Cerella Sechrist - Harper's Wish

“Mind if I borrow our new friend?”

Harper began scooping up the forks and spoons once more, the back of her neck tingling as she felt Connor’s eyes on her.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Rafael took the utensils from her hand.

“Go on,” he urged.

And before she got out of earshot, she heard him whisper, “And good luck.”

* * *

CONNOR ESCORTED HARPER through the doors at the back but instead of heading right, toward the kitchen, he moved left in the direction of his office. He entered the room and frowned at the disarray of papers scattered across his desk, files piled on the floor, broken restaurant equipment stashed in the corner and various cookbooks and periodicals stored haphazardly on a sagging bookshelf. There was also a plastic crate filled with Molly’s toys and coloring books, which she used to entertain herself when she was forced to wait around in his office.

He was about to gesture for Harper to sit when he noticed the only other chair in the room, besides his own, was stacked with inventory paperwork. He quickly moved to gather up the clipboard and sheets and then nodded for Harper to take a seat. She still had to nudge a box out of the way to sit down.

“Rafael doesn’t tidy up the office as part of his janitorial duties, I take it?”

He didn’t know if she was trying to be funny or criticizing his lack of organization.

“I don’t let the staff mess around in here.”

“I’m kidding. It was a joke. Sort of.”

He ignored her and took his own seat on the other side of the desk, suddenly embarrassed at the peeling upholstery with tufts of gray padding poking through.

“You seemed to handle yourself pretty well out there this afternoon,” he remarked, trying to get them back on track and forget about the state of his office.

“Thanks. Like I said, it’s no different than riding a bike. It all comes back pretty quickly.”

Connor leaned back in his chair and took a moment to study the woman across from him. She had caramel-tinted brown eyes and a cute, upturned nose. Her lips were bow-shaped, and there was just the slightest dimple in her chin. Her blond hair was still swept up in the ponytail she’d made before jumping into the role of server, but now several wisps had come free to softly frame her face. The sundress she wore looked to be of the designer variety, but her manner was warm, even down-to-earth.

“You’re new to town?” he questioned as he began riffling through papers on his desk in search of a clean notepad.

“I am,” Harper confirmed. “My sisters and I used to spend summers here when my grandmother was still alive. She owned the white cottage out on Bellamy Drive. Now that she’s passed, my younger sister, Tessa, lives there. I’ve always thought Findlay Roads is a sweet little town.”

He grunted. “Not so little as it once was,” he remarked. “We were named one of the top five Chesapeake Bay towns to visit in a national magazine a few years ago. Since then, we’ve seen an influx of celebrities and political figures looking to try the latest resort destination.”

He couldn’t find a notebook, but his fingers finally landed on a piece of paper with a half-formed recipe scribbled on the back. He flipped it over to use the clean side and scratched out a few highlights.

New to town. Sisters. Tessa. Cottage on Bellamy Drive.

“I take it you’re not here on vacation, so what brings you to town?”

She seemed to hesitate at this question but then began to explain.

“I lost my job in Washington, DC. I needed a break from the city after that, so I decided to come stay with my sister for a bit, until I get back on my feet.”

“Uh-huh.” He made another note.

“And what did you do in the city?”

She visibly swallowed. “I, um...worked in the food industry.”

He raised his head. “You said you were a server in high school and college.”

“I was.”

“And you’re still in the food industry?”

“Kind of. I review restaurants for a living. Or rather, I did.”

He tensed, as he always did, at the mention of critics.

“A restaurant critic.” His tone came out flat.

“Yes.”

He dropped the pen he’d been holding, his gaze narrowing.

“Harper.”

“Hmm?”

“What was the name of your critique column?”

“ Worth It? I reviewed restaurants and determined whether they were worth spending money on. It’s a play on my name—”

“You’re Harper Worth.”

She flushed but still managed a smile. “Guilty as charged.”

“Get out.”

He’d obviously stunned her because she sat there blinking for several long seconds.

“Excuse me?”

“I said... get ... out .”

Harper Worth. In his restaurant, his second restaurant, after all this time. And not as a critic but looking for work. He wasn’t sure whether to feel outraged or vindicated.

“My name is Connor... Callahan ,” he stated, the words clipped.

Her expression didn’t budge, not a glimmer of recognition there.

He’d never seen a proper photo of her. Restaurant critics often concealed their identities so they wouldn’t be recognized when visiting establishments. And with Harper’s vitriolic reputation, he assumed she’d made every effort to keep her image from being exposed when dining out.

Now he finally had a face to put with the name—a much prettier face than he had imagined. He had built her up in his mind’s eye as the harpy he’d dubbed her, thinking she’d be thin, gaunt, with unnaturally long teeth and beady eyes.

She was nothing of the sort. But she was still the woman who’d nearly ruined his career, he reminded himself.

“You don’t even know who I am,” he said.

Her eyebrows dipped in confusion. “Sorry, should I? Have we met?”

He couldn’t help it. He cursed.

“Connor Callahan?” he repeated his name. “Éire?”

Satisfaction flooded through him as he watched the color slowly drain from her face.

“Éire?” she whispered.

“Ah, you remember what the restaurant was called, even if you can’t remember the name of the man whose reputation you ruined.”

“I—” But she stopped there, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Let me see if this rings any bells.” He cleared his throat before he began the recitation of her review from memory.

“Though barely competent, Éire’s executive chef tries too hard with the menu, putting on airs with mediocre aptitude.”

Her face whitened further, her expression becoming pinched as he continued.

“The filet mignon, though a fine cut of meat, is decimated by the lack of skill in preparing it. It will never measure up to the succulent cuts to be had at nearby restaurants in the district, and if ingredients as pure as this can be prepared with such average talent, then imagine the rest of the dishes.”

“Oh. That Connor Callahan.” She attempted nonchalance, but by the pink rising in her cheeks, he knew he had her right where he wanted.

“Can I tell you my favorite line? The one my investors quoted when they pulled out on me?”

She shifted in her seat. He injected a full Irish brogue into his voice and spread his arms to accommodate the full theater of the words.

“Éire is owned by Institute of Culinary Distinction–trained Irishman, Connor Callahan, who clearly believes his own blarney when he claims his restaurant is a dining experience to delight the senses. Perhaps he could use a taste of humble pie since I remain unimpressed and dub his establishment not...worth...it .”

The silence that followed these words was thick. He watched the fine cords in her neck flex as she swallowed. Her cheeks were stained crimson with what he hoped was embarrassment and shame, the very same emotions he’d felt when he’d read her defamatory review.