The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs (2 page)

Give her some cannolis.

He pressed "send" and smiled again. That might keep Mulligan from imploding when she realized she'd just watched the owner of Leonato's ride off in a cab. Listen, wasn't his fault. Chubbs was fifteen minutes late and he was a busy man.

The cab turned a corner and he got one last look at her through the grey lines of rain on the window. Should have warned her that her day wasn't about to get any better.

Pity he couldn't hang around. It was always entertaining to have one of those arguments with her—gave him a burst of endorphins— and he'd missed that sneaky pleasure since the last time they met.

It had been quite a long while. Apparently too long.

'Cause Bryony "Chubbs" Mulligan was looking pretty damn hot these days.

Chapter Two

She dropped the files and one bulging binder on the already cluttered desk. "Let me get this straight," she exclaimed breathlessly, "Ben I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt Petruska just bought this restaurant? What happened to old Mr. Leonato?"

The sous chef did a good impression of a puzzled Shar-Pei. He didn't speak much English. Just enough to explain that the new owner had left him behind to greet her, and offer a plate of cannolis. "They very good," he explained, setting the plate gingerly down on her binder, as if she was a wild animal and might bite them right out of his hand, plate and all. The devil only knew what Numbnuts had told him about her. "I get you coffee?"

"No. Thank you." No point getting annoyed with him. "I just saw Mr. Petruska in the street, leaving."

"Yes, miss. He had a very,
very
important meeting."

I'll bet he did, she thought, furious. He'd deliberately gone out to avoid her, leaving this mess for her to sort out. Flinging her wet, torn coat over the chair, she looked at the plate of cannolis. "You can take those back," she snapped.

"He said to give them. You like?"

"Right." Of course, he thought he could butter her up with cream pastries
.
And that was a curious picture she'd rather not have in her mind at nine thirty in the morning. "How long has he owned this place?"

"Just before I come. He said tell you the files, they all here." He proudly waved his arms around at the multitude of ring binders and notebooks piled on the shelves.

Bry sat heavily and opened her laptop. No one had bothered to tell her the restaurant changed hands. Don Philips, the partner who had always handled Mr. Leonato's taxes, was now retiring—not before time. That was how the file got dropped on her desk, among a pile of accounts no one else wanted. As the newbie on staff she was given the worst jobs, but Bry preferred to look at it as a chance to prove herself.

A quick survey of this small, cramped back room told her that Don Philips had never set foot inside the place, except to eat a large plate of linguine with clam sauce and drink a bottle of wine, probably on the house. Don did most of his work from a golf course. Bryony was more of a hands on person. She liked to attack the problem right at the root.

So now this restaurant was another victim falling foul to that greedy Manhattan Marauder, Benedick Petruska. Otherwise known to her as "Numbnuts". Didn't he own enough properties yet? He was the sort of supremo ass no one wanted to play Monopoly with because he was ruthless and always won. He didn't play games; he just slaughtered opponents. She'd read that line about him in a
Time
magazine interview once.

"I get you coffee," the sous chef muttered, backing out.

"I told you I don't....ok," she sighed, "fine."

Might as well drink the extra caffeine to get through this. She took out her glasses and slipped them on, waiting for her laptop to boot.

Leonato's wasn't the usual sort of place Petruska targeted. It was a small, cozy restaurant, nothing fancy, not a hang out for the "in crowd", but a haven for regulars. She'd been there once on a wretched blind date, when she was, unfortunately, too conscious of her weight to be able to order what she really wanted. It was torture to sit in a restaurant with a rumbling stomach, knowing everyone in the place was looking at her, thinking maybe she ought to cut out the pasta and picking at their own food guiltily.

Then she went through a self-punishment period when she ate only salads, but that was equally embarrassing since it made other diners look at her with surprise and then—worst of all—pity.

"If you only eat salads," one little girl had said to her once at a baby shower, "why are you fat?"

People assumed that because of her weight she loved food. Truth was, food terrified her. It had such a hold on her life.

When the recession struck and her last firm downsized, she was one of the casualties. Bry knew that old enemy—food— was lurking in wait, offering solace, eager to make her feel less about anything else. Rather than run away from it by forcing herself onto another ridiculous, miserable diet, Bry decided to embrace her enemy. Much to her mother's horror, she'd spent a large chunk of her savings on a six month-long Cordon Bleu course... in Paris.

"Got to hand it to you, Bry," her father said. "You never do things by halves."

But if she was going to learn to cook, why not take it seriously? If she was going to change the way she did business, why not kickstart the process in an entirely new city and country? If she was ever going to take a sabbatical from work, why not do it while she was still young enough to enjoy herself? She was twenty nine. By the time she was thirty she actually wanted to be happy, not just existing in the same routine. Her night life had been non-existent for eight years so she had money saved and then she had a severance package too. Why not have one adventure to look back on?

Her mother called it impulsive; Bry preferred to think of it as decisive.

In Paris she was already a new person because no one there knew the old Bryony. She slowed down a lot, learned to taste flavors and enjoy smaller portions. On a tight budget, she certainly stuck to eating only at mealtimes. She lost a little weight, gained a lot of style and confidence, learned a new language, discovered a surprising love of fashion. Most of all she stopped worrying what other people saw when they looked at her. With an entire new wardrobe, she'd learned how to be comfortable in her own skin and it was a far better feeling than the fragile excitement of starving to fit a size someone else decided she ought to be. This feeling was one that lasted.

Back in New York she got a new apartment, a new job. But she wasn't ready for a new boyfriend yet. That was a whole other set of potential bugs for Bry 2.0 to work out. For now she was focused on her job, aiming one day for a corner office, even "partner" on her business cards.

All things considered, life was looking up for Bry. She was finally in charge, finally had a grip.

Until her alarm clock failed to go off that morning, she couldn't get hot water in her shower, she lost the power cord for her laptop, the smoke detector went off because she burned the toast, and then her heel got stuck in the tarmac. Finally, Numbnuts tripped over her as she scrabbled about in the gutter. She sincerely hoped this wasn't the start of her descent into another maelstrom.

Her phone rattled across the desk, vibrating with the rhythm of calypso drums.

"Hello? Bryony Mull—"

"Can you meet for lunch?" It was her cousin Helena, speaking in a tearful half-whisper, "I have to get out of here."

She looked at the piles surrounding her. "What time? I'm kinda—"

"Twelve. I don't care where. It's an emergency." Helena had a tendency to be dramatic. A broken finger nail or a lost earring could constitute an emergency. In all likelihood, by the time noon rolled around she would have gotten over it.

"Ok. Hey, do you know Leonato's? Midtown west?"

Silence.

"Hell's Kitchen," she added hastily. "Theatre district."

Helena sniveled into the phone. "I guess I can find it."

"I'll be here." That would save her from traveling across town, she figured. Let Helena come to her for a change. Another sign of the newer, more confident Bry.

Clearly, her cousin was upset about something or she would have suggested a ritzier place on the Upper East side—somewhere she was more accustomed to and somewhere Bry couldn't afford. Helena wasn't the sort to go out of her comfort zone. Usually.

But today there was no debate. Odd.

"See you then." She hung up.

Damn computer was slow, working on a half dead battery and no power cord. With a sigh she flipped open her briefcase and fumbled for a legal bad, a biro and a calculator. Back to basics.

* * * *

He strode through the doors, tucking his phone away inside his jacket. The restaurant was already filling up with the lunch crowd and it was barely half twelve. The air was thick with basil and garlic, a low murmur of contented diners music to his ears. Probably ought to be the beep of the cash register that brought a smile to his face. But right now it wasn't. He was starting to feel good about bringing pleasure to other people. It was weird. The satisfaction of seeing that little restaurant packed to the walls was like a shot of adrenaline directly into his veins.

Then he saw Bryony in a corner booth, poring over the menu. At once he felt a sly punch deep in his gut—maybe it was more of a kick this time.

Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.

What song was that from? Couldn't think.

About to walk over to her, he stopped. No way would she welcome him at her table. He should know better by now.

Go over, you fool
, his grandmother whispered inside his head.
You coward
.
What are you? A little girl?

Nah. But he wasn't looking for a slapped face either.

Chubbs would probably flay him alive with her tongue if she saw him right now.

So he slipped by, hiding behind the coat stand and making a dash for the office behind the bar. Ben Petruska had climbed Everest, dived off a cliff in Acapulco, run with bulls in Pamplona, but for some reason Bryony Mulligan, all grown up, scared the pants off him.

He skidded to a halt, like Bugs Bunny at the cliff edge, teetering forward at an impossible angle, ears folded back, toes clenched.

Had he walked into the wrong back room?

The bookshelves—formerly tilting hazardously—were now in neat order, binders labeled. The desk was cleaned off, but for a phone, a blotter and a stack of restaurant supply catalogs. Beside the fax machine there was a big box marked Receipts and another marked Invoices. A large staff roster, which had been rolled up behind the door, was now taped to the wall. Along with an invoice for her work that day.

He took it down and looked at it. That's how much she made an hour? Hmmm. The miracle worker could make five times that working for him. Not that she ever would consider it.

Permeating the oregano and meatballs there was a very slight touch of spicy perfume, still lingering. He sniffed, tasted it far back on his tongue as if it was wine. Nice. Fruity. Full-bodied. Like her.

What the fuck was he scared of? She was a woman, wasn't she?

* * * *

"Try the rigatoni with eggplant. One of the chef's specials."

She glanced up from the menu, expecting to see the waiter back again. Instead it was Ben, standing at the table, grinning stupidly. Damn. She was actually going to order that dish, but now she couldn't, or it would look as if she followed his advice. Only a man of his arrogance would approach her with that grin on his face after leaving her with five years of badly kept account books. Which she couldn't complain about, because they were supposed to be managed by the firm that had just hired her. She was still puzzling over how Don Philips ever got Mr. Leonato's tax forms in on time.

"I suppose you thought that was funny this morning, when you chose not to tell me this was your place."

"I was in a hurry, Miss Mulligan, and you were late for the appointment." He dropped casually into the seat opposite. "You fixed your shoe?"

"I found some glue in the back of a drawer. It's a temporary fix to get me through the day. The shoes are ruined." Slapping the menu shut, she tossed it down and grabbed her wine glass. "Do you want to hear my recommendations for the business?"

"Depends. Will they involve my head and one of the ovens?"

Sarcastic ass
. "First of all you need a computer back there. One with updated accounting software. Leonato's has evidently been operating by the skin of its
teeth with processes from the dark ages. I'm surprised I didn't uncover an abacus and some cave paintings. What made you buy this restaurant anyway? It's not the usual acquisition is it?"

He shrugged one shoulder against the burgundy pleather. "Some nights it was so packed I couldn't get a table. I didn't like that. I got annoyed."

Unbelievable! And yet not, since it was
him
. She exhaled a curt laugh. "So you simply bought the place. Problem solved. What's it like to have so much power?" Fluttering her lashes, she feigned awe.