him.
He’d never heard anything like them before.
Jeff stared at his size twelve loafers. He wanted to believe what his dad said, but the reality of who RW had always been was too hard to forget—as was the “one condition.” “Come on, Dad. You can’t expect me to get married.”
“I’ll give you a few days to think about it,” RW said.
In a few days, another million people would share those damned GIFs and memes. The social media attack would never stop—unless he fought back.
Dad’s ridiculous plan was the only thing that made a lick of sense.
It pissed him off, but still he growled, “Have your people start the search for a chef. A great one.”
“You want to marry a chef?”
“No, I want to hire one. An exclusive resort needs a five-star restaurant. That’s how we’ll get the ball rolling. A restaurant is faster to get up and running than a hotel and the best ones get the word out fast. Find me a group of chefs to choose from. Lure them from the world’s top restaurants and offer them deals they can’t refuse. I’ll assess their culinary skills and choose a winner.”
“A contest? You’d pit them against each other?”
“Call it part of the cooking interview. We’ll see which one can handle the heat. My chef has to be capable of rising above stress.”
RW produced a sharp whistle through his nose, the one he used when he was not pleased. “You must marry, Jeffrey. That’s my only stipulation. I don’t care who as long as she makes you look respectable.”
Jeff didn’t want a wife. He wanted a hotel.
He needed to make Plunder Cove the best locale in the world, and then he’d have his dignity back. And a touch of something that might resemble a survivor’s victory.
A plan started to form.
The producer of Secrets and Sheets had hounded Jeff for years to do a segment on the Spanish mansion and its pirate past. He’d always said no. Why glorify a place that still gave him nightmares? But now, his childhood home could be the only thing that would help him reboot his career.
“Fine. My crew can film the ceremony in one of the gardens or down on the beach. The reception will be filmed inside the new restaurant. You can’t buy better advertising for the resort.” The press would eat it up.
“Now that’s thinking big. I like it,” RW said.
Yeah? Well, hold on because it’s only the first part of the plan.
Dad didn’t have to know that Jeff was going to dangle the televised wedding to his producer in exchange for something far more important—the final, edited episode of Secrets and Sheets. Jeff wished for the fiftieth time that he hadn’t given the raw footage to the show’s producer. He hadn’t thought to keep a copy and now he was empty-handed against Finn. But not for long. Once Jeff had the recording, he’d release it on every media outlet possible. The blackmail would stop and the world would finally know what Finn had done to his customers, and to Jeff.
No one attacked the Harpers and lived to tell the tale.
For the first time that week, Jeff actually smiled.
* * *
Michele Cox snuggled next to her sister on the twin bed at the group home and softly read Cari’s favorite picture book. Rosie’s Magic Horse was about a girl who saves her family from financial ruin by riding a Popsicle-stick horse in search of pirate treasure. Michele didn’t know which Cari loved more—the idea that a girl could save the day while riding a horse, or that something as small as a used Popsicle stick could aspire to greatness. Whatever the case, Cari insisted that Michele read the book to her at bedtime every night.
Tonight, Cari had fallen asleep before Michele got to the part about the pirates. Michele kept reading anyway. Sometimes she needed her own Popsicle make-believe. When she closed the book, she slipped out of the bed carefully so as not to wake her snoring sister.
Kissing Cari’s forehead, Michele whispered, “Sweet dreams, cowgirl.”
Michele’s heart and feet were heavy as she went down the hall to the staff station. “I’ll call in and read to her every night,” Michele said to one of Cari’s favorite caregivers. “You’ve got my number. Text immediately if she gets the sniffles.” Cari was susceptible to pneumonia and had been hospitalized several times.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She knows the routine and is getting comfortable here. We’ll take good care of her.”
The pit in Michele’s stomach deepened. It had taken six months for Cari to learn the ropes at this home. Six long, painful months. What would happen if Michele couldn’t pay the fees to keep her here?
“Thanks for taking care of her. She’s all I’ve got.” Michele swiped the tear off her cheek.
“Oh, hon. You go have a good time. You deserve it.”
Deserve it? No, Michele was the one who’d messed up and lost the money her sister needed. She was heartsick over it.
She drove to her own apartment, poured herself a glass of wine and plopped down at the table in her painfully silent kitchen. God, she felt so alone. She was the sole provider and caretaker for her sister after Mom had died six months ago. Her father had passed when Michele was only ten. Cari needed services and health care and a chance to be a happy cowgirl, all of which required funds that had been stolen by her so-called partner.
There was only one way to fix the horrible mess she’d made.
She picked up the envelope sitting on top of her polka-dot place mats. “Harper Industries,” it said across the top in black embossed letters. Pulling out the employment application, she reread the lines, “Candidates will cook for and be judged by Jeffrey Harper.”
Her stomach flopped at the thought.
Michele wasn’t a fan of his show. That playboy attitude of his left her cold. She’d had her fill of arrogant, demanding males in her career. She’d given everything she had to the last head chef she’d worked with and where had that left her? Poor and alone. Because of him, she’d lost her desire to cook—which was the last connection she had to her mother.
Mom had introduced her to family recipes when Michele was only seven years old. Cooking together meant tasting, laughing and dancing in the kitchen. All her best memories came from that warm, spicy, belly-filling place. While the rest of the house was dark and choked with bad memories—cancer, pills, dying—the kitchen was safe. Like her mother’s embrace.
As a young girl, Michele had experimented with dishes to make her mom and Cari feel better. Mom had encouraged Michele to submit the creations in local cook-offs and, surprisingly, Michele had won every contest she entered. The local paper had called her “a child prodigy” and “a Picasso in the kitchen.” Cooking had been easy back then because food was a river of color coursing through her veins. Spatulas and spoons were her crayons. All she had to do was let the colors flow.
But now she was empty, her passion dried up. What if her gift,
