about them actually meaning anything. She was pregnant, which meant spending her days in a hormone bath. She teared up at Hallmark commercials, sobbed when little kids clutched puppies and generally wanted to send the world a candygram.
Nope, whatever she felt this moment about Cal had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the pencil eraser-sized zygote in her tummy.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t fully capable of making a fool out of herself.
She had to remind herself she was a big, bad chef with a reputation for being tough and difficult and something of a perfectionist. She worked with very sharp knives for a living. She could snap chicken bones with her bare hands.
“Ready to take on the world?” Cal asked as he approached.
“Sure. At least my little part of it.” She followed him toward the front door. “I’m going to need a key.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a ring. “They’re marked. Front and back doors. All the storerooms. The wine cellar and liquor storage.”
He unlocked the right side of the wood-and-glass double door, then stepped aside to let her enter. She pushed into the dim, open space, then wished she hadn’t when the smell hit her.
“What is that?” she asked, waving her hand in front of her nose. The odor was an unfortunate combination of singed fur, decaying fish and meat and rotting wood.
“It’s a little strong,” Cal admitted. “The storerooms weren’t cleaned out before the place was shut down. When I came by last week, the smell was worse.”
She couldn’t imagine worse. As it was, she had to fight to keep from throwing up. In the nearly four months she’d been pregnant, she’d never had a moment of nausea until now.
Cal propped open the front doors and turned on the fans. “It’ll get better in a moment.”
She rubbed her shoe against the carpet. “The stink isn’t going to come out with just a cleaning.”
“I know. There’s hardwood everywhere in the dining room but here. We’ll refinish the floors, then replace this carpeting.”
She hoped that would be enough.
At least the space was good. High ceiling and big windows. People dining on the water generally wanted to look at the view. She saw large easels with renderings of the dining room. Cal stepped toward them.
“As you can see, we’re making cosmetic changes. We don’t have time for a total remodel.”
“Uh-huh.”
Penny walked past him. The front of the store wasn’t her concern, nor did it interest her all that much. She had other places she would rather be—namely the kitchen.
She walked to the back of the dining room and through the large, single swinging door. The smell was worse here, but she ignored it as she took in what would be her domain.
At least it was clean, she thought as she looked at the large wood grill, the steamer, the eight burners, the ovens. There was the prep area, a long, stainless counter with a sink for salad, stacks of pots, sauté pans and bowls. She didn’t even have to close her eyes to know what it would be like. The blinding heat from the grill and the burners. The hiss of the steam, the yells of “order up” or “ready to fire.”
Because of the age of the restaurant, the kitchen was large and well ventilated. The mats looked new and when she picked up one of the pots, it was heavy and of good quality. Now for the storeroom.
“You could pretend to be interested,” Cal said from just inside the kitchen.
She turned to him. “In what?”
“The front of the store. The color scheme and how the tables will be set up.”
“Oh, sure.” She thought for a second, not sure what to say. “It was great. Impressive.”
“Do you think I’m fooled?”
“No, but you shouldn’t be surprised, either. The only thing I care about is how big the dining room is and the table configuration.”
It was important to know how many tables of six and eight and the policy on large parties. There were few things a kitchen staff hated more than a surprise order for twelve.
“I’ll get you that information,” he said. “So what do you think?”
She grinned. “Not bad. I’ll need to take a complete inventory. How much is my budget for new equipment?”
“Get me a list of what you need and I’ll get back to you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m the executive chef. I should have final say on what I buy.”
“You forget that I know you. You’ll be online picking up God knows what from Germany and France and sucking down twenty grand before I blink.”
She turned away so he wouldn’t see her smile. “I’d never do that.”
“Oh, right. This from a woman who asked for a set of knives for her wedding present.”
She spun back to face him, more than ready to take him on. “Cal—”
He cut her off with a quick shake of his head. “Sorry. I won’t bring up our marriage again.”
“Good.”
News of her relationship, or former relationship, with Cal Buchanan would be common knowledge to the kitchen staff within fifteen minutes of opening. Kitchens didn’t have secrets. But that didn’t mean she wanted it shoved in their faces. Or hers.
Seeing Cal, talking to him, was strange. She wasn’t sure what she felt. Not angry. Awkward maybe. Sad. Things had been good once. But he hadn’t cared. He’d…
Okay, maybe she was a little angry. It had been three years. Who would have guessed there would be so much unfinished emotion?
At least she wasn’t going to have to deal with him on a regular basis.
“I’ll get you a list,” she said. “I’ll take an inventory after we’re done.”
“Okay.” He looked at her. “Try not to scream.”
“About what?”
“There are contracts in place.”
She knew he didn’t mean with employees, which only left food and services.
“Not my problem,” she told him.
“It is, because you have to deal with them.”
So typical, she thought. Cal was management. He might intellectually understand what it took to get dinner out for two or three hundred, but he didn’t feel it in his soul.
“I’m not working with crap,” she said.
“Can
