He shakes off an uneasy feeling as he enters the kitchen. Cecily, who is pacing the floor and gnawing on a fingernail, appears to have her own brand of nervous energy.
He drops his backpack on the counter. “What’s wrong?”
She continues to wear out the tile floor. “My shipment of seafood is late, and salmon is one of our specials tonight.”
“Have you called the vendor?”
“Duh. They said it was on the way, should be here any minute.”
“Okay. Stop.” He grabs her by the arm. “The pacing is making me nervous. Talk to me. Why are you so stressed out?”
When she looks up at him, Everett sees genuine fear in her eyes. “This job means a lot to me, Everett. If Jameson’s doesn’t work out, I’ll have to move away from Hope Springs. And I really like it here.”
Everett pinches her cheek. “You mean, you really like a certain lacrosse coach who lives here.”
A pink blush travels up her neck. “I don’t like Lyle. I love Lyle. I want to make a life with him. And his job with the college is secure.”
“Come with me.” Taking her by the hand, Everett cracks the door to the dining room, and seeing there are no guests, he drags her over to a table by the window and pulls out a chair for her. Sitting down opposite her, he says, “You need to get a grip, Cecily. Business may not be what we hoped for, but Stella has assured us the inn is financially sound. We will weather this storm.”
“I know that.”
“Then what else is bothering you?”
“The same thing that was bothering me last night. The menu for the football party. You promised to help me with it.” She removes a pen and notepad from the pocket of her black apron, tossing both on the table.
He picks up the notepad. “The page is blank. What happened to the menu you were working on last night?”
“I scratched it,” Cecily says. “I need fresh menu ideas, and I can’t come up with any.” She buries her face in her hands. “We’ve only been open six weeks, and I’ve already reached my professional peak.”
Everett chuckles. “All your ideas are still fresh. And your old menu items are very good. Incredible, even.” He jots down his five top favorite menu items she serves at parties. Sweet Potato Ham Biscuits. Pecan-Crusted Chicken Skewers. Mini Crab Cakes. Tuna Tartare on Toast Points. Pimento Cheese Bites. “This is a start. I can think of more.”
“Not necessary. I have a file with hundreds of recipes on my computer.” Lifting the notepad, she studies his menu. “None of these relate to football.”
He falls back in his chair. “We’re not hosting the Super Bowl, Cecily. And we aren’t throwing a tailgate party. Our guests don’t want buffalo chicken dip. Have your pastry chef make football-shaped brownies or something. No one cares if the food has a theme as long as it’s tasty.”
She hangs her head. “I guess you’re right. I’m worried I’m losing my creative edge.”
“You’re barely thirty years old. You’re just getting your creative juices flowing.” He sits up straight again. “You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. I’ve sampled most of your specials. They’re inventive and flavorful. You’re offering our guests fresh ideas every single night.”
“Do you think so, really?” she says in a pathetic tone.
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”
She laughs. “You’re right. I am fishing for compliments. My ego needs a boost.” She drops her smile and looks closely at him. “Why doesn’t a nice guy like you have a girlfriend?”
Everett smiles at her. “I’m recovering from a relationship gone way wrong.”
“I’m afraid to ask.” Her gaze shifts to something or someone behind him. “She’s into you, you know?”
He turns in his chair to see his part-time bartender standing in the doorway. “Kristi’s sweet, but she’s just a kid.”
When Kristi waves him over, he holds up a finger to let her know he’ll be there in a minute. He turns his attention back to Cecily. “So . . . about the party. Do you want me to come up with a signature beverage?”
“That would be great. As long as it’s not trash can punch.” Cecily wears a dazed expression, as though her mind’s running in a million different directions. “What if it rains?”
“Is it supposed to rain? I haven’t heard the forecast.”
Cecily pushes back from the table. “A hundred percent chance, remnants of that tropical storm in the Gulf of Mexico. The forecast predicts the bulk of the rain will hold off until Saturday morning. Fingers crossed.” She lifts her hand to show him her fingers are just that.
“That sucks for the football game.” He stands to face her. “But that’s not our problem. Let’s not worry about rain until we have to. Okay, Cecily?”
She smiles at him. “Okay, Everett. Thanks for the pep talk.”
He gives her arm a squeeze. “Anytime.”
Everett and Kristi spend the next couple of hours mixing their way to a cocktail they call the Sparkling Hail Mary—a combination of apple juice, orange liqueur, and Prosecco with slices of fresh apples and pears. He’s taking inventory of their supplies, preparing to place an order for Friday deliveries with their local beer, wine, and liquor distributors, when he feels someone watching him. Turning, he sees a pair of golden eyes peeking around the corner of the entryway at him. Crouched down, he hurries toward his young friend.
“What’re you doing sneaking up on me like that? Huh? Huh?” He pokes the child in her tummy several times until she giggles.
“Turn me upside down, Everett!”
“You mean like this.” In one swoop, he lifts her up by the ankles.” Her knit top slides down, revealing her belly button. When he tickles her tummy, she squeals. “Stop! Everett!”
He looks up to find Naomi glaring
