Harper's Wish

He eased back, seeming embarrassed by this outburst. The anger dissipated, and he dropped back into his chair, running a hand over his face. Harper heard the stubble of his jaw rasping against his palm, and she wondered what it would be like to feel the rough grain of his cheek against her fingers. Her palm itched at the thought, and she squeezed her hand into a fist to refocus.

He made a good point. She should have paid more than one visit to Éire, but she’d been under a deadline and only interested in her own career, not some unknown restaurant owner’s reputation.

“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

“I apologize for piling so many chores on you since you started here, but you’ll still have to do your fair share. With business so slow, everyone pitches in where necessary.”

Harper felt a twinge of embarrassment at this. It was true, she’d only been doing the tasks that someone else had done before her.

“If that’s going to be a problem—”

“It isn’t,” she assured him.

She wanted this job. It represented independence, her ability to take care of herself even when the worst had happened. She may have lost her critic’s job, but she could still find work.

And it wasn’t just that. Something about this restaurant reassured her, made her feel as though she belonged here. Connor still held her at arm’s length, but the rest of her coworkers had embraced her, even Erin, and made her feel they were friends.

“Then...truce?”

She released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“Truce,” she agreed.

But as she gathered her things, she wondered if she and Connor would ever really be able to find a state of peace between them.

* * *

TRY AS HE MIGHT, Connor wasn’t able to get his conversation with Harper out of his mind. Days after their chat in his office, he was still conflicted about his newest employee. It seemed unbelievable that the woman he’d blamed for destroying his first restaurant was now working for him.

And even more unbelievable was how well she was doing at the job. Since he’d apologized, she’d accepted each task he’d given her with an air of agreeability. He’d eased up a bit, spreading the chores out among all of them, himself included, and she’d pitched in, continuing to pull her weight and seamlessly becoming one of the team. It grated on him a little, he realized, how his crew had accepted her. Even Erin, who had initially been uncertain about taking on the infamous restaurant critic, now greeted her pleasantly each day. Rafael had taken to teasing her with the occasional flirtatious overtones he was known for and Leah, at a mere seventeen years of age, looked to Harper with something akin to hero worship. She was forever asking Harper about life in the city and her time working at the newspaper. Thankfully, Harper always steered the conversation away from her career, at least when Connor was nearby.

He was still musing on Harper as he tossed a handful of sliced shallots into a pan and swirled them around as they hissed after making contact with the oil. A fragrant cloud of steam surrounded him as the shallots caramelized, and he lifted the towel draped over his left shoulder to wipe at the sweat dotting his forehead.

“You know, every time I smell onions, I think of Gavin,” Erin remarked as she worked at the prep counter, peeling potatoes.

Connor grunted with amusement as he added a pinch of salt to the sauté pan.

“That’s not something you often hear a woman say about her husband.”

Erin laughed. “It was, like, our fourth or fifth date, and I decided to cook for him. I settled on making steak with a balsamic reduction. But I was so nervous about what he’d think of the dinner that when I picked up the onions at the market, I got really strong, yellow onions. When Gavin showed up at my door, I was just streaming tears from chopping them up, and he thought I was getting ready to break up with him.”

Connor chuckled. “Poor bloke. What else was he to think?”

“I know, but then a couple years later, when I was pregnant with Kitt, Gavin was determined to pamper me, so he decided to make me dinner one night. He was going to make spaghetti, and he started frying up the onions, and the smell made me really, really sick. I walked into the kitchen and threw up all over the counter.”

Connor laughed loudly as Erin grimaced.

“That was the first and last time he ever tried to make me dinner.”

Connor shook his head and added the prepped carrots he had resting in a bowl nearby.

“How is Gavin, by the way?”

“Pretty good,” she answered, dropping a handful of peeled potatoes into a bowl of ice water. “He’s still stationed in Afghanistan, working on one of the army’s water sanitation projects. He’s enjoying it, but he misses home.”

Connor slid a glance her way and caught the frown tugging at Erin’s mouth. He hadn’t meant to make her melancholy.

“It’s no easy feat, being an army wife. Especially not with a son to raise.”

“You’re telling me,” she replied, and then she paused. “Kitt misses him. A lot.” She sighed and seemed to rally herself. “But it’s only for a few more years, and then we can be a family again.”

Connor felt a tug of both sympathy and envy for his friend. He knew it was rough on her, having her family separated. Gavin had moved his family into his great-aunt’s bed-and-breakfast shortly before his most recent deployment, and Connor knew how much Erin wanted them to be reunited under one roof. On the other hand, he felt the familiar pang of his own regret. Though he did his best to juggle the role of both mother and father to Molly, he sometimes felt as though part of their family dynamic was incomplete, as well.

Uncomfortable with this line of thought, he ladled some chicken stock into the sauté pan and watched as it hissed once more.

“Do you think you could get started on the corn fritters, after you’ve finished those potatoes?”

“Sure thing, Chef.”

And just like that, he and Erin resumed their roles of chef and sous chef. Sometimes he thought the titles sounded a little fancy for the restaurant his father had first started, but Connor had trained at one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the country. Erin’s skills were more of the trade-school variety, but they both observed the proper appellations in the kitchen.

He and Erin worked a familiar dance around each other, reaching for a pan or grasping a slotted spoon. They’d worked together at the Rusty Anchor for over three years now, even before his dad had passed on. It was long enough that they’d become comfortable with each other’s routines. And when Connor had taken over the restaurant following his father’s death, Erin’s loyalty had eased his transition to boss and owner.

Connor finished cracking half a dozen eggs into a stainless-steel bowl and began to whisk vigorously, the rhythmic motion requiring little thought and allowing his mind to wander. It was hard to believe Patrick Callahan had been gone for two years. Just the other day, he’d caught Molly squinting at the last photo he’d taken of his dad—he kept it on the apartment fridge. When he’d asked her what she was doing, she’d replied, “Trying to remember what Grandpa looked like.”

He’d experienced a swell of melancholy at this admission. In two years, Patrick Callahan’s image had already begun to fade from Molly’s memory. In another two, would she even be able to remember him at all without the aid of photographs? He missed his da, especially during the mornings when he first entered the restaurant. How many times had he stepped into this very kitchen and caught his father humming under his breath, singing snatches of Irish folk songs, as he began to prep ingredients for the day?

“Connor.”

He stopped whisking at the sound of Erin’s voice and realized the eggs were beginning to form peaks. He’d been agitating them for too long.

“Connor, the phone.”

He heard it then, the insistent chirp of the kitchen’s wall phone. Dropping the whisk and bowl onto the counter, he headed toward it.

“Let’s hope it’s a dinner reservation for twenty people.”

Erin snorted. “That’s about as likely as the Irish prime minister calling to schedule an afternoon tea.”

“Hey, a man can dream, can’t he? And you never know about the prime minister.”

Erin rolled her eyes, and he grinned as he grabbed the phone off its hook.

“Rusty Anchor,” he answered.

“Mr. Callahan? Connor?” the woman on the other end responded.