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Authors: Bailey Cattrell
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waiting for them with a cast iron frying pan or a butcher knife. According to a gossipy physician’s assistant at the Poppyville Clinic, Harris had suffered from a bit of frostbite. She hadn’t revealed the details regarding which part of his anatomy had been affected.
I had my hopes, though.
Clenching my jaw, I pushed the door open, and we went inside.
The smells of braising beef, vinegary barbecue sauce, fresh bread, and garlic filled my sinuses. I envisioned thebaking sheets filled with rows of bite-sized dinner rolls back in the kitchen. Soon they would be dropped into bowls of warm butter in which garlic had been steeping for hours. Those bowls of garlic rolls were a Roux Grill signature that waitstaff brought to every customer’s table along with menus and a practiced recitation of the nightly specials.
One thing about my ex: He was a great cook and had excellent instincts for running a restaurant. However, those pungent, savory rolls had been my contribution. Harris had fought the idea, saying we should just offer the standard bread and butter. Cheaper, he said. Better business. But I’d convinced him to offer them for a couple of nights, and that was all it took for the garlicky nuggets to become insanely popular. Smelling them now, I almost swooned with a feeling akin to homesickness.
The hostess station was empty except for a sign inviting people to seat themselves. A gleaming mahogany bar ran the length of the wall to the right, the mirror behind it reflecting brightly lit liquor bottles like jewels. Booths ran along the left wall, and in between tables ranged back to the stone fireplace at the rear of the dining room. Two doors in the back corners led to the kitchen.
A low murmur of conversation came from the smattering of customers, who, like the folks outside, were taking advantage of the low-priced well drinks from four to six. Linda, a waitress who had been with the Roux since it opened, came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of appetizers. She saw me, smiled, and nodded a greeting.I gave her a brief wave in return. Behind the bar, Maggie Clement sliced limes with lightning speed.
I absently looked over the patrons as I thought about what to say to Maggie—and to Harris. Suddenly, my attention snagged on one couple in particular. My breath hitched in my chest.
“You know, I should come in here more often . . . Ellie?” Astrid interrupted herself. “What’s the matter?”
Her gaze followed mine to the booth where Cynthia Beck, wearing more bling than I would ever own and a low-cut blouse I would never own, sat across from Ritter Nelson. He’d put on a sports coat over his chambray shirt, and the overhead light glinted off the lighter strands in his wavy hair. Her elbows were on the table, and her chin rested on her laced fingers as she stared at her date as if she wanted to eat him.
“Uh-oh,” Astrid said. “Do not, just do
not
, tell me that gorgeous hunk of man flesh is Thea’s brother.”
Jaw clenched, I nodded. “He’s only been in town a day or so.”
“Well, honey, you’d better do something soon if you want to land that one, because Cynthia works fast. As you can see.”
Unaware she was being watched, Cynthia bit her vermilion—and artificially plump—lower lip between her teeth and reached out to stroke Ritter’s arm with a manicured nail.
“Oh, good heavens,” I said.
He looked surprised for a moment, but continued with whatever he was saying. She nodded enthusiastically. I couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about.
Not that it mattered. No way could I compete with Cynthia on a good day, and I was seriously out of practice on the dating front.
I sighed.
To my right, Maggie Clement looked up from her citrus prep. “Ellie! Oh, my God! Ellie, you come here right now!” She was well padded and pushing sixty, a woman who mothered everyone she came into contact with. Now she enveloped me in a hug and a cloud of White Shoulders perfume before
I had my hopes, though.
Clenching my jaw, I pushed the door open, and we went inside.
The smells of braising beef, vinegary barbecue sauce, fresh bread, and garlic filled my sinuses. I envisioned thebaking sheets filled with rows of bite-sized dinner rolls back in the kitchen. Soon they would be dropped into bowls of warm butter in which garlic had been steeping for hours. Those bowls of garlic rolls were a Roux Grill signature that waitstaff brought to every customer’s table along with menus and a practiced recitation of the nightly specials.
One thing about my ex: He was a great cook and had excellent instincts for running a restaurant. However, those pungent, savory rolls had been my contribution. Harris had fought the idea, saying we should just offer the standard bread and butter. Cheaper, he said. Better business. But I’d convinced him to offer them for a couple of nights, and that was all it took for the garlicky nuggets to become insanely popular. Smelling them now, I almost swooned with a feeling akin to homesickness.
The hostess station was empty except for a sign inviting people to seat themselves. A gleaming mahogany bar ran the length of the wall to the right, the mirror behind it reflecting brightly lit liquor bottles like jewels. Booths ran along the left wall, and in between tables ranged back to the stone fireplace at the rear of the dining room. Two doors in the back corners led to the kitchen.
A low murmur of conversation came from the smattering of customers, who, like the folks outside, were taking advantage of the low-priced well drinks from four to six. Linda, a waitress who had been with the Roux since it opened, came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of appetizers. She saw me, smiled, and nodded a greeting.I gave her a brief wave in return. Behind the bar, Maggie Clement sliced limes with lightning speed.
I absently looked over the patrons as I thought about what to say to Maggie—and to Harris. Suddenly, my attention snagged on one couple in particular. My breath hitched in my chest.
“You know, I should come in here more often . . . Ellie?” Astrid interrupted herself. “What’s the matter?”
Her gaze followed mine to the booth where Cynthia Beck, wearing more bling than I would ever own and a low-cut blouse I would never own, sat across from Ritter Nelson. He’d put on a sports coat over his chambray shirt, and the overhead light glinted off the lighter strands in his wavy hair. Her elbows were on the table, and her chin rested on her laced fingers as she stared at her date as if she wanted to eat him.
“Uh-oh,” Astrid said. “Do not, just do
not
, tell me that gorgeous hunk of man flesh is Thea’s brother.”
Jaw clenched, I nodded. “He’s only been in town a day or so.”
“Well, honey, you’d better do something soon if you want to land that one, because Cynthia works fast. As you can see.”
Unaware she was being watched, Cynthia bit her vermilion—and artificially plump—lower lip between her teeth and reached out to stroke Ritter’s arm with a manicured nail.
“Oh, good heavens,” I said.
He looked surprised for a moment, but continued with whatever he was saying. She nodded enthusiastically. I couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about.
Not that it mattered. No way could I compete with Cynthia on a good day, and I was seriously out of practice on the dating front.
I sighed.
To my right, Maggie Clement looked up from her citrus prep. “Ellie! Oh, my God! Ellie, you come here right now!” She was well padded and pushing sixty, a woman who mothered everyone she came into contact with. Now she enveloped me in a hug and a cloud of White Shoulders perfume before
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