Chapter 37: Planning

                                    

                                          
"Is there anything else we should add to the sauce?" Jacob asked, placing the lid back on the simmering pot. The marinara made his entire apartment smell heavenly with a wealth of bold aromas. We already added several ingredients, so I believed the sauce was done. However, his tone implied that there might have actually been something missing. 
                          
I looked once over the countertop—an array of used ingredients were spread all over such as casings from garlic cloves, empty cans of tomatoes, and stray sprigs of basil. 
                          
"Salt?" 
                          
He chuckled, "No, we added that already."
                          
Aha, then it was a trick question.
                          
"We're done?" I guessed.
                          
He wiped his hands on a tea towel and leaned down close to my face. "Yes, but be sure of it. Don't question your abilities, dearest." He placed a sweet kiss on my forehead then reached over to flip the heat down on the stove. 
                          
I refolded the sleeves of his shirt above my elbows to better secure them and keep them out of my way. After arriving at his place earlier that evening, we didn't get right to the kitchen, but rather the bedroom. I ended up wearing his white button down shirt in the aftermath; I was too exhausted to be bothered finding my own clothes that were strewn across the floor. Plus, the shirt smelled like that toxic cologne I was addicted to.
                          
Jacob reached into a higher up cabinet and pulled out a box of dry spaghetti. The dark blue box and red logo were unmistakable. 
                          
"Mr. Restaurant Extraordinaire is using boxed pasta?" I gasped in a playfully condescending tone.
                          
He smirked and slid the box across the island. I caught it before it fell over the edge. "We'll save pasta-making for another night. I'm beat. More wine?"
                          
I shook my head. "I've had enough." 
                          
He poured himself just a touch extra and drank down most of it. He checked the marinara one more time, gave it a quick stir, then turned to me. "Let's take a break for a moment, yeah?" 
                          
I agreed and we sauntered to the sunken living room. It was a monumental relief to get off my feet; it had been a never-ending day of meeting with contractors, choosing a new color scheme for the updated look (dark reds and beiges), and then jumping into a new recipe for the restaurant—but one which also served as our dinner. 
                          
The renovations were set to begin the following week, which would entail an add-on to the kitchen space, expansion of the bar, and brand new flooring throughout. At the request of my colleagues, I decided to ditch carpet all together and have hardwood installed. The gray shade would create a much cleaner atmosphere, since the surface was quite literally easier to wash.
                          
Payton was getting her new hostess computer (regardless of if she was leaving or staying) which was accompanied with a full smart-system in house. The kitchen staff would be equipped with screens that rang in the orders straight from the hostess desk, bar, and the brand new tablets for each server—no more balancing a notepad and scrambling to find a working pen—just a few taps on a screen and the order was sent directly to the kitchen, making for much faster service. The Last Olive Bistro was finally entering the twenty-first century.
                          
I cuddled up alongside Jacob, and he wrapped his arm around me, gently stroking my hair. The lights of Manhattan gleamed in through the vast windows, and we sat quiet for a few moments admiring them.
                          
I felt immensely proud of what we accomplished that day, and looked forward to all that we had yet to do. It was a newfound appreciation for a job well done, and one that I did without being screamed at by some intolerable troll. 
                          
"How did Tony know about me?" he asked, subtly cool.
                          
I expected the question to come much sooner; he naturally accepted the startling remark at the time. It was several days that it stewed in his mind and I wondered what he could have been thinking about it. His tone was baffling to detect whether he was asking for an answer, or if he wanted me to confirm what he already knew.
                          
He didn't have to know Tony spilled the beans about his wife, but it didn't diminish the possibility that Jacob was already aware of that by his superior instincts. It didn't matter now, since Jacob ended up telling me the truth about that anyway.
                          
Maybe he thought I blabbed to Tony about his sinister past, which I believed was worse. I wasn't a gossiper, especially about him. I tried to keep our relationship sacred, between us and just my closest friends; it felt more sincere that way.
                          
"He went digging for information about you—Googled your name," I confessed. "He confronted me about it, but I told him that was all in the past." 
                          
Jacob smirked and ran his tongue along his bottom lip, seemingly in deep thought. "Why would he do that?" 
                          
My chest tightened when I remembered the last interaction Tony and I had. It left a terrible, sour taste in my mouth, one I didn't want coming back. "He's nosey." 
                          
He looked at me, still stroking my hair and curling the ends around his finger. "That's how bartenders are—nosey with a little bit of beguilement." 
                          
I breathed out a little, thankful that's all he had to say about it, and that the topic could finally be buried. But I spoke, or rather thought, too soon.
                          
"You know, I'm highly adept at reading people too," he said with a cocky inflection. "Tony had mad eyes for you." 
                          
I absentmindedly brought my hand to my cheeks from the burning embarrassment of my naivety. It bothered me that the whole time I felt I was being honest friends with Tony, he saw me in a much different perspective—a 'more-than-friends' one.
                          
"He's lucky he fled when he did," Jacob said with a chuckle. He glanced at me and noted the incredible discomfort written all over my face. "I'm joking about that part. Honestly, I read him from across the room that very first night."
                          
"Well, so did you," I said, poking his arm to lighten my mood. "I could feel your looks on me back then."
                          
He pulled me in closer to him. "Of course I was. It was hard not to admire you, so I guess I can unwillingly give Tony some credit." 
                          
I laughed then asked, "How do we hire a new bartender?"
                          
"We'll have to hire two of them, since the bar will be able to serve more than before. I know some people we can try out." 
                          
"You 'know' some people?" 
                          
Jacob laughed and rubbed my shoulder. "Not like that. These people have clean records."
                          
"What about a General Manager?" I inquired.
                          
He shrugged. "Did you have anyone in mind? Or, would you like to do it?" 
                          
"Oh, no," I interjected. "Not me."
                          
"Why not? You have all the skills... and patience. It's not as intimidating as it seems."
                          
I ran over the idea in my head, but nothing about it immediately drew me in. I knew enough about how the restaurant operated, and Jacob was obviously there to help should I need him, but it was still a great deal of responsibility I wasn't ready to commit to. 
                          
I was more interested in the gritty business side of things and preferred to avoid long hours inside the restaurant itself. I wanted to be behind the scenes and be able to trust the staff we already had, and those we would hire, to run the operations.
                          
"I actually have an idea for someone who would be perfect," I said. It occurred to me who could succeed as the general manager, granted that person wanted the job. But I knew with the promise of flexibility and the bribe of higher pay, they might jump on the opportunity.
                          
"Who?" 
                          
I smiled to myself as I thought of the person. "I know someone—a really great friend."