The Allure of Dean Harper

  We stepped through the door and the restaurant’s quiet music was replaced with silence. Our shoes echoed through the hall and I reached out to stop her so I could plead my case.

  “Honestly, you don’t have to worry about my intentions with this job.” She turned to face me. “I’m here because I need a job in New York. I’d prefer bartending to serving, but I’m flexible. I have a culinary degree and I’ve completed bartending school. I’ve worked just about every server job imaginable, so if there’s anyone qualified to work here, it’s me.”

  She angled her head and studied me.

  “Sounds like you could be doing something a little more impressive than waiting tables.”

  I shrugged. She wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t already considered myself.

  “I want to work in the restaurant industry, but until I find my niche, I just need to get my bills paid.”

  “What about managing?”

  I grimaced. “No offense, but it’s not my cup of tea.”

  She laughed. “Fair enough. Usually I have to get Dean to sign off on all new hires, but he’s out of town and I need you at the bar tonight.”

  My back straightened at the mention of his name. He was the whole reason I’d applied at Provisions in the first place.

  “My best friend is actually dating Dean’s friend, Julian. That’s how I knew you were hiring.”

  Zoe nodded. “Is that so? So you’ve met Dean before?”

  I swallowed. Would it be a deal breaker if I hadn’t?

  “No, but I’ve been told we’ll get along just fine.”

  My throat tightened over the lie. When my best friend Josephine had first told me about Dean and his restaurants, her exact words were something like “you and Dean will get along like oil and water”, but what did it matter? He would be my boss’s boss’s boss. We didn’t really have to get along.

  I followed Zoe through the back offices until we pushed into what looked like an employee locker room. A row of stalls lined one wall, with sinks directly across from them. Black lockers lay half unused along the right-hand side, with clothes and backpacks spilling out of them.

  “Here, this should fit,” Zoe said, pulling out a dark purple garment from a Tupperware bin above the lockers.

  I unrolled the piece of fabric and then glanced up at her over the top of it.

  “You have got to be kidding me. Is this actually considered clothing?”

  She smirked.

  “Consider it a ‘Welcome to Provisions’ gift courtesy of Dean Harper.”

  Chapter Three

  Dean

  “Where to Mr. Harper?”

  The answer should have been one word: home. I’d been traveling for the last nine hours and my bed was calling my name. Unfortunately, my day was far from over. It’d been nearly a week since I’d stepped foot inside my newest restaurant and my control tendencies were starting to flare up.

  I never liked leaving a fledging restaurant for very long. Management and staff needed a few weeks of babysitting before I felt like the machine was sufficiently oiled. My team at Provisions had undoubtedly taken advantage of my absence.

  I met the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Provisions. Up on—”

  “I know where it is, sir.”

  I nodded and turned my gaze out the window, trying to force my focus from my trip back to work. The fact that my suit stunk slightly of farm animals made the task nearly impossible.

  Heading to Iowa to visit my family’s farm had been long overdue and highly unnecessary. The first day, my parents put on fake smiles, but soon enough questions and opinions were flying worse than the horse flies.

  “You’re thirty-three years old, Dean. When are you going settle down? Start a family?”

  Uh, never. Is that too soon? How about never plus infinity?

  “You think that fast ’n’ hard life will sustain you for long?”

  What do they think I’m doing in New York? Crack? I work twelve hours a day.

  “Seems awfully lonely…”

  No. Just last week Kelly, Carmella, and Svetlana kept me plenty occupied.

  My parents couldn’t wrap their heads around how I could possibly be happy as a restaurateur in New York. They’d married at eighteen, had me at twenty. Their lives revolved around farm life and family life. Needless to say, I’d wanted something very different.

  And I had it.

  I was the top restaurateur in New York City. In the last few years, I’d had my hand in opening eleven restaurants around the city. This year, I planned on doubling that number.

  “Here we are, Mr. Harper,” my driver said from the front seat. “Should I wait here until you’re done?”

  I slid a generous tip over the console and shook my head. I had no way of knowing the current state of the restaurant. Likely, I’d be in there for hours. “I’ll call a cab. You can take my luggage back to my house and then head home yourself.”

  He pocketed the tip with a wide smile. “Of course, sir.”

  I nodded and slipped out of the back of the town car, buttoning my black jacket as I stood. My gaze slid over the facade of the building. The ivy was growing nicely along the exterior wall. The spotlight over the door perfectly illuminated the restaurant’s name, just as I’d intended. Even at ten o’clock, there were clumps of people milling out on the sidewalk.

  I pushed through the crowd and stepped into the restaurant, bracing myself for the worst. I’d put my most seasoned employee in charge, but even Zoe was bound to have problems without my help for a week. A quick scan of the foyer indicated that the place was still as I’d left it, though one of the picture frames was slightly ajar, but I couldn’t really blame Zoe for that. Could I? No. Even I had my limits.

  “Mr. Harper! You’re back!”

  I snapped my attention to the hostess, who was staring at me with giant doe eyes from behind the podium. She filled out the Provisions uniform well and was maintaining the kind of look that the clientele of my restaurants expected. “We weren’t expecting to see you tonight.”

  I shrugged. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Every night should run as if I’m present.”

  She giggled, though I definitely hadn’t told a joke. “Of course. Speaking of presents, let me unwrap this one for you.”

  She rushed forward around the podium, reaching for my jacket. The movement caused the bottom of her dress to flare up, but I wasn’t fazed. When I was in work mode, my employees were numbers to me. Nameless, faceless parts of my machine. I needed them to arrive on time, smile at customers, and clean up their assigned tables before clocking out every night. That’s it.

  Her finger brushed the edge of my collar and I held up my hand to stop her.

  “It’s fine. Where’s Zoe?”

  Her bottom lip jutted out and her arm fell limp back to her side. “Back in the offices. I think she’s been trying to catch up on paperwork ever since she hired that new girl.”

  My back stiffened. “New girl?”

  There was a policy in place in every single one of my restaurants: I had the final say for all new hires. I had good instincts and I liked to look every employee in the eye at least once before they represented my company. Zoe knew that rule, and for the first time, she’d chosen to ignore it.

  The hostess’ frown deepened. “Yeah, she came in earlier looking totally homeless. I can’t believe Zoe actually hired her. I thought she was going to kick her to the curb—”

  “Thank you,” I interrupted. “But it’s none of your concern who we choose to hire.”

  I hated when employees acted chummy with me. I wasn’t some friend from book club. I was her boss and so was Zoe.

  I wanted to tell her off for trying to throw Zoe under the bus, but excited shouts rang out from one of the restaurant’s bars, drawing my attention. I stepped forward and narrowed my eyes, curious about the commotion.

  The four bars lining the interior courtyard of Provisions had been packed ever since opening night, but I’d yet to see a circu
s-like crowd form around any of them.

  Why is one forming now?

  I caught short snippets of conversations as I made my way closer to the bar.

  “Am I toasted or was she really hot?”

  “Dude. I bought four drinks. FOUR. Why?”

  “You looked into her eyes. You shouldn’t have done it, man.”

  “She’s a wizard!”

  I smirked. It wasn’t the first time one of my employees had spurred devotion from customers. That’s why I hire beautiful people. During the interview process, my team and I vetted the applicants based on their looks and their experience—in that order. No customer gives a shit if his prime rib comes out a little late when the woman serving him looks good enough to eat.

  I pushed through the crowd to see which bartender was outperforming the rest, and when I saw her, her presence gripped me by the throat and pulled me closer. My eyes slid down her body of their own accord and for the first time I could remember, I wasn’t in control.

  She had wild blonde hair streaked with honey highlights. A smattering of freckles ran across her nose and cheeks, just visible in the dim light behind the bar. Her bee-stung lips curved into a smile as a patron leaned over and left his number scratched across a cocktail napkin. She didn’t touch it. She was too busy straining a drink into a cocktail glass. The two male bartenders moved around her, cashing out customers and keeping track of the orders. Apparently, the customers wanted their drinks made by her and only her.

  I watched her spin around and reach for a top-shelf liquor. The sharp cut of the Provisions uniform exposed most of her tan back. The skirt hugged her hips and flared just below her ass. On her, it looked like glorified lingerie.

  I should have backed away and found Zoe. I knew what was pulling customers toward the bar and I could move onto the next item on my agenda. Lord knows I had a list a mile long, and yet, I found myself stepping closer to the bar. I slid onto a free stool directly in front of where she was making drinks and waited for her undivided attention.

  Because she was a complete knockout?

  No.

  Because she was utterly fucking up my bar.

  Chapter Four

  Lily

  In the last two hours the bar had turned into a circus. I’d lost track of how many drinks I’d made. My feet hurt, my hands ached, and I’d gone through enough lemons and limes to rival a key lime pie factory. The only silver lining was the tip jar steadily filling up smack dab in front of me. Whenever exhaustion started to creep in, I’d let my gaze linger there for a second. I’d have to split it all with Brian and Allen, but still, my cut would be massive.

  I handed two drinks off, shook the excess club soda from my hand, and then watched as a suited man slipped into a newly vacant bar stool. He wasn’t the first available guy to come to the bar, but he was the first one who made me do a double take. I had a very specific type, and pretty boys were out—I didn’t want a guy with better hair than me. (Jared Leto, I’m lookin’ at you.)

  Suit Guy’s features weren’t pretty, they were striking. Rough around the edges with a permanent scowl and punch-you-in-the-gut brown eyes. His dirty blond hair was unruly and probable evidence of a bad habit of running his hands through it when he was stressed.

  I opened my mouth to ask him his drink order, but another customer spoke up first.

  “What was that drink you made me earlier?” the young girl beside him asked, swaying her empty cocktail glass back and forth in front of her like a fast-paced metronome. I’d made her a drink hours ago; I had a good memory, but not that good.

  “Describe it,” I said, leaning forward so I could hear her over the sound of the crowd. The effort brought me closer to Suit Man and it annoyed me that I noticed his cologne. Or maybe I’m annoyed that I liked it.

  “You recommended it,” the girl slurred. “It was like a pineapple made love to a boozy banana.”

  I ran through the drinks I’d made earlier in the night that had pineapple in them. There’d only been a few, and the cocktail glass she was waving around helped me narrow it down.

  “It’s called a Juliet,” I told the customer, already reaching for a new cocktail glass. “It has gold tequila, banana-flavored liqueur, pineapple juice, and grenadine.”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes! More please!”

  I smiled and turned to the bar shelves to reach for the gold tequila. Suit Man spoke up behind me and my back stiffened.

  “I don’t see that drink on the menu…”

  His voice was sexy, but his tone sounded seriously annoyed.

  I glanced over my shoulder at him. “No. It’s just something I like to make.”

  His dark brow arched as he assessed my answer. “The city’s top mixologist spent weeks crafting this drink list.”

  Top mixologist? I had flipped through the leather-bound list earlier, completely uninspired by the generic drinks. I’d assumed it was thrown together by some busboy that had Googled “how to make hipster cocktails”.

  I set the gold tequila down on my station and shrugged. “I like to play by own rules.”

  Brian came up behind me, nearly shoving me out of the way to reach Suit Man.

  “Sir, I didn’t see you there. Can I get you anything? The usual?”

  I smirked. The guy must be one hell of a tipper to elicit that sort of ass-kissing from Brian.

  “No. I’d actually like her to make me a drink,” he said with a dark tone.

  I was looking down, measuring out a shot of tequila, or he would have seen my eyes narrow. What is his angle?

  “Lily,” Brian whispered under his breath, trying to get my attention.

  I glanced over at him from beneath my lashes. His eyes widened as he inclined his head toward the man. The message was clear: make his drink. Now.

  Unfortunately, I’d never been very good at taking orders.

  I plastered on a fake smile and met Suit Man’s annoyed stare.

  “I’ll be happy to take your order, right after I finish up with these fine folks who were here before you.” My tone was clipped and cool, but no one could accuse me of being outright rude. It was the voice adopted by anyone who’d ever had to work a shift in a service job.

  Suit Man sat and watched me mix three more drinks. I was still faster than Brian, but compared to earlier, I was taking my sweet time. His dark eyes stayed pinned on me as anger palpably boiled off of him. I selected my ingredients with care and measured them out like I was creating a work of art.

  I caught fragments of his shattering composure as I twisted and turned behind the bar: his clenched, clean-shaven jaw; the gap in the top of his shirt where his tensed, tan chest peeked through; his knuckles, motionless but growing whiter as he gripped the edge of the bar.

  By this time, the crowd around the courtyard had diminished, which left Brian with no other orders to busy himself with.

  “Sir, are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Brian asked, his voice a tad more shrill than it’d been only minutes before. “Seriously, Lily—”

  Suit Man shook his head, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on the bar.

  “Brian, go clean up the other end of the bar,” he ordered.

  I met his stare and took off the friendly mask I usually wore for customers. Our eyes locked with unspoken fury. I’d been on my feet all night, I was exhausted, and now I had to deal with a customer from hell. He had no clue who he was dealing with.

  “Make me a Collins,” he said through seductive lips. They were the sort of lips made for giving orders and delivering on promises.

  He offered no please. No thank you.

  I held his stare as I reached for a highball glass. I took pride in every drink I made, but I knew his drink would be irre-fuckin-proachable. I expertly poured two ounces of dry gin by sight, and then added a touch more. One teaspoon of superfine sugar and half an ounce of lemon juice went into the glass next. I stirred it all together and spritzed it with a touch of club soda. He took the glass out of my hand before I could sli
de it across the bar. I watched him bring it to his lips, holding back every snarky remark that came to mind.

  “Too heavy on the sugar,” he declared, dropping the glass back onto the bar. “Make it again.”

  He’d hardly taken a sip.

  I had to bite down on my tongue until I nearly drew blood. The customer is always right. Even if the customer is full of shit, he’s always right.

  “Are you for real?” a nearby customer asked in my defense before turning to me. “Don’t worry girl, your bartending skills are on point. Don’t listen to him.”

  Mr. Suit didn’t acknowledge her and I knew I had no choice. I had to make it again.

  I measured out the ingredients into a new glass as my hand shook with anger. I held out the drink again, ignoring the touch of his fingers as he pulled it from my grasp. His brows furrowed into a line as he took a belt of the new drink. I watched him and waited for him to concede and thank me for the second drink.

  He shook his head. “Not enough lemon.”

  I could count on one hand the number of times I’d had a customer ask me to remake a drink. He didn’t know what he was talking about. I reached across the bar and took the glass out of his hand. His jaw dropped.

  “Lily! Jesus,” Brian said, trying to pull the drink out of my hand. I held on to the glass and watched the man’s nostrils flare as I took a sip of my own creation. It was good. Chilled and flavorful.

  “You are impossible,” I hissed. “Sorry, but we don’t need your money this badly.”

  He smirked and shook his head, reaching into his back pocket. He unfolded his leather wallet and pulled out two one-hundred-dollar-bills. “Wrong. We always want the customer’s money.” He tossed the bills across the bar and scooted his bar stool back. “You’re fired. Consider that your severance.”

  My heart leapt to my throat.

  Wait.

  What?

  “Dude, you’re oblivious,” Brian moaned. “Do you know who that was?”