Beauty and the Black Sheep. Jessica Bird

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      “Hello? Nate? Or whatever you call yourself. Use the phone or move out. It’s closing time.”

      “Okay. Thanks,” he said, turning around and heading in the direction she’d pointed to earlier that evening. He walked into a darkened office and frowned when his feet made a sloppy noise, as if there were water on the floor.

      He hit the light switch.

      Good Lord, the place was soaked. He looked up at the ceiling, seeing a gaping hole that exposed pipes old enough to have been laid by God Himself.

      Shaking his head, he reached for the phone, thinking he’d be lucky to get a dial tone. When he did, he punched in his buddy Spike’s cell phone number. He and Spike had been friends since they’d gone through the Culinary Institute of America as classmates and they’d decided to buy a restaurant together. Their business interest was behind Nate’s trip. After four months of searching, they couldn’t seem to find what they wanted in their price range in Manhattan so they were looking at other cities. Spike had found a place for them to consider in Montreal, but Nate wasn’t getting his hopes up. He didn’t think the situation was going to be any better over the border in Canada.

      He absolutely believed they could make it as owners. Between his skills at the stove and Spike’s masterful work with pastries and breads, they had the fundamentals covered. But money was growing tight. Because Nate was living off the savings he was going to put toward their down payment, he was thinking it might be time to get a job for the summer and suspend the search at least until the fall. By then, new prospects would surely be on the market.

      When he hung up with Spike, he looked toward the woman waiting in the doorway.

      “What happened to your cook?” he asked.

      “He quit tonight.”

      Nate nodded, thinking that was the way of the kitchen world. You never got tenure as a chef but the trade-off was you didn’t have to give notice.

      She began to tap her foot impatiently, but he wasn’t in a hurry. Taking a look around he saw a desk, a computer, a couple of chairs, some closet doors. There was nothing particularly interesting about the room until he got to the bookcases. To her left, he saw an old photograph of a young family smiling into the camera. Two parents, three children, clothes from the seventies.

      He went over for a closer look but when he picked it up off the shelf, she snatched the frame out of his hand.

      “Do you mind?”

      They were standing close and he became curiously aware of her. In spite of the bangs and the Poindexter glasses, the baggy clothes and the bags under her eyes, his body started to heat up. Her eyes widened and he wondered if she felt it, too—the odd current that seemed to run between them.

      “You looking for someone in your kitchen?” he asked abruptly.

      “I don’t know,” she said, clipping the words short.

      “You sure needed someone tonight. You’d have been up the creek if I hadn’t walked through your door.”

      “How about this, I don’t know if I need you.” She put the photograph back, laying it face down on the shelf.

      “You think I’m not qualified?” He smiled when she remained silent, figuring she probably hated the fact that he’d saved her. “Tell me, just how did I fail to impress you tonight?”

      “You did fine but that doesn’t mean I’m going to hire you.”

      He shook his head. “Fine? Man, you have a hard time with compliments, don’t you?”

      “I don’t waste energy playing spit and polish with egos. Especially healthy ones.”

      “So you prefer being around the depressed?” he retorted mildly.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      Nate shrugged. “Your staff’s so beaten down it’s a wonder they can put one foot in front of the other. That poor girl was ready to work herself to death tonight just for a kind word and George soaked up a little praise like he hadn’t heard any in a month.”

      “Who made you an expert on those two?” Her hands were on her hips now as she looked up at him.

      “It’s just obvious, lady. If you took your blinders off once in a while you might see what you’re doing to them.”

      “What I’m doing to them? I’ll tell you what I’m doing to them.” She jabbed a finger at him. “I’m keeping a roof over Joy’s head and George out of a group home. So you can back off with the judgments.”

      As she glared at him, he wondered why he was arguing with her. The last thing the woman needed was another battle. Besides, why did he care?

      “Look, ah—why don’t we start over,” he said. “Can we call a truce here?”

      He stuck his hand out, aware that he’d just decided to take a job he wasn’t being offered. But hell, he needed to spend the summer somewhere and she clearly needed the help. And White Caps was as good as any other place, even if it was sinking. At least he could have some fun and try out some new things he’d been thinking of without the food critics chomping at him.

      When she just stared at him, he prompted her by looking down at his hand.

      She tucked her arms into her body. “I think you better go.”

      “Are you always this unreasonable?”

      “Good night.”

      He dropped his hand. “Let me get this straight. You have no cook. You’re looking at one who’s willing to work. But you’d rather shoot yourself in the foot just because you don’t like me?” When she kept looking at him, buttoned up tight, he shook his head. “Damn, woman. You ever think this place might be going under because of you?”

      The strained silence that followed was the calm before the storm. He knew it because she started to shake and he had a vague thought that he should duck.

      But what came at him wasn’t angry words or a slap or a right hook.

      She started to cry. From behind the lenses, he saw tears well and then fall.

      “Oh, God,” he pushed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean—”

      “You don’t know me,” she said hoarsely and, somehow, regally. Even through her tears, she faced him squarely as if she had nothing to hide, as if the crying jag was a temporary aberration, nothing that spelled the end of her inner strength. “You don’t know what’s going on here. You don’t—don’t know what we’ve been through. So you can just put your pack on and start walking.”

      He reached out for her, not sure what he would do. Not take her in his arms, certainly. But he had some vague idea he could…pat her on the shoulder. Or something.

      God, how lame was that.

      Nate wasn’t at all surprised when she shrugged him off and left him alone in her wet mess of an office.

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