I’m in the middle of setting out the first course when the front door opens. I don’t look up right away, intent on plating. Plus I’m expecting that stupid linen delivery driver again, and I have zero interest in dealing with him today.
“Ms. Bellamorte?”
The man standing in the doorway is not a delivery driver. He’s tall, somewhere in his late thirties, fit with dark hair, and dressed in a well-cut wool coat that’s expensive without being ostentatious. He holds his hat in both hands in front of him.
“Yes?”
“Gavin MacCuiin. I own MacCuinn Linen and Supply.” He glances around the restaurant. “The space is beautiful.”
“Thank you. You shouldn’t be here.” I set down the burrata and face him properly. “Mr. MacCuinn, I’ve called your office severaltimes, and I’m fairly certain I drove your accounts receivable coordinator, Cheryl, to the edge of a breakdown last week.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. “Cheryl mentioned you.”
“Then you know I’ve been trying to cancel this contract for months.”
“I do.” He steps further into the room, his eyes moving over the copper fixtures, the reclaimed wood. “But I can’t do that. I made a promise. I don’t break those.”
I cross my arms. “The promise was made on my behalf without my consent. Whatever arrangement you had with Mr. Demonio, I didn’t agree to it, and I don’t want it.”
“I understand that.” His voice is steady. “Which is why I came in person instead of sending another driver.”
Siena glances back and forth between us, chomping on slices of red bell pepper like they’re popcorn, and we’re her personal movie.
“Mr. MacCuinn—”
“Gavin.”
“Gavin.” I soften slightly. He’s not being rude, and I can’t blame him for the subpar service of his employees. “I appreciate you coming. Truly. But I don’t need the linens. I’ve sourced them from a friend who makes them locally, and I need you to release me from whatever contract was drawn up.”
He’s quiet for a moment, turning his hat slowly in his hands.“The contract obligates me to provide service whether or not you use what I deliver. I’d be in breach if I walked away.”
I stare at him. “I’ll cover for you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell whoever needs to know that I requested the cancellation. Or pretend it was never canceled. Whatever. But I do not want or need these linens.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t do dishonesty, Ms. Bellamorte. Even convenient dishonesty.” He pauses. “But I might have a proposal.”
I cross my arms and try not to glare at him. I mean, why is this so freaking hard? Siena lifts her eyebrows at me and then turns her attention back to Gavin, shoving a bell pepper in her mouth.
“The friend you mentioned, the one making your linens. Is she looking for wholesale accounts? Because I have 12 restaurants and four hotels in my service list, and I would love to source a new linen maker. If she’s interested, I could move a significant amount of her inventory.”
I go still. I think of my sweet friend hunched over her sewing machine in that tiny apartment in Bensonhurst, her dining room table covered in fabric samples, working twice as hard as anyone I know for half the recognition. An account with 12 restaurants and four hotels would change her life.
Gavin watches me consider and doesn’t push. This man is completely disarming, reserved and thoughtful. The exact opposite of Vin. Nervously, I start piling plates of food from the tasting on a tray, much of it untouched. When I try to take Siena’s plate, she smacks my hand.
“Hey! I’m not done with that!”
The tray wobbles in my hand, way over filled, and I almost drop the whole thing. I stop short, trying to steady the tower of plates, but before I can move, Gavin moves in and takes the tray from me without dropping a thing.
I blink at him.
“Where would you like these?” he says, and I realize with a jolt that his eyes are gray, like storm cloud gray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that color before.
“Ms. Bellamorte?”
I point toward the bar. He sets them down gently. Siena is staring at him, her chewing slow.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, flustered.
“Do what?” He frowns and wipes his hands on a dish towel.
