Now That You're Here. Lynnette Kent

bartender avoided his eyes. “Yeah. The customers seem to like the variety.”

      “You didn’t think I might want to know about this?”

      She shrugged. “I didn’t want to get between you and Emma.”

      Guilt grabbed him by the throat. He drummed a quick rhythm pattern on the bar. “You’re right, Tiff. I’m a jerk for blaming you. There’s only one person I should be talking to about this.”

      In the kitchen, Emma looked up from a plate of salad as he stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. “Hullo, Jimmy. How are you tonight?”

      “Surprised. What are you doing, Emma?”

      She met his gaze straight on. “I wanted to show you how successful a different menu could be. I think the customers are enjoying the wider selection of food.”

      Brains and beauty and guts. A powerful combination. The recognition expanded his irritation. “What’s the profit margin on those salads?”

      “The same as the sandwiches. I don’t want you to lose money.”

      He leaned against the door frame to rest his hip. “Does that include the plates and silverware?”

      Her face and throat flooded with red. “Um…no.”

      “Right.” Hands in his pockets, he tried to figure out the real point here. A power struggle between them? Maybe. Emma was a woman used to running a classroom, a career. But he’d established his own life, ran his club to meet his own standards. He didn’t like having decisions taken out of his hands, even by Emma Garrett.

      “I meant this for the best, Jimmy.”

      “I’m sure you did.” He sighed. Staying mad at Emma for any length of time had been impossible when they were kids, something between them that didn’t seem to have changed. “The money doesn’t really matter a damn.”

      “I know.”

      “But if I wanted this place to be something different, it would be.”

      “The question is, why wouldn’t you want it?”

      “Because…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, either. No more surprises, Emma, okay? At least talk to me first.”

      “I did talk to you.”

      “And then you ignored what I said.”

      “I was right—the customers like a more sophisticated menu.”

      “You were. You will be again.” Jimmy straightened. “In fact, you might just be right about everything one hundred percent of the time. But this is my place and what I say goes. Clear?”

      Emma lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

      “Thanks. You can keep the salads and the chicken. And the dishes. But that’s as far as we go.”

      A minute later, behind the closed door of his office, Jimmy aimed a pencil and sent it flying, straight as an arrow, toward the opposite wall.

      Emma was shaking up his world again. Only he wasn’t seventeen anymore. He hadn’t believed in happy-ever-afters since he was eight years old.

      And he really hated being tempted to change his mind.