“It’s not midgets though,” Carter said, returning to form.
“Strippers?” Landon guessed.
“Hardly,” a smoky voice said from his other side. Landon turned to see Simone in the plush leather armchair that had been empty seconds ago. Despite her height of 5’11, large, luminous green eyes that shone like headlamps in the dark, and a mane of glistening brunette hair, it was hard to catch Simone coming or going. She generally seemed to materialize and dematerialize as silently as smoke.
“Thank God it’s you,” he said with meaning. Simone was a former model, current housewife of a famous actress. In their mid-twenties, he’d tried unsuccessfully to get her into bed for nearly a year before Carter got tired of laughing at him behind his back and told him Simone preferred women. Now, after Carter, she was his closest friend, but he hadn’t seen her in months. Simone was scarce when her wife was home, so Lucy must be on location somewhere.
“Atlanta,” Simone confirmed when he asked. “I don’t go that far south. If they weren’t paying her fifteen million and she wasn’t contractually obligated, she wouldn’t either. It’s too close to Alabama.”
“There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for fifteen million,” Carter put in, eyeing the actress Landon had seen earlier.
Simone rolled her large eyes at Landon behind his back. “No one has to pay you to be depraved, Carter.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about me. There’s something wrong with Landon.”
Simone raised one elegant eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Landon said as Carter said, “He won’t say. I’m pretty sure it’s a woman.”
“Oh, women,” Simone said knowledgeably. “Nothing but trouble. Tell me about her.”
Landon might have, but he could tell Carter’s attention wasn’t distracted enough by the actress yet. It was one thing to talk about Kaitlyn to Simone, he drew the line at Carter.
Simone read his face and said smoothly, “Carter, let me introduce you to Alexis Banks.” Pulling him from his chair, she led him over to the actress. Then she expertly extricated herself from their conversation and came back to Landon.
“So,” she said, picking up Carter’s abandoned whiskey, “what’s her name?”
After Landon had filled her in, Simone shook her head slowly. “You have such a head for business, but you are so blind when it comes to everything else.”
“Oh yeah?” Landon said, not particularly offended. “Like what?”
“It took you a year and Carter’s help to figure out why I wasn’t interested in you,” Simone said. “And it would probably take you another year to figure out how to bring this Kaitlyn LeClark around if it weren’t for my help.”
Landon frowned. “Have you helped? Did I miss that part?”
“Don’t be cheeky.” Simone jabbed him with a long, black lacquered nail. “You should be thanking me.”
Landon reviewed their conversation of the last several minutes, trying to figure out what exactly he should be thanking her for. Finally, expecting another sharp jab, he asked.
“You should be thanking me,” Simone said, crossing her long legs and leaning back, “because I’m going back to New Canton with you.”
Landon’s eyebrows shot up. “You are? Why?”
Simone’s lip curled. “For the culture. Obviously, I’m going to make Kaitlyn LeClark jealous.”
Chapter Eight
Now that the restaurant was starting to actually look like LeClarks, Kaitlyn and Gray turned their attention toward building the menu. Fifteen years ago, it had been fairly static, a dish rotating in and out here and there, and a new Specials menu every weekend. This time, Gray wanted a menu that changed with the seasons.
“We can buy local if we do that,” he explained.
“Which means you can put Local in the marketing campaign,” Marjorie added. She could care less about the menu, but she’d decided to make a visual journey of Gray and Kait’s efforts to open the restaurant. They were both so attractive and earnest—it couldn’t possibly hurt to feature them on the LeClarks website that was in progress.
“We look like hell,” Kaitlyn complained when she caught Marjorie adjusting her 35mm lens and pointing it toward her and Gray.
“Speak for yourself,” Gray said. “I’ve never looked better.”
Kait rolled her eyes. “Anyway. We’ve agreed to five salads, two soups, fourteen entrees, and four desserts.”
“Right, what we haven’t agreed on is the croque monsieur,” Gray said. “Here’s my best offer—we don’t put it on the menu, and we never speak of it again.” He held his hand out across the table. “Deal?”
“No deal,” Kait smacked his hand away. “The croque is a crowd-pleaser. Let’s say you have a couple, and the woman wants to go to a restaurant fancy enough that she can wear a little black dress and order duck leg confit.”
“Great,” Gray said promptly. “Give her my number.”
“She’s part of a couple, Gray. And you won’t get to meet her because her boyfriend or husband or whoever looks up the menu, realizes he can’t pronounce anything on it and takes her to Rathskeller for their anniversary, thus dooming their relationship.”
“At which point,” Gray said, “you could slip her my number.”
“And,” Kait said, ignoring him, “LeClarks goes out of business.”
“That’s dire,” Marjorie observed.
“Or,” Kait continued, “he checks out the menu online, realizes that there’s a delicious croque monsieur he could order, brings her here, they get married, and LeClarks prospers.”
Gray rolled his eyes. “Just because you like a glorified ham and cheese sandwich doesn’t mean anyone else does. We’ve already agreed on steak frites, so if customers are looking for something they can pronounce, they’ve got it.”
Kaitlyn opened her mouth to argue, but Marjorie interrupted. “Can I suggest a real compromise?”
“I think we’ve got this figured out, actually,” Gray said as Kait said, “Yes, please.”
“You put it on a brunch menu. Remember the croque monsieur on French toast we had at L’Antagoniste, Kait? You said it was the best thing you’d ever eaten.”
“That’s right!” Kait said, remembering. “Wow, I can’t believe I forgot about that.”
“Brunch menu,” Marjorie said on her way out to shoot the front of the
