Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3) (2 page)

W
hen I walk
into my office Thursday morning, my assistant Celia looks up. “Wyatt,” she says, “I need to talk to you.”

I gesture for her to follow me. “What’s up?”

“Sandra from Reception called me this morning. She said there was a man in the lobby who insisted on seeing you.” She pauses. “He told her he was your father.”

I’m about to take a sip of my coffee, but hearing those words, I freeze. Twenty years ago, my father had ducked out to grab a drink at the local pub, and had never returned. He sent my mother a letter telling her he couldn’t cope anymore, and he disappeared from my life. I was thirteen. I haven’t seen him since that day.

“My father.” My voice is even. Nothing betrays the sense of shock that explodes through me.

“That’s what he said. I’ve never heard you mention your father, so I went downstairs to see what was going on, but he’d left by the time I got there.” She gives me a worried look. “I didn’t know what to do.”

I clench my hands into fists. A vein pulses at my forehead.
Deep breaths, Wyatt. Calm down.
I force myself to bury all the emotion that rises to the surface. The feeling of abandonment when he left, the secret, shameful envy that my father was able to escape, leaving me stuck with my mother.

Celia shifts in her seat and I realize I’ve been silent for too long. I smile at her. “My father is dead,” I lie easily. “I don’t know who this man is, but he’s an imposter. If he shows up again, have security deal with him, please.”

She frowns in puzzlement, but doesn’t contradict me. “Of course, Wyatt,” she says. “Oh, and Owen called to say he’ll meet you at the usual place for lunch.”

Right.
Aladdin’s Lamp.
“What time?”

Celia checks her notepad. “He’ll meet you there at one.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Celia.”

My heart still pounds in my chest. Not even the prospect of finding a new restaurant to rescue is enough to distract me from my shock.
My father’s back.

I wonder what he wants.  

M
y instincts warn
me to stay away from
Aladdin’s Lamp
. The place is a dump. Signs of benign neglect are everywhere. The red curtains have been faded pink by the sun. There’s a large crack in the front window, with a strip of duct tape across it. At each table, a dusty vase with plastic flowers serve as decoration, along with a kitschy lamp. The tablecloth is stained, the menu is laminated and the waitress in her pink-frilled apron cannot stop chewing gum long enough to take our order.

I want nothing to do with it, but I will hand it to Sebastian Ardalan. He’s right about the chef; the food shows flashes of brilliance.

“This is really good.” Owen digs into his chili with gusto. “There’s potential here.”

“The place is called
Aladdin’s Lamp
,” I complain, not for the first time. “Why does it have chili on the menu, Owen? The tabbouleh is garlicky. The hummus doesn’t have enough tahini in it. And this lentil soup has way too much salt.”

“We’ve eaten here for two weeks,” he points out. “The Middle Eastern food is terrible, and everything else is great. You should know that by now.”

“Why are you so gung-ho about this disaster?”

“Come on, Wyatt.” Owen gives me an amused look. “Since when did you get so boring? Think of this place as a challenge.”

“I’m thinking of this place as one health-inspection away from being shut down.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he says. “It isn’t even close to failing and you know it. You just have an exaggerated need for cleanliness.” He lifts his hand to catch the waitress’ attention. “If the chef has a moment,” he says, giving her a charming smile, “could you tell her we’d love to chat with her?”

She nods and departs. I look at him with exasperation when she’s out of earshot. “We haven’t investigated the place. Who knows what kind of deal we could be walking into?”

“Look around, Wyatt.” Owen’s eyes sweep the near-empty dining room. “This isn’t a large restaurant. Worst case scenario, we put in two hundred and fifty grand in this place and it fails. So what?”

I don’t like going investing in a restaurant before investigating it, but Owen seems committed. “You’re doing this then?” I ask, already resigned to doing the deal.

“You don’t have to,” he replies. “But yes, I’m definitely investing in this place.”

“Asshole.” There’s no rancor in my voice. “Fine, I’m in. But the chef had better toe the fucking line.”

Owen leans back in his seat. “Your bark is worse than your bite,” he says with a grin. Then his eyes widen and his smirk broadens. “There’s the chef. Why don’t you tell her what you told me?”

I look up to see a slender blonde woman thread her way toward us. She’s got pale skin and red lips, and her hair is the color of the sun’s rays at first light. Her hips sway slightly as she walks, and I find it suddenly difficult to breathe.

When she reaches our table, she glares at us, her hand on her hip. “You’ve eaten at my restaurant for two weeks,” she says, her voice hard. “What are you playing at? Who sent you?”

Help me.
When she speaks, her voice has a pretty Southern lilt that goes straight to my cock. Across me, Owen is struggling to hold back his laughter. He knows I can’t resist a Southern accent. I’ve never been able to.

“My name,” Owen says, “is Owen Lamb. My partner here,” he gestures toward me, “is Wyatt Lawless. Sebastian Ardalan suggested we stop by.”

She goes still. That wasn’t the answer she was expecting to hear. “Lawless and Lamb?” she whispers in shock. “Sebastian Ardalan sent you?”

Then our words register fully. Her back stiffens. “I’m not interested in anyone’s pity,” she snaps. “Not Sebastian Ardalan’s, not yours.”

My cock goes from being somewhat interested to rock hard in a second. Pretty, Southern, and feisty?
This woman is kryptonite.
“I don’t invest in restaurants because I feel sorry for them,” I reply calmly. “I invest in restaurants with potential.” I look around the empty front room. “You clearly aren’t setting the world on fire. The question is, do you want to?”

I sigh as I realize I’ve verbally offered this woman a deal.
Damn Owen.
The only thing I take comfort in is that someone in the kitchen can cook. The chili really
is
fantastic.

T
rouble always comes in threes
.

When Kimmie tells me that the two men who have eaten at my restaurant every day for the last two weeks are back again, my first instinct is to suspect my mother of sending them to spy on my restaurant. I wouldn’t put it past her at all.

Then I come out and they introduce themselves, and my heart nearly stops. The names Owen Lamb and Wyatt Lawless are legendary in the New York restaurant scene. Five of their restaurants have Michelin stars. They own the top 10 list on Yelp. They run the best restaurants in the city. A Lawless and Lamb restaurant doesn’t break even — it succeeds wildly.

Under different circumstances, I might also notice that they are very good looking men. When Wyatt Lawless’ gaze bores into me, I wonder how his stubble will feel against my skin. Owen Lamb’s blond hair glistens in the sunlight, and I want to lick the dimples on his cheeks.  

But as soon as they open their mouths, I forget their good looks and their accomplishments go flying out of the window. Instead, I fight the urge to smack the silly smirk off Owen Lamb’s face and punch Wyatt Lawless in the mouth.
You clearly aren’t setting the world on fire.
I’m already reeling from Sebastian Ardalan’s casual dismissal of my restaurant. Wyatt Lawless can take his callous words and shove them up his ass.

My mother’s voice sounds in my ear.
Well-behaved Southern women don’t punch strange men, dear.

I grit my teeth and shove her out of my head. “What are you talking about, gentlemen?”

Wyatt Lawless surveys me with dark, expressionless eyes. “How long have you run this restaurant?”

People who answer a question with a question infuriate me. I pull up a chair next to them and sit down. “I inherited
Aladdin’s Lamp
six months ago,” I bite out.

Owen Lamb’s blue eyes shine with curiosity. “And you want to run it?” he asks. “Why don’t you sell it?”  

Because cooking in a small cafe like this has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. Because if I fail, I’m convinced my parents will make me move back to Louisiana. Because I’m running away from a lifetime of pleasing other people and all I want to do is live my own life.

I’m not going to tell these men that; I’m not going to tell them anything. Besides, I’ve been taught not to air my dirty laundry in public.
Well-behaved Southern women don’t bitch about their family.
“I’m not ready to fail.”

That seems to be enough. “Fair enough,” Owen Lamb says. “Let me get to the point. Are you interested in a deal? If you are, we’ll buy a stake in your business. We’ll invest some money, but largely, what we bring to the table is our expertise. I’ve been in the restaurant business all my life. I’ll help you in the back of the house. Wyatt,” he gestures to his partner, “is the marketing genius. He’ll get your name out there, bring the customers to your door.”

God knows I could use help. I’m not stupid; I’m in over my head.
Aladdin’s Lamp
has been losing money steadily ever since my family dragged Aunt Vera back to Louisiana. Aunt Vera was rich enough to afford to cover the losses, but I’m not. The restaurant needs a makeover desperately, but makeovers cost money and I have none. Even though I plow every dollar I make back into the business, progress has been glacially slow.  

Yet I’m not delusional. This doesn’t make any sense. A thousand chefs in the city would sell their firstborns for a chance to work with Lamb and Lawless. I’m not special. “Why are you here?” I ask bluntly. “Why me?”

“Like I said,” Owen says, his gaze on the bowl of chili in front of him, “Sebastian Ardalan suggested we check this place out.”

Sebastian Ardalan dotes on my roommate Bailey. If she asked him to help me, he would move heaven and earth to fulfill her request. My heart sinks as I realize that this isn’t about me, my abilities, my talents or my dreams.

But I can’t afford to turn them down. My rent’s been increased by three thousand dollars, and my bank account is close to empty. I’ve run out of options.

“Yes.” It feels like I’m stepping on a new path, and there’s no turning back. “I’m interested. Tell me more.”