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Goodreads / Bookbub / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Sydney Wyatt catches my eye. “Appetizers are good.” Pleased that he finally said something positive about my place, I close the distance, stopping at his table. “Glad you’re enjoying them.” He leans back in his chair. “Have you ever thought of upgrading the dinner menu?” My temper flares, but I manage to keep a civil tone. “No. Locals love it.” “Not saying it’s bad, just unoriginal. I mean, every meal comes with either French fries or baked potato. A new chef might bring some life to the place. Isn’t that what tonight’s fundraiser’s all about? Keeping this place open?” He taps the table. “With the right management, a better chef, this place has potential.” I manage this place, and the chef is a family friend. I bare my teeth. “Seems you know a lot about the restaurant business.” “Not at all. I just appreciate a good one.” I jam my hands on my hips and glare at him. Obviously he thinks we’re a bad one! I’m so furious I can’t even speak. He cocks his head. “Cindy, are you cross with me?” “Who the hell do you think you are?” I snap. “Coming in here and insulting my place left and right! If you don’t like it, don’t come back.” He arches a brow. “Since you own the place, maybe we could talk about some serious improvements. You don’t know what you don’t know, am I right?” I bristle. “This place was my great-grandfather’s, passed down the generations, and now it’s mine.” I leave out that Drew is the one who actually inherited it and declared it a lost cause because of the debt dragging it down. I took it over rather than let him sell it. “It’s an institution in this town, and we’re doing just fine without your city snark. How dare you walk in here and spew your judgment over all of us!” He smirks. “I don’t recall spewing.” My heartbeat roars in my ears, anger clouding all good reason. I desperately want to smack that smirk off his face. He gestures to his ale, which he barely touched. “I didn’t like this one. Could I get one of those local Connecticut ales you mentioned?” I stare at his glass of ale. I want to throw it in his face and watch his shock as it drips down his beard, fancy sport coat, and dress shirt. He chuckles. “That’s an evil look in your eye, Cindy. You’re thinking about dumping this drink on my head, aren’t you?” How did he know? “Not at all,” I lie. He leans close and smirks. “I dare you.”
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