Erin Kern: Along Came Trouble

“Are you saying you think Travis can turn this place around?” Brody shifted his thick shoulders around to ease some of the tension that had his muscles coiled.

“Don’t you think he can?” Charlene’s thin brows shot up her forehead.

Brody swiveled back and forth in his chair and ran a hand along the edge of his desk. “I’m not sure yet. To be honest, I’m not all that impressed with him.” But if Travis wasn’t the savior this place needed, then who was? Although Brody liked the guy, his future in his own restaurant hinged on the young chef’s abilities. The thought sent a tremor of alarm through his already weary body.

“He’s a hell of a lot better than Gary was.”

A snort popped out of him. “My eleven-year-old son can cook better than Gary.”

The corners of Charlene’s lips turned up in a smile. She inhaled a deep breath and sat back down in the chair. “Look, I know you’re still kind of pissed about Michael leaving and you think you won’t find anyone as good as him. But you will.”

“I hope you’re right.” He ran a hand through his midnight dark hair. Man, he needed a haircut. “If not, there’s a good chance I’ll have to sell my house and find another job.” Another thought that had the contents of his breakfast churning like acid in his stomach.

She leaned forward in her chair and propped an elbow on the edge of his desk. “There’s no way Martin will fire you.” Then she jumped ahead when he opened his mouth to argue. “I think we’re taking a step in the right direction today. We’ve got that photographer coming in to take pictures. And I know Travis is young, but I think he shows a lot of promise.”

One of Charlene’s best assets was her positive attitude. At times when Brody found himself moping like a moody teenager, Charlene would come in with her Mary Poppins–like persona and pep talk him into straightening his act up. Brody would be the first one to tell anyone he’d been an unbearable hard-ass since his divorce four years ago. Something about separating from Kelly had opened up a side of him even he hadn’t known existed. Charlene had never let a moment escape without telling him to get his shit together. Being spoken to like that wasn’t something he appreciated, but from Charlene he tolerated it. She didn’t put up with his crap anyway, so telling her to stuff it would only be speaking to air.

“Tell me again why we’re publishing pictures in the same magazine that just gave us a bad review?” he asked Charlene.

She lifted a finger. “First of all, that reviewer isn’t employed by this magazine. Second of all, they’re the only ones who agreed to do this spread. We need the good publicity.”

At this point Brody wasn’t sure the restaurant was capable of generating good publicity. “Are you sure this photographer is any good?”

An exasperated sigh came from Charlene. “What happened to the Brody who never let anything bother him? I miss that guy.”

“So do I,” he muttered to the ceiling. Brody found himself smiling for the first time during their conversation. Yes, Charlene knew when to call his bullshit. His office door creaked open and Travis poked his head in. “The photographer’s here.”

A spread in a magazine that had already trashed them? Would those same readers even give a damn about the Golden Glove’s new, toned-down decor? Or that the new chef had introduced inventive, unique items to the menu? In Brody’s experience, once diners had a bad meal at a restaurant, they weren’t likely to return. Not only that, they’d probably tell everyone within earshot to stay the hell away from the place. His father had already pitched a fit about the first bad review. Even though Brody ran the place, Martin was a perfectionist who took insults to his restaurant personally, although normally he didn’t take reviews too seriously. In the light of the place’s recent dwindling numbers, his old man was paying extra attention to any sort of negativity. Brody’s working relationship with his father had already been on thin ice because of the downturn in business. Once Martin read the latest review, Brody was likely to be exiled. His earlier fear of his and Tyler’s futures returned with a wicked vengeance. How would he pay for his son’s college if he was unemployed?

“Brody?” Charlene asked after he’d failed to move from his chair. “You’re on board with this, right?”

He blinked at her. “On board, right. Yeah.” He pushed himself out of the chair and followed Charlene and Travis downstairs.

Okay, he’d be on board with this.

The dining room, recently redone to be more appealing to families and less to rowdy college students home from school, had been mostly cleared for today’s shoot. The tables and chairs had been pushed aside to make room for the “shooting area,” as Charlene had described it. “It’ll be short and simple,” she said.

Except it wasn’t. The area that used to be the dining room now looked like a professional photographer’s studio. In the middle of the room, surrounded by several tall lights and mirrors, were tables draped in dark brown tablecloths. Travis walked ahead of them and disappeared into the kitchen. Several seconds later he reappeared with plates on each hand. He lowered them carefully to the tables, added garnishes, wiped the rims, and spun them around until satisfied they looked presentable.

After his inspection, he went back into the kitchen.

“Is all this really necessary?” Brody asked Charlene.

Charlene shot him a narrow-eyed look. “You can’t just come in and take a few pictures of the food the way we would normally serve it. You have to doll it up and make it look attractive.”

He lifted a hand toward the shoot area. “But we don’t serve our dishes on brown tablecloths with wineglasses. Isn’t that a bit misleading?”

They stopped next to one of the tall light things. “Brody, do you trust me?” Charlene asked.

His eyebrows pulled together at her question. “I’m not sure.”

She patted him on the arm like one would a small child. “Well, you’re going to have to this time. Besides, this is the way food is photographed. And Elisa knows what she’s doing.”

He shot her a glance. “Elisa?”

“The photographer.”

Bright morning sunshine shone in when the doors to the restaurant opened. A tall woman, with hair the color of a moonless night hanging halfway down her back, floated across the parquet wood floor. Her attention was on a spiral notebook, which was cradled in long, thin arms. A loose-fitting, flower-printed blouse covered petite shoulders and disappeared beneath the waistband of wide-legged, light gray slacks. She was as professionally dressed as any person in a corporate office, yet the gentle sway of her hips exuded a magnetic sexuality that had blood rushing to Brody’s groin.

His eyes followed her every move. “Did we hire a model for this shoot?”

Charlene had started to walk toward the woman. She glanced back at him. “What?”

He jerked his head in the Amazon’s direction.

One corner of Charlene’s mouth curled up. “She’s the photographer.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. The woman who looked like she should be posing in front of the camera was behind it instead?

“Quite sure.” Always-present amusement lit up Charlene’s eyes.

Brody sauntered over to focus on the tables with the food only because he didn’t want to stand around looking like he had his thumb up his ass.

Travis had prepared a wide variety of dishes and ones that were more popular with their diners. Chinese chicken salad, minestrone soup, a barbecue bacon cheddar burger, and grilled chicken penne pasta with a garlic breadstick sat on pristine white plates. Charlene may have organized the photo shoot, but Brody had hand-picked the dishes. Two of them were Travis’s signature meals.