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Almost there. Almost home.
Micah Langston shifted his sleek black convertible into fifth gear as it zipped along the Pacific Coast Highway north from San Francisco toward Bay Point.
The midafternoon sun beamed down on his head. The air was fresh and clean, and the convertible, though it was a rental, made him want one for his own.
He loved the feel of the wind sliding over his hair like invisible silk. The unadulterated freedom, riding rooftop down, exhilarated him.
Watch it, Micah, he warned himself, frowning slightly.
You could get used to this.
To his left, the Pacific Ocean beckoned. Magellan, the Portuguese explorer, had coined it Mar Pacifico, which means peaceful ocean. Micah glanced over at the endless expanse of blue, wondering if he’d ever feel a sense of peace. But he’d given his word. He had to give Bay Point one more chance.
Micah left his hometown over ten years ago to attend the famed Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York. Once he’d graduated, he rarely returned home, except for important family functions.
Instead, he’d spent his time focusing on his career.
By the time he was twenty-eight, he owned three successful restaurants in New York City, San Francisco and Portland, Oregon. As executive chef of each one, he created his own recipes, specializing in southern cuisine with a Latin twist. All the restaurants were branded Society Red, were immensely popular and garnered rave reviews. And for good reason; he was a damn good cook.
His older brother, Gregory Langston, the mayor of Bay Point, wanted him to open up a restaurant downtown. He had lured him back home with the promise of big tax breaks and potentially big profits. Mayor Langston was convinced that Micah’s name would draw tourists year-round.
Micah exited the highway and headed east. In his mind, this trip was exploratory only. His brother might have a vision for the small beach town, but that didn’t mean he agreed with it, or necessarily wanted to play a role.
Now, at only thirty years old, he wasn’t sure Bay Point was the place to drop a permanent pin on all he had yet to accomplish in the culinary world.
But he loved his brother, so to appease him, he and his partners, who were also successful chefs, had gone ahead and purchased property in downtown Bay Point, at a very affordable price.
However, Micah had not decided if he wanted to actually install one of his restaurants there. His partners, who each had an equal stake, argued that since he was the most famous chef of the trio, his name and his restaurant would be the best option.
In other words, Micah was their golden ticket.
Work had already begun to restore the decrepit, seventy-five-year-old building. The exterior renovations would take several months, and they were having difficulty getting some of the permits approved. Micah was glad for the much-needed time to make a final decision.
A restaurant would be built in Bay Point, just not necessarily his. He wasn’t making any promises to his brother, or anyone else for that matter. He loved his family, but his ambition had always come first, a trait that had made him very, very rich.
Micah turned onto Magnolia Avenue and his eyes widened. Since he’d last visited a couple of years ago, Bay Point had undergone significant development. There were fancy boutiques, luxury condominiums and a slew of new restaurants lining the main road into town.
“That’s why I’m here,” he muttered. “To check out the competition.”
His first stop was 333 Magnolia Avenue, home of Lucy’s Bar and Grille, a local favorite that had been around for as long as he could remember.
The restaurant was located directly across the street from his property, which he thought was a major bonus. What better way to advertise a new restaurant than to open up right across the street from an old, outdated one?
He angled the convertible into a parking spot right up
