into a mirror. Yes, he was very familiar with the kind of grief that sneaks up on you. With the dark, smothering bag it throws over your head and the way it pushes you into the back of a moving van.

      As he opened the sleek glass doors, he catalogued all thoughts of Sloane with the mental list of things left to do at the restaurant and stepped into the massive lobby—clean and white and futuristic with purple LED uplighting. The smell of new construction was acrid, more glue and fused metal than the round scent of aged wood he’d become accustomed to.

      “Sandra said to tell you he’s in a mood.” The receptionist covered the mouthpiece on her headset and motioned Cooper to the elevator bank with a curt wave before continuing her phone conversation in a polite, robotic tone.

      Perfect. He rode an empty elevator to the fifth floor, and when the doors opened, his father’s assistant’s desk was empty.

      Graham Cooper Jr. His name in red marker on the top of a cream folder caught his eye.

      Why was his file on Sandra’s desk?

      He reached for it, double-checked that he was alone and flipped it open.

      “Are you looking for these?”

      Cooper whirled around at the sound of his father’s voice and pressed his back against the desk, closing his file with a nudge behind him.

      His father brandished a trifold flier with the Simone logo and glossy images of Cooper’s food that had been redone four times before he finally approved them. He didn’t consider himself picky on principle, but this was his restaurant and it had to be just right. Only, the images still weren’t quite there.

      “Yeah, thanks.” Cooper took the stack of proofs from his father and turned toward his office. “I’ll send off these final revisions when they’re—”

      “I still don’t know why you insisted on hiring some computer girl when you have a full staff of top MBAs at your disposal,” his father muttered.

      Cooper clenched his teeth around his knee-jerk instinct to mirror the acrid tone. Fighting back would accomplish absolutely nothing, he’d learned. “It’s the twenty-first century, Dad. The internet is where the numbers are.”

      His father smoothed the lapels of a suit that probably cost more than the average Dallas corporate drone’s monthly salary. “We lost Baker and Mayfield.”

      Cooper’s mouth turned cottony. He’d thought the two oil millionaires were in the bag. The paperwork to open their first two restaurants, though coming along slowly, was mostly complete. He’d even broken a personal rule and played golf with them the other month, for Pete’s sake.

      “They’re investing in real estate instead, and they won’t be persuaded to change their minds. I tried.”

      He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Yeah, well, they decide everything together.” This was bad—worse because they weren’t the only ones Cooper had lost since he’d gotten the restaurant off the ground.

      “You’re off your game.”

      The muscles in Cooper’s neck tightened. “Dad—”

      “You’re late to work all the time.” His father ticked off the items on his meaty fingers, pacing the plush carpeting. “You’re never home, always flying from here to that restaurant.” His voice rose. СКАЧАТЬ