Fortune's Just Desserts (7 page)

“Everything all right here?” he asked, struggling to sound cheerful and welcoming.

The customer looked up and nodded with an appreciative smile. “Couldn't be better, Marcos.”

Marcos had actually been looking at Wendy. But now his attention was drawn to the man who had called him by his first name.

Marcos looked at him closely, then nodded to himself as recognition whispered across his brain.

“Cooper?” he asked a tad uncertainly.

“No, it's Flint.” It was Wendy who corrected him. “Flint Fortune. Seems like we Fortunes just keep turning up everywhere,” she said cheerfully. She tapped the tablet in her hands. “I'll go see about getting your dinner started,” she told Flint, then sauntered away. Her hips moved rhythmically as she departed.

“Nice girl,” Flint commented with feeling.

“So the customers tell me,” was all Marcos trusted himself to say. And then he looked toward Flint. “Let me know if you need anything,” he said just before he took his leave. He had a restaurant to run. And dwelling on one temporary waitress—because he refused to think of her staying on in any kind of permanent capacity—was not going to help him accomplish that.

W
hen Wendy had first come to work at Red, she'd approached her position as a waitress as if it was all just a lark. If it worked out, fine. If not, so be it.

Her parents had shipped her out to Red Rock thinking that she'd find both herself and a work ethic. When the first position at the Fortune Foundation hadn't worked out, the restaurant had suddenly be come the next stop on the Wendy train to nowhere, she'd thought sarcastically.

But working at Red had turned out to be better than she'd anticipated. She'd made friends here and was even enjoying herself, something that
really
surprised her.

The one sticking point for her had been Marcos.

Funny thing about that. The harder the restaurant manager seemed to lean on her, the more she dug in. Rather than breaking, or throwing in the towel—the way she suspected he wanted her to do—she'd decided to show him that she wasn't the hopeless little trust-fund baby he obviously thought she was.

Staying on had become a matter of pride, something she'd discovered, to her surprise, that she actually had in spades.

Who knew?

So when Marcos walked into the kitchen the next morning about an hour before they opened for lunch and looked her way, Wendy braced herself to survive yet another round of parrying and thrusting. She was, she silently told herself, getting pretty good at that.

Nodding a greeting at Enrique, Marcos wasted no time, turning his attention directly to Wendy. She had annoyingly haunted his thoughts throughout last night's date with Jacinta Juárez, a woman who by all rights should have completely and exclusively dominated his every waking moment with her.

But she hadn't.

Hadn't because at the most inopportune times, thoughts of Wendy's smile or hints of that accent of hers would suddenly burst into his brain, distracting him and ruining what should have been a perfect evening with a very desirable woman. He'd wound up taking her home rather than to his bed. And it was all Wendy's fault.

“Good morning, Wendy.” Marcos mouthed the
greeting automatically to get it out of the way. “I want you working in the kitchen today.”

This wasn't the first time he'd ordered her to stay in the kitchen rather than serve out in the dining area. Exchanging a look with Eva, Wendy suppressed a sigh.

“What am I peeling today?” she wanted to know, raising her eyes to his. “Potatoes or carrots? Or is it both?”

“It's neither,” Marcos informed her tersely. He looked impatiently at the rest of the staff and they took the hint, making themselves scarce. All but Enrique, who made it his business to know everyone else's. The chef waited expectantly.

Wendy stiffened. She was confident enough in her own skin now not to want any special treatment, but neither did she want to be singled out for all the mind-numbing chores that required absolutely no skills whatsoever.

For a glimmer of a moment, as a hint of anger flitted across her face, Marcos saw his way out. But then, because right now it served his purposes better to have her stay on than to leave, Marcos let the opportunity pass. Especially since he'd sampled what she could do in the kitchen. And Enrique had assured him that Wendy was capable of more, so much more.

And, after yesterday, Marcos knew that the man had turned out to be right.

He was far too good a restaurateur to pass up a
talent like hers just because she was incredibly irritating—and alluring—and had taken to haunting his dreams.

“I'd like you to take charge of desserts,” he said evenly.

“Desserts?” she asked, incredulous. Her eyes narrowed as she continued looking at Marcos.

This had to be some kind of a trick.

Or a cruel joke.

At her expense.

But the next words out of the restaurant manager's mouth proved her fears wrong.

“Yes, desserts.” Each word seemed to burn on his tongue as he said, “I want you to make some more of that thing you came up with yesterday.”

He still didn't actually believe that Wendy was responsible for creating the confection all by herself on the spot, but this was no time to get into a discussion about it. They would be opening the restaurant doors in less than an hour and he needed to have a number of those desserts ready to go the minute an order came in for it.

“Think you can do that?” he asked pointedly.

Hot words rose in her throat as the temptation to quit nearly overcame her. But then what Marcos was saying registered.

The man was actually acknowledging that she'd done something right! It couldn't have been easy for the Marcos she'd come to know to say that, she thought.

So she smiled warmly and said, “I think I might be able to manage that for you, Marcos.”

He started to tell her that she still had no right to be that familiar with him, but then he let it go. He wasn't about to continue playing games with her.

Oh, no? What do you call all but begging her to whip up her dessert so that you could list it on the menu again? Whose game is that?

Marcos pressed his lips together, suppressing yet another sigh, and did his best to ignore the annoying little voice in his head. He still had to get out the rest of this offer.

“And when we close our doors for the lunch-dinner break—” he began, pushing each word out as if it was an unwieldy, heavy rock.

And then he stopped. This was
really
hard for him to say.

She'd drawn closer to him, as if to coax out the rest of his sentence. “Yes?”

“Feel free to experiment with anything else that we can put on the menu.”

Wendy gave him a pleased look. “I'll see what I can do about that.” Her eyes lit up as she continued talking to him. He could almost
see
the idea forming in her head. “There's this thing I've been thinking about.” And then she plunged right into the heart of what had captured her imagination. “Chocolate with raspberries and powdered sugar, with just a tiny little pinch of—”

“Don't talk,” Marcos interrupted, pointing her toward the pantry. “Do.”

Wendy snapped to attention and then gave him a smart two-finger salute. “Yes,
sir,
” she declared.

The woman was mocking him, Marcos thought, as he turned on his heel and walked back out of the kitchen. He deliberately avoided looking at Enrique, who was pretending to be working.

Marcos supposed he deserved that for the way he'd treated her. He hoped he wouldn't live to regret this. Any of this.

Hell, part of him already did.

But this—all of it—was for the sake of the restaurant, he reminded himself. Nothing was more important than having Red operating at maximum efficiency—not even his pride.

He'd earn back his pride—and then some—when he left Red in top condition to go on and open his own place, using everything he'd ever learned working here, he promised himself confidently.

Marcos could almost taste it and he could hardly wait for that day to come.

What else can you taste, Marcos?
asked that same annoying little voice in his head.

If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that his annoying little voice had acquired a Southern twang.

Walking into his office, Marcos closed the door behind him. He switched on the radio and turned it up louder than usual. He reasoned that if it was loud
enough, it would drown out the sound of her voice, as well as the little voice in his head.

At least it was worth a try.

It failed.

 

She kept the phone within reach at all times.

Ever since William had disappeared and one of the happiest days of her life had instantly transformed into one of the saddest, Lily Fortune was never more than a few steps away from her cell phone. Even during her morning shower, the phone was placed on the counter next to the shower door and the ringer turned up high so there was no chance that she would miss a call.

And each time it rang, her heart would leap up into her throat and a prayer would spring to her lips. And each time, when it turned out not to be William, her heart would slowly sink and the prayer would fade.

Even so, Lily absolutely refused to give up hope, refused to remain anything but optimistic that somehow, some way, someday, William would walk back into her life as abruptly as he had walked out.

The questions that surrounded his disappearance would all be answered then, but they were of secondary importance to her. What was really important was William's return—alive and well—to the family who loved him.

Worry had stolen her appetite. Nothing tasted right to her anymore. Nonetheless, Lily forced herself to
have at least two meals a day because she was determined to keep up her strength. William, she sensed, was going to need her when he returned. And he would need her to be strong. She'd be no help to him if she wound up becoming a drain rather than an asset.

So, this morning after she'd allowed the cook to place before her a lone scrambled egg with a sprinkling of cheddar cheese and a single corner of wheat toast, Lily pushed the food around her plate, finally consumed it and tried to plan her day. She wanted to be at least a little productive.

William wouldn't want her to become listless and moody in his absence. He'd told her once that he fell in love with her vitality first. She didn't want him to find her a shell of the woman he loved when he finally returned.

Lily dropped her fork when her cell phone rang, nearly knocking over her orange juice in her hurry to answer.

Flipping the phone open, she pressed it to her ear.

“Hello?” she cried, suddenly breathless in her anticipation. Breathless even though she'd only stretched out her hand. “William?”

“No, Lily, it's Drew.” There was a significant pause. For a dramatic effect? she wondered. And then she heard her future stepson say, “We found him.”

She felt like laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, thank God,” she cried. “How is he, Drew? Is he
all right? How soon can you get back?” The questions tumbled out, one after the other. She didn't even stop to draw in a breath.

When there was no immediate response, an icy chill seized her heart. “Drew? Are you still there? Talk to me. Why aren't you answering? What's wrong?” And then it came to her. Drew was trying to brace her for bad news and at the last moment, was at a loss as to how to phrase it. “Oh, my God, Drew, is he— Is William—?”

She couldn't bring herself to say the awful, damning word.

Death had taken her beloved husband Ryan from her six years ago—she'd barely survived the loss. If William was dead, it would kill her as surely as if someone had shot a bullet at point-blank range straight into her heart.

“No, he's not dead, Lily,” Drew quickly reassured her. And then he stopped, obviously at a loss as to how to proceed. “But—”

The word hung there, an insurmountable mountain of steep ice between her and the man she loved. If William was alive, everything else could be dealt with. She encouraged Drew to continue, trying very hard not to be nervous.

“But what?”

She heard the man on the other end of the line take in a deep breath. “My father's alive, Lily, but he's lost his memory.” She could hear the frustration in Drew's voice as he described his father's condition.
“He doesn't know who he is or what happened to him. I took him to the local hospital and had a thorough workup done.”

“And?” Lily coaxed.

“And the upshot is that there doesn't seem to be any evidence of a trauma to his head.” The news wasn't quite as good as it sounded. “But on the other hand, those don't always show up,” Drew qualified.

She wasn't going to worry about that now. First things first.

“Just bring him home, Drew. We'll handle it. We'll handle any problem. The main thing is that William's alive and that you found him. Whatever he's been through, loving care and familiar surroundings can help him negate it,” she said with incredible confidence.

“Lily, I understand what you're going through, what you
have
been through and what you're hoping will happen, but you have to understand that amnesia is something that modern medicine still can't treat effectively.”

She forced herself to be patient with William's son. She needed him to be direct. “Drew, what is it that you're trying to tell me?”

This was so hard for him to say. Not because he was talking to Lily, but because it was about his father. “That Dad may never remember any part of his life before that sheriff found him sleeping in the alley.”

Lily refused to be brought down. William was
alive and they'd found him. That was enough for her right now. “But you just said he has amnesia, right?”

“Yes, but it's not like in the movies,” he warned. “Amnesia can go away in a few hours, in a few days, in a few weeks—or it doesn't have to ever go away at all.” He took a breath. When he spoke, the words were intended as much for him as they were for her. “You have to be prepared for that.”

She wasn't going to think about that now, she couldn't. It would bring her down too far and she needed to remain positive.

“Just bring William home to me, Drew,” she requested again. “Bring him home and we'll handle it one step at a time from there.” For the moment, it was the only plan she had.

There appeared to be nothing else that Drew could do at the moment. “I can do that,” he told her with a resigned sigh.

Sensing he was about to hang up, Lily spoke quickly. “And, Drew—”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she said with feeling, trying her best not to break down and cry over the phone. “Thank you and Jeremy for finding him for me.”

“You don't have to thank me, Lily. I didn't find him just for you. I—we,” he amended, “found him for all of us.”

“Yes, of course. I didn't mean to imply anything else,” she told Drew.