Persimmon Kiss

Chapter 1: Chaos Is Not an AppetizerIt was Monday afternoon and Split’s dining room was closed to customers. In the refuge of my office, I stood over my desk, studying the sketches of my next project: A cooking school I hoped to open in Norway. “Nick?” Looking hungover, Andy stood in the doorway, his sultry black eyes circled with a shadow of purple. Andy hadn’t changed his wild lifestyle since we’d met more than ten years ago, but hungover or not, he was still one of the best bartenders in town. “We, uh, have a slight problem,” he said, leaning his shoulder on the door jamb. Dressed in black, he was looking sleek and maybe a little dangerous. Of course Andy knew problem was my least favorite word in all languages. Well, right after no. I set my cold blue gaze on him and waited for the usual drama to hit me. “The booze order came in all wrong,” he explained. “I’m gonna try to fix the mess, but I gotta go to the depot and pick up the stuff myself, all right?” My cell phone lit up, and I glanced down at it to see my brother’s name flashing at me. “What’s up,” I answered Boone, clicking into the inventory files on my computer. “Calling at a bad time? Got your hand all up in a salmon, bro?” “Uh, no. What is it, Bunny?” It didn’t matter that my kid brother was a cop and carried a weapon. I still called him by his childhood nickname. Distracted, I looked up at Andy, who was still waiting in the door for my cue. “Okay, go,” I told him. “And thanks, by the way.” “Yeah. It’s all right. I love midday traffic. It’s a good way to test my meditation techniques.” Andy smirked and dropped a copy of some receipt on my desk and left. “I’m taking your van, boss.” That old beat up thing was on its last leg. He could take it and keep it. “Nico, am I picking up Dad’s gift or are you gonna get it?” Boone asked on the line. “Is it that place on Masson Boulevard we talked about?” “Chef Nick?” Olivier, Split’s chef, poked his head in my door. “The Reef guy just left and I don’t have all of the order.” He paused. “Oh, sorry, you’re on the phone.” What—this thing permanently glued to my ear? Nah. “By the way,” Boone said, “I don’t mind swinging by after my shift and getting the gift, but is it all paid for, or do I have to—” “Yeah, yeah, it’s all good. Pick it up. It’s paid for. Hold on a sec.” I looked at Olivier. “What’s missing?” Olivier hesitated, running his fingers through his brown curls. He was a short guy with expressive hazel eyes and a quick temper that flared up more and more lately. “Half of the things,” he said in his thick French accent. My temperature rose a few degrees, but after more than fifteen years in the restaurant industry, it would take more than this little s**t show to get me to lose my cool. “Okay, work around it. Improvise. Take a few things off the menu tomorrow. Or switch it up. Whatever.” The phone beeped in my ear. “f**k, hold on. Another line.” “Nico, listen, the thing is—” “Boone, hold on a sec. I have another call.” I picked up the other line. “Lund, here.” “Yes, hello, Mr. Lund?” A woman’s voice. Sounded like she meant business. In the door, Olivier gave me an impatient look. “I’m gonna see what I can do. But…do I tell him?” “Who?” I frowned. “I’m looking for Mr. Nicolai Lund,” the woman said, on the phone. “Spencer’s father.” “Uh, yeah, that’s me.” “So do I tell Derek or not?” Olivier stared at me with raised brows. He could barely contain his annoyance. “About the mistake he made with the order?” I covered the speaker with my hand again. “f**k, no. Don’t tell him.” “Sir? Excuse me?” “Sorry…Uh, what did he do?” “He forgot to check off some of the usual items,” Olivier said. “Again. And he made a mistake on the p*****t, so they didn’t send the whole order.” “No, I wasn’t talking to you.” I gave Olivier a hard look. “And I don’t give a s**t what Derek did or didn’t do. Just f*****g fix it, Olivier, and do not tell him he made a mistake.” “Sir, should I call you back?” the woman asked on the line. “No, tell me. What about my son?” “He doesn’t have a lunch box,” she declared in a serious tone. Jesus Christ. “Okay,” I said, keeping my cool. “Isn’t there a cafeteria in the school? Take my son up there and give him some food. I’ll send five bucks tomorrow.” I was going to hang up. But the woman added, “Yes, but that’s not how it works. He doesn’t have a cafeteria card.” “Well, feed him and I’ll get him a cafeteria card tomorrow. All right? No moral conundrum there.” I hung up. Olivier had disappeared. Good. I went back to my brother on the other line. “Sorry, Boone.” He chuckled. “Uh, everything okay there at Nico Headquarters?” “Chef Nick?” Now Tom, Olivier’s sous-chef, stood in my door. “There are no clean uniforms downstairs.” “Yeah? Wow.” I eyeballed him. “That is just—wow.” “Never mind,” he muttered, somewhere in the hall. “Hello?” my brother asked. “You still there, man?” “Oh, sorry, Bunny. What?” “Nothing. Have a good one, bro. I’ll pick up the gift. No worries.” I put down my phone, and the second I did, the damn thing rang again. And that, ladies and gents, was a typical afternoon for me.