A Christmas Reservation (The Royale Series) Read online

  Devon Michaels

  Copyright © 2018 by Devon Michaels

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  DEDICATION

  To my Knight in Shining Armor…

  All I can say is Thank You

  &

  I Love You!

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  (Surprises at end of this book.)

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  The Love Grind

  Stronger Than Bonds

  A la Carte

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kate

  As a business owner, I love the Christmas season.

  People are a lot more willing to spend a little extra to enjoy the finer things in life. And at the Royale, those finer things start out as our bottles of champagne that are a couple hundred dollars a pop. Our holiday themed desserts are also popular –it’s a miracle what a little mint and cinnamon extract can do to a dish. I remind the waitstaff every day before their shift to up sale, up sale, up sale because these ‘holiday exclusive’ dishes won’t be around for much longer. You’d be surprised just how effective that strategy is.

  Obviously, some people will complain about the exorbitant menu prices, but that’s an unavoidable part of haute cuisine. There’s always going to be that hotshot know-it-all who thinks the price doesn’t justify the final product –forty dollars for dots on a dish? I could make this with my eyes closed! But as my father would always say, they’re not just paying for the food. They’re paying for the experience. My customers pay a pretty penny to not have to cook for themselves, to be attended to by our courteous and professional staff, to not have to do the dishes when all is said and done. They can sit back, relax, and enjoy the good food and company.

  I’m over by the bar taping silver tinsel to the edge of the granite counter when Laurence, my head chef, pops his head out from between the kitchen doors. I frown and give him a confused look. The restaurant has been closed for almost an hour. “What are you still doing here?” I ask him before returning my attention to the tinsel. I inspect my handiwork and wonder if it’s too tacky and cheap-looking for the overall décor.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he retorts without hesitation.

  “I asked you first.”

  I take a step back, tilting my head to the side to look at the bar at a different angle.

  Yeah, it’s too tacky.

  I make a move to start ripping the tinsel down. Maybe the Royale is just one of those restaurants that doesn’t decorate for the holidays. Maybe we’re one of those restaurants that just wants to keep it neutral around this time of year. It’d definitely save me time and money trying to find the perfect decorations. I briefly consider buying a bunch of potted poinsettias and placing them as table centerpieces. That’s probably a lot easier and smarter than any sorry attempt I make to decorate.

  “I was just taking inventory,” explains Laurence. “We ran out of duck during service.”

  “I’ll put the order through–”

  “Already done. Claire did it earlier.”

  I manage a small smile of appreciation. Claire is the Royale’s sous-chef, and undoubtedly the angel sent to make sure I don’t accidently burn this place down. I consider Laurence and Claire my eyes and ears. And then there’s me, the brain on the verge of suffering from a major stroke. Ordering for the Royale’s kitchen is just one last thing I have to worry about.

  “Perfect,” I say approvingly with a nod.

  Laurence gives me a mock salute before turning back the way he came. “Try not to work too hard, Kate,” he tells me before leaving for the night.

  “I’ll do my best,” I mumble to myself.

  There is no distinction between my personal life and my life managing the Royale. There’s simply no time to worry about myself when I’m busy taking care of a team of thirty. There are work schedules to coordinate, inventory shipments to make, reservations to book and plan, marketing strategies that need to be implemented, restaurant reviews that I have to be on the lookout for, customer complaints that need to be addressed, and so on. I didn’t realize that when I took over for my father, Richard, that I would eat, sleep, and breathe the Royale. I should just build a little shed around back in the parking lot and make it my home. It’d save me the commute time.

  My father loved this place –still does, in fact. But when he suffered a string of heart attacks two years ago, we weren’t sure if he would be around for much longer to look after it. So I volunteered to take over. Rather, I was volun-told. Neither of my two sisters lived close enough to properly take over, and I was the only one with even the slightest amount of management experience. It took a year for me to transition into the position, after which my father officially retired –not because he wanted to, but simply because his health couldn’t take another hit.

  I can’t remember the last time I had an actual day off –a day to all myself. I rub my temples with the tips of my fingers. My eyes are straining in the dim lighting. I can feel the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and between my shoulder blades all tight and knotted. I wish I could find the time to go to a masseuse, but I quickly learned that being a restaurant owner was a twenty-four-seven job. There aren’t enough hours in the day. It dawns on me as I yawn and stretch in the empty restaurant just how exhausted I feel. I can’t wait to go home and curl up in bed, but I know I’ll have to do it all over again tomorrow.

  My phone rings in my jacket pocket.

  I nearly jump out of my skin. I’m not expecting any calls. I pull the device out and look at the time on the screen. It’s a little after midnight. I don’t know anyone who’d bother trying to reach me so late. I don’t recognize the phone number, either. Against my better judgement, I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Kate, is that you?” The voice belongs to a woman. It’s high-pitched and way too chipper for my liking.

  “Speaking. Who’s this?”

  “Don’t play me like that, girl. It’s me, Rachel!”

  Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. I raise my eyebrows, genuinely surprised. “Oh, hi,” I manage. “How’ve you been?”

  “I’ve been great. It’s been such a long time! I can’t remember the last time I even saw you.”

  “Probably the week we graduated college,” I answer, thinking back.

  “That’s right, that’s right,” she continues over me. “Anyways, hey, you busy or anything?”

  “Well, I’m–”

 
“Because I’m in town, and I’d love to grab a few drinks with you.”

  “I don’t know if I can–”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun! Just like old times.”

  “I’m still at work,” I explain quickly before she can cut me off again. Rachel always was a bit of a Chatty Cathy.

  “Oh, please?” she whines. Her voice is all nasally and piercing. “I’m leaving on the first flight tomorrow and I’d love to see you.”

  I sigh, feeling a little indignant. If she really wanted to see me, why was it so last-minute? But I look back down at the silver tinsel I’m holding loosely between my hands. I’d much rather be having a few drinks with an old college buddy than try to make the Royale look a little more festive. I’m sure I can get one of the waitstaff to help me with the task tomorrow.

  “Fine,” I answer. “Where do you want to meet?”

  Rachel squeals loudly over the phone in delight. I wince at the sound. It’s nice to know that you can take a girl out of a sorority, but you can’t take a sorority out of the girl.

  “Do you know this little bar called O’Brian’s?”

  “Yeah, the name sounds familiar.”

  “Can you meet me there in fifteen? First round is on me.”

  I sigh. “If you cover the first three rounds, I’ll be there in ten.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Rachel hangs up and I stuff the phone back in my pocket. I rub the back of my neck and close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. This isn’t something that I’d normally do. I haven’t been to a bar in over four years. Again, not for a lack of trying, but simply because I’ve been too busy running the restaurant. I’m sure that things won’t get too crazy. I’ll go for a few drinks, catch up with Rachel, and then send her on her merry way. I make sure to grab my coat and purse before locking up the Royale for the evening.

  O’Brian’s is an Irish bar, made obvious by the excessive number of Irish flags that seem to hang from every surface. A Christmas carol covered by an Irish band playing over the bar’s speakers. There’s snow-in-a-can sprayed on every outward-facing window, and cutouts of gingerbread men, mistletoe, bells, and candy canes taped to every menu and empty space on the walls. The bar is packed with customers despite the late hour, many of whom I notice belong to the younger college crowd. I shuffle through the doors a little anxiously, feeling incredibly out of place.

  Rachel is sitting at the bar, instantly recognizable. She’s already gotten started on a drink –some vibrantly colorful and fruity cocktail in a tall glass. Rachel notices me first, smiling wide and waving at me wildly to come over. I freeze where I stand. It’s too late to just slip out back the way I came unnoticed. I make it to the bar, ducking around people in the way on the open floor. She hops off of her stool and throws her arms around me, trapping me in a tight hug. There’s definitely no escape now.

  “Oh, my God, Kate. It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims.

  I pat her on the back hesitantly. I can’t help but catch a whiff of her perfume, which has floral notes, but is far too strong for my nose. She looks like she’s doing well for herself –perfectly manicured fingernails, a designer handbag, a beautiful assortment of golden bracelets on each of her wrists that be worth a small fortune. And then there’s me, standing in the middle of a bar that I feel way too old to be in. I’ve still got my name tag clipped to my black work shirt. My shoes are stained with traces of salt and snow from the sidewalk, my red knitted scarf is frayed at the ends, and my hair is a wind-whipped mess despite my deliberate attempt to put it away in a high ponytail.

  “You’re blonde now,” I note.

  “Yes,” she says with a nod. She steps back and runs her fingers through her hair to show it off. “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s nice.”

  “Come on,” she tells me. She pats the stool beside me, encouraging me to sit down. She flags down the bartender, who’s busy polishing a beer glass with a damp cloth. “What’ll you have?” she asks me quickly. “Wine? Tequila shots? They also have an awesome eggnog special going on.”

  “Just a whisky on the rocks, please,” I tell the bartender. He nods and gets to work pulling a bottle full of rich brown liquid off the glass shelf behind him. It’s the same brand that we serve at the Royale, but from a completely different year.

  “Whisky,” says Rachel slowly. “That’s… fun.”

  “You know I’m not as adventurous as you.”

  “I’ll say,” she laughs. “My God, how’ve you been? What are you up to nowadays? Do you still talk to Danny? Or Miranda? Haven’t heard from her in ages.”

  The bartender passes me my drink, which I promptly take a sip from. I’m going to need to get a bit of a buzz going if I’m in for a night of severe questioning. I shake my head as an answer.

  “No, I kind of lost touch with everyone,” I say. “But I’m good. I took over dad’s restaurant.”

  “Oh?” says Rachel in surprise. “When’d that happen?”

  “Couple of years ago.”

  “Didn’t you want to go off to law school?”

  I take a big gulp. Yeah, I’m definitely going to need more than a buzz to get through a night with Rachel. Friend or not, she sure knows how to open old wounds. But I know that I can’t blame her. She doesn’t know what happened. In all honesty, it’s all one giant blur to me, too. Life’s funny that way.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly. “Change of plans. Dad got sick.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Rachel mumbles awkwardly. “Is he…” Her voice trails off, unsure quite how to pose the question.

  “He’s fine,” I assure her. Rachel lets out a small breath, visibly relieved. “Just took an earlier than expected retirement.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you like it?”

  I can only think to blink at the question. I practically grew up at the Royale. I know every nook and cranny of that establishment. It’s my father’s pride and joy, his life’s work. I’m proud to be able to look out for the restaurant on his behalf. But then I immediately think of all the stress that balancing the books brings me; all of the outrageous customers that come in demanding to speak with the manager over insignificant problems.

  “Yeah,” I say unconvincingly. “Sure, I like it.”

  Rachel shoots me a concerned look, but I glance down at my drink.

  “What about you?” I ask hurriedly. “What are you up to?”

  Rachel’s face brightens up. “I’m working as a fashion design consultant in Paris.”

  “Paris, France?” I clarify.

  “The one and only,” she gushes. “I live there nine months out of the year. The other three I spend back in Chicago.”

  “That’s… awesome,” I tell her. I’m genuinely happy for her. Rachel always wanted to work as a fashion designer, and she never stopped talking about moving to France. When we were in college, I chalked it up to high hopes and expectations, but to see her living out her dream is actually quite refreshing. And I’m only a little bit jealous.

  That’s a lie. I’m very jealous.

  Rachel signals to the bartender to refill my glass, which I realize I’ve drained completely. He slides me a brand-new glass with fresh ice and recently poured whisky. I bring the glass up to my lips and take a sip in a desperate need to keep my hands busy.

  “So,” continues Rachel, “are you seeing anyone?”

  I cough, taken aback by the question. “No,” I answer a little too fast. “No, I’m not. You?”

  “I’m seeing a guy. A few guys, actually. Nothing serious.”

  “I see.”

  Rachel leans in close, looking just over my shoulder at something behind me. “Don’t freak out,” she whispers in my ear, “but that guy has been checking you out since you came here.”

  I don’t turn, despite my burning curiosity. I shake my head in disbelief. “He’s probably checking you out.”

  “No, no, he’s definitely got his eyes on you. Look.” Rach
el points right past me, making any attempt on my part to be discreet a non-issue. I let out a sigh and turn slightly in my chair, throwing my gaze just over my shoulder.

  There are two men casually leaning against the bar, beers in their hand. They look like they’re deep in conversation, but I’m not close enough to hear if that’s true. One of them, a tall young man with bright blue eyes and dirty blond hair keeps glancing over at me. When our eyes lock, he gives me a polite smile. If I’m being perfectly honest, it’s entrancing. I can’t stop staring. He’s got broad, strong shoulders, a handsome face, and an athletic build. But I shake my head and turn away again. It’s too good to be true. I’m sitting next to Rachel, this put-together and gorgeous young woman. There’s no way that he’s checking me out when she is a far better option.

  “He’s cute, but I’m not here to meet anyone,” I explain quickly to Rachel.

  “Don’t be shy. Go ask him for his number!” she encourages enthusiastically.

  “No, thanks. I’m just here to hang out with you.”

  “What’s the problem, Kate? Too shy?” she taunts. There’s a knowing look in her eye. “Man, you have not changed since college.”

  This statement stings a bit. I fold my arms across my chest. “I have totally changed.”

  “Actually, I don’t think you had a boyfriend at all during that four-year period.”

  “I was busy studying, thank you very much.”

  “You’re such a good girl,” she jokes. “Look at him. I think he looks yummy.”

  I roll my eyes. “Then go talk to him.”

  “Maybe I will.” She grins, a hint of mischievousness in her eyes. She begins to get up from her chair, but I desperately grab onto her jacket sleeve.

  “What are you doing?” I demand.

  “Gonna go talk to him for you.” She throws me a wink.

  “Oh, my God, please don’t.”

  But she frees herself from my grip and practically skips on over. I keep my eyes focused on the bottom of my drink. My ears are burning, and my face feels terribly warm. I just want to grab a few drinks and forget about work for a while. This was not how I expected this little reunion to go.