Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Dad shook hands with Derek, introduced himself and Cam to our employees, then shamelessly inspected the café.
“This is damn nice,” Dad enthused, turning to study the fancy French tarts in the glass case. “And these desserts look too good to eat.”
“I hope not,” Derek said with a laugh. “What would you like? Take your pick.”
“That chocolate tart might be calling my name.”
“Good choice. That’s one of our most popular desserts. It’s usually long gone before closing.”
Dad narrowed his gaze, scanning the bistro with a critical eye. Two parties of two commandeered the tables by the window and three of the outdoor tables were full. There was plenty of open seating, but it would look completely different within the hour. In fact, without a reservation, you were out of luck.
Of course, my father didn’t know that and instead of asking questions, he made assumptions…like he always did. “Really? It’s pretty empty now.”
“Enjoy the quiet. It won’t last. Would you like something to drink?” Derek asked politely.
“A latte, please.” Dad took his wallet from his pocket and inclined his head toward Cam. “Want something?”
“Yeah, but I’m hungry,” Cam announced, wincing when his stomach growled on cue.
Jackson snort-laughed. “Der, I didn’t get a chance to try those filet mignon sliders. Do you need another taste-tester?”
“Definitely. And don’t forget the rosemary pomme frittes.”
“That’s just fancy talk for french fries. Come this way, dude.” Jackson hiked his thumb toward the kitchen, inviting Cam to follow.
The teenager didn’t hesitate, much to my dad’s chagrin. “Are you sure about that? The kid can eat.”
“Of course!” Derek assured him.
“Thank you. Just put it all on my tab.”
“No, no. It’s on the house. A chocolate tart and latte coming right up.” Derek smiled politely at my dad, then flashed a brighter “You’ve got this” version at me.
“Want to sit outside?” I asked. When Dad gave the slightest nod in acknowledgment, I turned back to the counter and yelled, “Hey, babe, we’ll be out front.”
Derek pivoted to give a thumbs-up. It might have been my imagination, but I thought his smile slipped a notch as I pushed the door open and led the way to a corner table shielded on one side by a large topiary.
Dad settled into the blue-and-white rattan chair across from me. He thanked Jade when she slid the tart on the table with his latte and a couple of waters. I picked up my glass, rattling the ice lazily as I watched a young mom juggle a stroller and two peppy yellow Labs. I hadn’t had time to people-watch in ages. I actually didn’t have time now either, but…since I was stuck, I figured I might as well make the best of it.
The stab of guilt hit me out of the blue. Okay, so I didn’t like that he showed up unannounced, but he was my father. And even though I wasn’t sure of his intentions, the fact that he was here at all had to mean something. Maybe in his own way, he was trying.
Dad unfolded the utensils from the napkin meticulously, then rested them on the plate. He looked very patriarchal in his crisp white polo shirt and perfectly pressed khakis—kind of intimidating.
My father was a very handsome, physically fit man in his fifties. He took care of himself and it showed. His short, dark-blond hair was liberally streaked with gray, but he didn’t have an ounce of extra body fat. He could have eaten a few desserts without worrying about his waistline, but he wouldn’t dare. I bet this little tart would cost him an hour on a stationary bike. At least.
He claimed to take his health and well-being seriously, but he was a perfectionist. And a bit of a snob. He wanted to be the best, to look the best, and he wanted his offspring to reflect his personal excellence.
Okay, maybe I was being unfair. I couldn’t tell anymore.
Look, I had no doubt that he’d cataloged every detail about the bistro from the staff to the menu and overall ambiance. He was a harsh critic for sure, but it was very unlikely that he’d find much, if anything, to be lacking. Our bistro had a great reputation, a loyal clientele, and—
“You called him ‘babe.’ ” Dad cut into the tart, frowning with his fork in midair.
“I call him ‘babe’ all the time,” I replied matter-of-factly. “How’s the tart?”
He bit into it, immediately nodding his approval. “Excellent.”
“It’s one of my faves.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s amazing,” he said around of mouthful of tart. “He hired an excellent baker.”
“True.” I waited a beat, then added, “Mom made that.”
Okay, so I wasn’t really sure if she made the tart. I childishly wanted to gauge his reaction.
He froze. “Your mother works here?”
“Yeah. We asked her to come on board when we opened. She’s a great baker and cook.”