Marrying the Wrong Man (7 page)

“Hey,” Mark said. He looked nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, flashing his eyes all over the place. “I just dropped my mother off at ladies’ bible study, and I had some time to kill. How’s the little one?”

“Good. Better. Thank you so much for coordinating things with Kory.”

He smiled.

It felt weird to have someone checking in on her, especially a Mitchell.

“Invite the boy in,” Aunt Phyllis said.

Morgan nodded. “I was about to. Mark, would you like to come in and meet my little girl.”

“Sure.”

Charlotte sat on the couch next to her aunt, who held a kitten in her lap.

“You know my Aunt Phyllis, don’t you?”

“I do.” Mark reached forward for a handshake. “Nice to see you again.”

God only knew the last time he’d seen her. Aunt Phyllis was patently against going into town except for emergencies. That’s what had made her offer to run to the pharmacy so thoughtful.

“And this is my Charlotte. Baby, this is Mommy’s friend. His name is Mark. Can you say ‘hi’?”

She opened her mouth like she was going to say “hello,” but then a cat that had leapt onto the window ledge distracted her. “See dat cat?”

“She’s sweet,” Mark said.

“She is.”

“She looks … ” But he stopped cold.

Like Alice Cramer. It was so true Morgan couldn’t even flinch. She used to think Charlotte’s physical similarities to Charlie’s sister were karmic payback, too. But the more she fell in love with Charlotte, the less she cared. She didn’t even see the resemblance anymore—unless someone pointed it out.

“Time to feed the chickens,” Aunt Phyllis announced.

Charlotte scurried off the couch. “Me feed.”

“Ask Mommy first.”

“Me feed,” Charlotte said again, this time facing Morgan.

How could she say no to that face? The teen years were going to be hell. “Okay, but be careful. Keep her high enough that she doesn’t get pecked.”

After the screen door banged, Morgan waved Mark into the kitchen, where they could continue their talk while she kept one eye trained out the window over the sink.

“How’s the job hunt coming?”

“It stalled with Charlotte being ill.” Having a sickly kid was an employment curse.

“Have you given anymore thought about working at Charlie’s?”

Putting herself in close proximity to Charlie on a regular basis wasn’t a good idea. Not after last night. She’d expected a colossal confrontation when he’d showed up again. She hadn’t expected him to offer his help, and then bring her back a candy bar. She smiled faintly as she thought about the half a KitKat tucked behind the milk in the fridge.

But that little spark between them didn’t erase the anger and mistrust she suspected Charlie was struggling with. “Charlie wouldn’t want me working there.”

About thirty yards from the house, Aunt Phyllis sat Charlotte on an inoperable riding lawn mower and filled her hand with chicken feed.

“Are you sure about that?” Mark asked. “Rumor has it Charlie was trolling around Farr’s Pharmacy with a six-pack of pediatric electrolyte drink in his hands.”

It was such silly gossip, Morgan should’ve laughed. But she chewed the inside of her cheek instead. Being the target of Morgan-related town gossip would only piss him off more. “Charlie was helping me out. He went into town and got Charlotte’s prescription filled.”

“And you don’t think he’d help you out again by letting you work at the bistro?”

She shot him a mind-your-own-business look.

“What? I’m trying to help.”

“
Why
are you trying to help? And don’t give me crap about rooting for the outcasts.”

“Honestly?” He strummed his fingers on the table. “I’m afraid that restaurant is going to close unless something drastic happens. It’s plagued by rumors of poor service and Charlie’s strict adherence to his menus. He wields that no substitutions rule like it’s ‘off with their heads.’” He laughed, but then he grew serious.

“And you think me working there is going to turn things around? I don’t see how. If people are staying away now, they’ll only come around to burn the place down once they hear I’m there.”

He grinned. “I’m surprised you and Alice never got along. You’re just as melodramatic.”

Morgan rolled her eyes, and then looked out the window in time to see Charlotte launching chicken feed into the air.

“I have a friend who works at the bistro. His name is Corbin. He was hired as the sous chef, but Charlie has had him waiting tables since the second or third week. He says Charlie’s not a bad guy—just a little stressed out and misunderstood. You can relate to that, can’t you?”

Morgan glared at him. “You are pushy, Mark Mitchell.”

“Yep. I just want you to stop by the bistro and check it out. Maybe once you’re there you’ll see something you can do. It would benefit Charlotte to have her parents working together to make that place a success. Of course, it would benefit me, too. I don’t often get to be the savior of things on the business end. If this works, and I convinced you to give it a try, then I’ll have something to brag about at board meetings.”

“You Mitchells. Always conniving in the name of your almighty family business.”

“Guilty.” He grinned.

She didn’t need to be a pawn in another Mitchell game, but for some strange reason Mark had been incredibly nice to her and helped her when no one else would. “Fine. I’ll visit the bistro, but I’m not making any promises. I still don’t think he’ll want me there.”

It was going to take more than a KitKat bar to fix things between her and Charlie.

• • •

“I can’t do this.” Charlie’s hostess-turned-waitress tossed her apron on the stainless steel prep counter and swatted at the tears running down her face.

“You can’t do what?”

“Work here anymore.”

“You’re quitting in the middle of dinner service? Are you kidding me?” Charlie abandoned the plate of sea bass he’d been garnishing.

“No,” Hannah yelled.

He threw up his hands. “You’re yelling at me. Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t yell at you once.” He’d been biting his tongue ever since the call from Will.

“You
didn’t yell at me, but tables five and nine did. I told them the chef didn’t allow substitutions or salt shakers. Five called me ridiculous, and then Nine walked out—just like I’m about to do.” She stomped to the far side of the room and disappeared behind a partition that separated a tiny bank of lockers from the main kitchen space.

“Chef, I need that sea bass.” Corbin, the skinny guy from Rileyville, who was supposed to be the sous chef, stood two steps inside the kitchen. Charlie couldn’t believe the kid was still hanging around. He’d have bolted by now if someone had told him he had to wait tables. But this kid took food service serious, and he was the best waitperson Charlie had.

“Sea bass? You need sea bass? Well, I need another waitress,” Charlie yelled, hoping Hannah would hear him. He tossed a garnish of chervil leaves on top of the fish and shoved the plate toward Corbin.

“I’m doing the best I can.” The kid picked up the food and left in a huff.

Crap.
That was all Charlie needed—for Corbin to quit, too.

“Hannah,” Charlie called out, hoping he could convince his latest dissenter to stay at least through her current shift.

The slamming of the heavy metal door that led to the alley was his answer.

“Fuck!” With his hand strangling the stem of a meat mallet, he pounded the hell out of a chicken breast.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open again. Maybe she’d reconsidered. He exhaled.
Be nice
.
Beg if you have to.

He glanced at the massive script tattoo running from his wrist to the inside of his elbow.
Think before you…

Talk.
He nodded. Tonight was definitely a
think before you talk
kind of night. He’d purposefully left the sentiment open-ended, so he could take from it whatever inspiration he needed.
Think before you talk. Think before you drink. Think before you act.
He probably should’ve shortened it to
think
. That seemed to be the key.

“Hey,” said an unexpected, shaky voice that lifted Charlie’s head as if his chin were caught on a fishing hook.

What the hell was Morgan doing in his kitchen?

Think before you talk.

“Is this a bad time? It is. I’m sorry. I should’ve called first.” She stood before him wringing her hands, wearing a white blouse and black slacks that hugged her surprisingly curvy body.

A heavy warmth formed in his gut. Charlie would’ve laughed if he weren’t trying so damn hard to think of words that wouldn’t get him into bigger trouble than he was already in. This was ridiculous.

She pointed behind her. “I came through the back door, because I didn’t want to cause a scene up front.”

“Chef, table five is asking for their waitress.”

“Their waitress quit.” Charlie managed the words without adding the deep, angry growl rumbling around in his chest.

“You mean I’m the only one handling the dining room?”

“Unless you have some imaginary friends, then yes.”

Corbin’s jaw dropped. “I can’t seat people, take orders, deliver meals, and bus tables all by myself.”

“I can help,” Morgan said.

He did not need her—and those curves—causing trouble around here. “No. This is not your job.”

“It sort of is. Margaret offered to hire me.”

He groaned. “Well, I’m un-offering. Go home to Charlotte.”

Her brows furrowed. “I don’t really have a home, Charlie. I need money to get a home, and I need a job to get money.”

He reached to the pot rack overhead and ripped down a skillet. If the money he had wasn’t already tied up as an investment in this restaurant and the renovation of his house, he’d have paid her every last drop of back child support she deserved just to get her out from under his skin.

Corbin walked into the room with his hands raised. “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever is going on in here, but we have a situation out there. People need food. Can we do that and handle this later?”

“Where do I get one of those notepads?” Morgan asked, pointing at Corbin.

“No,” Charlie said again, but nobody was listening to him.

Corbin dug into the basket beside the door and tossed Morgan a tablet. “The menu changes weekly, so a mini-copy is taped to the notebook’s cover. For God’s sake, remember: absolutely no substitutions. Other than that we’re BYOB. Most people bring a bottle of wine. You just open it and pour. Take the five tables to the left of the main aisle—only two are full right now. I’ll take the rest.”

And then they were gone, like a bad nightmare, leaving Charlie rattled and unable to find the “center” his sponsor talked so fondly about.

Deep breaths
, Charlie thought as he dressed the chicken. He needed this restaurant to work if he ever hoped to prove he was more than a chip off Johnny Cramer’s block—a guy who was a liability to this town and his family instead of an asset. He wanted to be the kind of man a child could look up to. And he needed to be able to face Morgan without falling apart if he ever wanted that child to be a regular part of his life.

But if she thought this was going to be easy, she was crazier than he was. And he was the least of her worries.

The people out there had chased sweet, little Hannah away. They wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to Morgan.

• • •

One fast glance around the dining room told Morgan nobody particularly intimidating was here. Still, she’d thought the same thing while inside the credit union and the mini-mart, too.

Her hands shook.
You can do this.
It was waiting tables. How hard could it be?

“Good evening. My name is … ” Her throat made a clicking sound when she swallowed. “My name is Morgan how can I help you? Can I start you off with something to drink?” She spoke fast and ran the words together hoping her name would get lost in the jumble.

“Morgan?” The sort-of-familiar-looking woman batted her lashes double time.

“That’s my name.” There was no use in denying it.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” The woman patted the skin framed by her V-neck sweater. “Jessica Plant. I played trumpet at your wedding. Well … I suppose I can still call it that. We did get to play the wedding march before Alice Cramer stood up and stopped the rest of the ceremony.”

Okay, this was bad, but it wasn’t horrible. Jessica wasn’t being mean. “I do remember you. It’s … nice to see you again.” She smiled but diverted her eyes to the notepad. “Now, what can I get you to drink?” The less small talk the better.

Jessica handed over a bottle of wine for Morgan to cork and pour. And just like that, service for table seven was underway.

That went better than expected.

With her shoulders a little stronger and her back a little straighter, she made it to the kitchen, where Charlie was clutching a stainless steel bowl. One arm manned a whisk. The rapid whirling motion drew her attention straight to his tattooed forearm.

Her face heated. There was something about a man who knew his way around a kitchen. “Where would I find a corkscrew?” Her last word taunted her until the heat from her face nosedived straight into the depths of her belly.

He glanced up and his wrist slowed. When he shook his head, it was clear he still didn’t want her here. “In the drawer beneath the glass rack. Keep one in your apron.”

“Okay. Thanks for the tip.”

The whisking resumed—only double time. He might not want her here, but he needed her here. They needed each other. Boy, was that a loaded thought.

Rushing out of the kitchen with corkscrew in hand, she found two more tables in her section were filled. A total of eight people needed service. Out of the eight, she recognized four. No one too scary.

She fumbled her way through the Plants’ food orders, gathered fountain drinks for table nine, and introduced herself to table six.

“You’re Robert Parrish’s daughter, aren’t you?” asked a man she didn’t recognize.

Questions like that illustrated why she needed to get out of town before Charlotte was penalized for her last name. “I am.”