The Glass Kitchen Page 11

  “And what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you can bake.”

  “I’ll take that as your way of saying you think it’s good. Thank you.” She shot him a saucy look, to which he raised a brow, his eyes intent on her.

  The memory of him dragging her through the window and pulling her close made her light-headed, and she wondered if he was thinking about the same thing.

  After a second he focused and saw the books. He picked up one with his free hand. “‘Hospitality and Restaurant Practices’?” He cocked his head. “What’s this for?”

  “My sisters and I are going to open a restaurant.”

  Saying it out loud thrilled her and terrified her in turn.

  For a second she thought he was going to laugh. She just held his gaze.

  “You’re serious.”

  “As serious as an accountant at an IRS audit.”

  His face closed off, reminding her of the ruthlessness she had first noticed about him on the front steps. “You have no business opening a restaurant.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the guy who watched you try to extricate yourself from a burger suit with a knife.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Burger suits and restaurants are two different kettles of fish.”

  “Kettles of fish? Now there’s great business terminology.”

  “Yep, Texas style.”

  “You’re in New York, sweetheart.”

  “I am not your sweetheart, thank my lucky stars.”

  “Another of your quaint Texas sayings? What was the last one I heard you use? ‘Bless your heart’?”

  She sliced him a tooth-grinding smile. “While you might not like them, you can bet your backside that a café that serves the kind of fare we create in Texas would have people lined up around the corner. Or, as we say in Texas, till the cows come home.”

  He raised a brow as he eyed her. “Did you know that sixty percent of all restaurants fail?”

  “Really, I thought the number would be higher.”

  “Eighty percent in New York City.”

  She refused to gulp. “Wow, I thought the number was more like ninety-five percent.”

  “Some statistics put the number that high.”

  Double non-gulp.

  “Is it possible that something has left Portia Cuthcart speechless?”

  She glared at him. “Okay, funny guy.”

  His head cocked, but she kept going.

  “I stand by my belief that a Glass Kitchen in New York will work.”

  “Then tell me, if you’re such a prodigious businesswoman, what’s your cost-to-baked-goods ratio?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know? How about margins? What kind of margins do you expect to achieve?”

  She stammered.

  The way he looked at her liquefied her insides, and she felt sorry for anyone who went up against him.

  “Nope?” he said. “Then how much does a bushel of flour cost? Or how about the cost of small-business insurance?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “There’s more to running a café,” he finished, holding up her cupcake for demonstration, “than being good in the kitchen.”

  Finally she broke free of her shocked stupor and walked over to him. “One, bakers don’t buy bushels of flour. We buy it by the pound, and last I checked—namely, this morning—a five-pound bag was going for $4.95; ten pounds, $8.95; twenty-five, $20.50. As to two on your rapid-fire list of insulting questions, small-business insurance varies, depending on the size of the small business, how many employees, what the business is, not to mention the city and state in which said small business is run. Having been a prodigious part of my grandmother’s restaurant, The Glass Kitchen, back in Texas, I’m well aware that there’s more to running a café than being a good cook.”

  She stopped directly in front of him. “My sister Cordelia has plenty of access to investors, all of whom will be interested to hear how I took a famous but hideous tasting Cutie’s cupcake and turned it into the mouthwatering delight you now hold in your hand.” She snatched the partially eaten cake away from him. “Or should I say, held in your hand.”

  She expected him to be embarrassed or, short of that, at least contrite. But no, not Gabriel Kane. He just looked at her, assessing, and she had to remind herself she wasn’t intimidated by him.

  “Good-bye,” she said pointedly.

  Gabriel raised a brow, then surprised her when he licked the frosting from his fingers. “Insulting. Rapid-fire. You’re cute when you get feisty.”

  “Ack!” It was all she could do not to launch the cupcake at his head.

  “Before you get carried away,” he went on, smooth as butter, “I have something for you.”

  She eyed him. He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it over. “For my place. This way you can come and go when you need to, from the job that actually pays you money.”

  She reconsidered launching the cupcake.

  “I’ll leave money on the kitchen table to buy food. Later, I’ll show you how I order online, if you want to do that instead.”

  Then he reached out, surprising her yet again, and wiped a smudge of frosting from the corner of her mouth. His gaze locked with hers as he sucked the sugar from his finger. “How is it that again and again, you make me forget the type of man I am?”

  Portia felt heat rising in her cheeks. This was ridiculous. She didn’t like aggravating men. In all the years she had known Robert, he had never once aggravated her, at least not before he divorced her. And then he had devastated her, which wasn’t the same.

  Truth to tell, for the first time since Robert had come home with his big announcement, Portia felt that maybe he had done her a favor.

  When she dragged her gaze from Gabriel’s lips, their eyes met. For a second she thought he would kiss her again. But then his mouth went hard, his eyes shuttering, and she was certain irritation ran along his body like an electric current.

  “There will be no more of that,” his expression told her.

  Relief mixed with disappointment.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she shot back wordlessly.

  He nodded and disappeared through the doorway.

  Fourteen

  THREE DAYS LATER, Portia forgot to set her alarm and ended up dashing up the stairs at ten minutes after seven, having barely thrown on cargo pants and a white cotton tee, and hastily brushed her teeth.

  Gabriel leaned against the kitchen counter, reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee in his hand. His hair was still wet from the shower, a little long and raked back. He looked better than her cupcakes. Damn, damn, damn.

  She had hoped to get breakfast done early; she had a lunch meeting a block away on Columbus Avenue with a potential investor. Cordelia had made the arrangements, and her sisters were supposed to meet her there. But Olivia had already e-mailed that she couldn’t make it; she had been asked to sub for an advanced yoga class.

  “Since Olivia’s bailing, you have to be there, Cordelia,” Portia wrote back. “When you made it a lunch meeting, you promised to pay.”

  “Stop worrying, P! It’s lunch; it won’t cost much. And I’ll be there.”

  “Late?” Gabriel asked, breaking into her thoughts. “Only three days in?”

  “It’s seven o’clock,” Portia stated. “Okay, seven-ish.”

  “I didn’t realize that in a professional workplace seven sharp was more of a loose term.”

  “God, you’re funny.”

  He gave her a strange look.

  “What? No one’s called you funny before?”

  “No,” Gabriel said, the word quiet.

  She looked at him, but before she could probe, he folded the newspaper and tossed it on the counter. “The girls should be down any minute. I have a meeting at eight. Though maybe the Civic Board really meant eight-ish. And at two I’m meeting the contractor here. Or maybe it’s two-ish.”

  She shot him a look. “That proba
bly is what they meant.”

  His shout of laughter surprised them both.

  She smiled at him then. “I won’t be late tomorrow, promise.”

  A remnant of his smile seemed to fight with his standard glower. “Good girl.”

  The words caught her off guard. Good girl. She had always been just that. Fun, maybe, but not much more than that. Always good.

  She realized she was tired of being the good girl. What would happen if she wasn’t, if she gave in and lost herself in Gabriel Kane?

  The girls entered, though it was a second before she realized Gabriel had already left. So much for losing herself in him.

  “Good morning!” Portia said.

  “What are you? A cheerleader?” Miranda grumbled.

  “Hey, I made you cupcakes. Seems like you’d be in a better mood.”

  “Yeah, okay, thanks.”

  “Now, now, Little Miss Sunshine,” Portia teased, setting her own concerns aside.

  Ariel grimaced. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Miranda went over to a cabinet and pulled out a box of sugar cereal. “Maybe she thinks she’ll get paid more if we give her a good report.”

  “Aren’t you the cynic?” Portia said, swiping the box away.

  “Hey! That’s my breakfast.”

  “Not as long as I’m in charge of feeding you.” Portia rummaged in the refrigerator. “Who’s up for eggs, bacon, and toast?”

  Miranda and Ariel exchanged a glance. “Ah, no one.”

  Portia made them eggs, bacon, and toast anyway, which Ariel ate and Miranda picked at, but picked at enough that Portia gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Surely she’ll take it down a notch after she’s been here a while,” Miranda said to Ariel as the girls headed out the door.

  “I heard that,” Portia called after them.

  “You were supposed to.”

  * * *

  Once Portia finished up in the kitchen, she returned downstairs to get ready for the lunch meeting. After a quick bath, she dressed with care. Ariel wasn’t wrong about Portia needing a different look. Vintage clothes weren’t going to win her any prizes for business professionalism. So she did what she could with the clothes she had. Texas politician’s–wife clothes. Navy blue St. John Knits. Not a staple on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, but sure to instill more confidence than Annie Hall one-offs.

  Ready to go, Portia fired up her computer to check her e-mail. The headline of Google News caught her attention.

  Gabriel Kane Brings Global Inc. Down

  Gabriel Kane? Her Gabriel Kane? Or, rather, her neighbor Gabriel Kane? Portia quickly amended.

  The article was definitely about her neighbor, who, it turned out, wasn’t your Average Joe. His primary concern wasn’t going into one of those dime-a-dozen glass-and-steel office towers by day and bossing around a stream of people redoing his apartment by … well, the rest of the time. If the article was to be believed, his raison d’être appeared to be very publicly destroying some company named Global Inc. The reporter further went on to say that once Gabriel’s investment in the company went sour, he vindictively went after Global Inc., driving their stock price into the ground.

  Portia headed out, her mind spinning. Yikes. While Gabriel looked ruthless, she couldn’t help but remember the way he had made her drink water after spilling out of the hamburger suit, or how he had seemed fierce about the danger on the fire escape. Not to mention the way he was trying to do right by his girls. She had to believe he was fair. That he wasn’t a man to bring people down ruthlessly. The article had to be an exaggeration. But on top of that, she realized that her neighbor was an investor.

  With the thought tumbling around, she walked into La Maison five minutes early and was seated outside. Five minutes passed and Cordelia still hadn’t shown up. Portia checked her phone; nothing. After ten minutes, Portia dialed her older sister, but the call went straight to voice mail.

  “You better be just about here, Cordelia,” she muttered into the phone.

  Russell Bertram showed up by himself after a few minutes. “Portia?” he said, coming up to her and extending his hand.

  According to Cordelia, he was the most promising of the investors on their list. He was handsome, with fair skin and coppery brown hair longer than a Texas banker would have allowed. He wore a brown sports jacket with blue pinstripes over a white button-down shirt and jeans. He didn’t seem anything like an investment guy. He definitely seemed too young to have enough money to invest in a café. But before more than a few words had left his mouth, Portia realized he was utterly charming.

  “Sorry I’m late. I volunteer at my old school. They have a young-entrepreneur’s group.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Once a month I spill out words of wisdom. If only they knew what a lousy student I was back then.”

  Portia laughed. “Maybe you should tell them. It would be inspirational.”

  “So tell me, how’s Cordelia? And James? I don’t know either of them well, but James helped me a lot when I put together my own fund.”

  “They’re both doing great. James has a lot of amazing stuff going on.” She prayed it was true.

  “That’s good. I was worried when I heard he got caught in the Atlantica General blowup. But if anyone could land on his feet, it’s James.”

  Portia liked Russell more with each minute that passed. He ordered a surprisingly big meal, and when he suggested wine, she thought about how tired she was of being a good girl. She laughed and agreed.

  They talked about the best restaurants in the city—ones he had been to, ones she had only read about, given her whole no-money problem. They even delved into Manhattan real estate, if only because no meal in New York was complete without mention of a street address or a co-op. There wasn’t a single mention of why they were actually there.

  When Russell ordered a second glass of wine for each of them, Portia didn’t refuse. He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “So, tell me, I hear you work with Gabriel Kane.”

  The wine must have muddled her brain. “Pardon?”

  “Don’t go coy on me.” He grinned, his blue eyes shining with schoolboy charm. “When I asked Cordelia about your experience, she said you work with Gabriel Kane.”

  Portia’s head jerked back. Why would Cordelia say anything about her cooking for Gabriel?

  But a second later, it hit her. Cordelia had known Gabriel was an investment guy all along. She had used his name as bait to get the meeting. No wonder her sister hadn’t shown up.

  She ground her teeth. “You know him?” She tried to smile, trying to figure out how to salvage the lunch. She wouldn’t out and out lie, but she saw no reason to tell this guy that she not only didn’t work for Gabriel in any investment capacity, but that Gabriel had made it clear what he thought of her opening a Glass Kitchen.

  Russell gave a modest shrug. “I know of him. Who doesn’t? But I’ve never met him.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his forearms encircling his wine. “I have the greatest investment opportunity, one I know will blow Kane away. I’ve tried to get in to see him, but no luck. When you invited me to lunch, I figured you must have heard about it. I take it you do legwork for Kane.”

  Portia blinked. “Legwork?”

  “You know, get the lay of the land. See if something is worthwhile to show Kane?”

  “You’re here because you have an investment opportunity you want to present to Gabriel?”

  He smiled, excited. “Yes! This is awesome.”

  Suddenly he seemed exactly as young as he looked. This was a man who thought he was getting the chance of a lifetime. He had no money to invest. He needed investors.

  Disappointment seeped through her, every ounce of wine making itself known.

  “Not so awesome,” she replied wearily.

  Russell’s blue eyes stopped sparkling. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not here about your project.”

  “Kane didn’t send you?”

  “No.”
>
  Freckles she hadn’t noticed before popped out on his pale skin as he hunched forward.

  For a half a second he just sat there. Then he glanced at her expensive St. John suit and managed a guileless smile. “So,” he said, “even if you’re not scouting for Kane, are you looking for your own investment opportunities?”

  He looked so dejected and sweet with those freckles and tousled red-brown hair, not to mention so fruitlessly hopeful, that she felt a nearly maternal need to comfort him, despite her own stinging disappointment. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I wish I was.”

  “Then why did you want to meet…” His voice trailed off as he looked at her hand on his. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I? Now I’m embarrassed. Your sister told me you were divorced and had just moved to New York.”

  A heartbeat passed as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. Then it hit her, blood searing through her cheeks, and she jerked her hand way. To her horror, Russell blushed, too.

  “Look,” he said awkwardly, “lunch was nice and all. I mean, I enjoyed meeting you. But, well, I’m not—I have a girlfriend.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

  But before she could think of what to say, he jumped to his feet.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go. But I’m glad you invited me to lunch.” His blush deepened. “I mean, you’re great. And if I was the kind of guy to have a fling, I would love having a fling with you.” If possible, he blushed even more. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Okay, anyway, gotta go. Thanks for lunch!”

  Then he was gone.

  She was mortified, aghast. But seconds later, she was frantic. Forget that he thought she was trying to have a fling with him. He’d left her with the check.

  She scrambled into her purse, praying she’d find more than she knew was actually there. Sure, she expected that she, or rather Cordelia, would pay for lunch when it was meant to be their pitch to him, sans wine and steak. But steak! For lunch! The minute he’d ordered wine, Portia had assumed he would pay.

  And it was all Cordelia’s fault. What had her sister been thinking, giving him the impression that she could help him gain access to Gabriel Kane?

  Portia really was going to kill her sister.