With No Reservations

But all of that could wait. For now, he would sit. He would relish the fact that he wasn’t the one bored at one of his parents’ events anymore. This was his restaurant. His pièce de résistance. Those people had all been here for him, perhaps like rubberneckers driving past the scene of a three-car pileup to witness Graham Cooper Jr.’s potential crash and burn. But they had been his to take care of nonetheless.

And, with the exception of a few people who couldn’t appreciate a good Blue Stilton in all of its pure and pungent glory, he’d had them right where he wanted them.

Cooper unpeeled the wrapper from a straw and chewed on the tip of it. He closed his eyes and blew the air from his lungs slowly, drawing up an image of the people who’d filled these seats, familiar faces he’d seen dozens of times in the news, at important events, in meetings with his father. But he’d never seen those faces flushed with satisfaction, lined with laughter, relaxed and rumpled. Lingering over his empty plates. His vision for Simone was circling the corner, close enough to reach if he leaned a little.

But he’d had to avoid his father, who’d worn a scowl most of the night and had actually pulled him and Owen aside to ask about a work issue.

“This doesn’t concern me,” he could picture Simone saying in her tiny kitchen as she cut a pat of butter into a frying pan. “The only thing that matters is what you decide to do.”

His phone buzzed on the couch next to him. A text from Owen.

Might not make it tomorrow. It’s going to be a late night :)

Cooper rolled his eyes. Different night but same song and dance from his brother.

Owen had left without a word, laughing and flirting shamelessly with a giggling trio of girls. Daughters of politicians or lawyers, probably. Of course Owen was going to flake on their standing basketball game.

At least Owen hadn’t gone near Sloane for the rest of the night. Cooper had made it clear to his brother that Sloane was different. Off-limits. Not another one of Owen’s conquests to wring dry and leave hanging on the laundry line next to the others. Not that Sloane would let that happen anyway.

When he dismissed Owen’s text, the red bubble of his unopened emails seemed to magnify on his screen. Forty-six issues that needed his attention. Forty-six fires he needed to douse. Forty-six people he was potentially failing in the pursuit of this restaurant.

As Cooper watched the fire cast swaying swaths of light across the dark café, he felt a dry pull in the back of his throat. The tip of panic crept into his consciousness before he shoved it away and allowed his focus to float free. He could almost taste the smooth, rich Jack Daniels and feel its tang burning across his tongue, through the back of his mouth.

He swiveled on the couch, the necks of the oil and vinegar bottles on the expo counter glinting in the light of the flames, taunting him.

For over two years, he’d been sober. Surely he had it under control enough to manage one sip. He’d intentionally avoided stocking alcohol in the restaurant for this very reason despite the revenue it would bring. But there was a liquor store half a block away, a gas station on the corner.

One drink wouldn’t hurt anything, right? Only one glass of the easy stuff.

Cooper growled and snatched up his things. Yes, in his experience, one drink could ruin everything. Because it never ended up being just one. When he was drinking, he was a human tornado that destroyed everything in its path. There was too much at stake, too much life in this restaurant to risk it.

He put out the fire and locked the restaurant behind him, leaning against the door and allowing the cool autumn air to calm him. Willing himself to fight the craving that was so strong he could taste it.

Jake. If he texted his roommate, maybe he wouldn’t do something stupid. As he pulled his phone from his pocket, an alert lit the screen. New email from Sloane.

Mr. Cooper,

I just scheduled the article to post in the morning. Here is a copy in case you’re awake and want to preview it before it goes out. If you have any questions, please let me know.

Cordially,

Sloane Bradley

He chuckled and clicked the link to the document, leaning against the heavy wooden door as he waited for the text to load. Something flickered in his chest. Was he nervous about what Sloane had to say? Or had he simply stolen too many bites from the pastry tray?

The article popped up on the screen, and he read it in Sloane’s distinct silky voice.

Influenced by head chef and developer Graham Cooper Jr.’s time in Paris, Simone is a groundbreaking addition to the J. Marian Restaurants family. The cozy atmosphere offers patrons a respite from the bustle of downtown Dallas, and the commitment to quality in its diverse menu proves that a fast, casual concept doesn’t have to be synonymous with hurried and uninventive.

He scrolled through Sloane’s reviews of the dishes she had photographed—crisp, inviting images of hearty breads and fresh vegetables and bubbling cheeses with vivid descriptions of each taste and smell.

And to think he’d ever questioned what use she would be for him. For his restaurant. He’d never second-guess one of his mother’s recommendations again.

With the last sentence of the article, his fate was sealed. The emotions of the night all whisked together from the corners of his brain to form a lump in his throat.

Simone represents a thoughtfulness, precision and execution poised to revolutionize the fast-casual restaurant experience—a can’t-miss if you’re in the Dallas area.

Cooper stared at the screen, sinking down the outside wall of his restaurant to a crouch. For the first time since he said goodbye to Simone, he had an ally. Someone who believed in him and not just because they shared his blood. Who cared that Sloane was paid to write these things? Whoever she was, guarded and talented and fiercely protective of her camera, with her words, Sloane Bradley made him feel like he could do anything.

“À la bonne heure.” Cooper could almost hear the words Simone often told him as she poured tea into his mug. “In good time.”

Had his time finally arrived?

CHAPTER FIVE (#uc058528e-df7d-5147-8ac4-738b40217515)

“JUAN DAVID, MAYBE you should wash your hands before you eat that.”

It was Thursday, the highlight of Sloane’s week. She got to spend a few hours in the kitchen with the kids in the City on a Hill after-school program.

It had started out as a guilt thing. Voice mails from one of the administrators, which she’d ignored twice. A sloppy demo of grilled chicken salad that the kids ate only because they were trying to be nice. But they’d warmed up to her, just as she was. No questions asked. No pretenses. Her heart had opened quickly to them in ways she didn’t think she was capable of after the accident. Now on Thursday afternoons, those kids were her safe place—a reminder of who the old Sloane was. A glimmer of hope for who she someday could be.

Juan David wiped his nose again with the back of his wrist and looked at Sloane, his grin as cheesy as the pot his right hand hovered inches above. “Yes, Miss Sloane.” He stepped off the stool and jogged in the direction of the hand-washing station. His place on the stool was stolen by his little sister Samira, who wasted no time dipping her spatula into the roux for a stir. This beautiful six-year-old with uneven dark bangs and a gap-toothed smile had great instincts in the kitchen.

A group of three older kids returned, balancing a cutting board of turkey kielbasa sausage and scallions they’d chopped under the careful supervision of their teacher, Miss Jaime.

“Look at those perfect knife cuts!” Sloane took the board and carefully set it on an empty stretch of counter. “Are you sure you guys even need me here?”

Three pairs of eyes rolled in response to her hyperbolic enthusiasm.

“Duh, Miss Sloane,” said Chloe, the only girl of the trio, a spitfire who was eight-going-on-eighteen. “What do you think?”

Sloane knew she wasn’t supposed to have favorites and really did love all of the kids. But those three—Miles, Chloe and Davon—were the ones she’d been with the longest and the ones she most looked forward to seeing every week.

Especially Davon. He had a soft spot in her heart because he reminded her of an eight-year-old Aaron, only with a much louder personality.

“I think you guys had better start helping Emma grate some cheese because this sauce is almost ready.” Sloane nudged the side of Davon’s grainy oversize polo shirt with her elbow. No response. Something was bothering him.

“Miss Sloane, I—” As if in slow motion, Samira’s little cobalt-colored eyes screwed up and she turned and sneezed before Sloane could react, covering her arm and the hip of her jeans in germ-infested bodily fluids. Immediately, she could almost feel a crawling sensation. Keep it together, Sloane. It’s not that bad.

“It’s okay, Samira.” Sloane gingerly placed a clean, gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Bonus points for not sneezing in the food. I guess you and Juan David caught the same cold, huh?” She motioned to Jaime to take over the roux and then guided Samira to the hand-washing station. Armed with a hefty stack of paper towels and Sloane’s hand sanitizer, they cleaned themselves off as best as they could.

But as Sloane supervised the methodical Chloe stirring in three different cheeses, she checked the clock on the wall every few minutes, trying not to let any part of her skin come in contact with her jeans. Only a few minutes stood between her, a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes.

The timer on the stove went off.

“The pasta is ready!” a chorus of voices proclaimed.

“Okay, everyone,” Sloane said in her most obnoxious, booming voice, “stand back.” She slipped a pair of oven mitts over her fresh plastic food service gloves. “Davon, colander?”