Juniper Hill (The Edens #2)(8)

“I don’t know because it’s none of my business. If Memphis wants to talk about it, she will.” Eloise narrowed her gaze. “Why are you asking? I’m usually the curious one. Not you.”

“She’s living at my house.”

“Afraid she’s going to murder you in your sleep?” Eloise teased, stealing another tomato.

“I’d like to know who’s on my property.”

“My new employee, whose personal life is her own. And a mother new to Quincy. Which is why you’re going to make her lunch. Because I’m guessing she hasn’t had anyone make her a meal in weeks. Fast food doesn’t count.”

I frowned and stalked through the kitchen, swiping up a mixing bowl, an onion and a lime.

Once again, Eloise was getting attached to an employee. After the lawsuit, both Mom and Dad had warned her to keep professional boundaries. But where Memphis was concerned, Eloise had already crossed them.

So had I, the day I’d agreed to let a strange woman and her child move onto my property.

Eloise checked the clock. “I’ll be at the front desk for the rest of the day. Memphis is going to work on paperwork in the staff lounge and then go through orientation videos. What time should I send her here for lunch?”

“Eleven.” Memphis could eat with the rest of us before the lunch rush hit. “You need to find out more about her story.”

“If you’re so curious, you ask her when she comes in to eat.” Eloise smiled her victorious smile and disappeared.

Damn. I loved my sister, but along with that big heart, she was naive. Other than her four years away for college, she’d only lived in Quincy. This community loved her. She didn’t realize just how devious and horrible people could be.

Memphis hadn’t done anything worrisome. Yet. But I didn’t like how little we all knew about her story. There were too many unanswered questions.

I shoved the worries aside, focusing on the prep I’d been doing since five this morning. My days started early, working before we opened the restaurant for hotel guests at seven. After making a handful of omelets and scrambles this morning, I’d been gearing up for tonight’s meals. My sous chef, Roxanne, would be cooking dinner tonight so I could have an evening off.

The minutes passed too quickly and when the door opened, I glanced at the clock to see it was exactly eleven.

“Hi.” Memphis gave me a whisper of a smile.

With an actual smile, she’d be more than trouble. She’d be a hurricane leaving devastation in her wake.

“Um . . . Eloise said something about coming in for lunch.”

“Yeah.” I nodded to the opposite side of the table where I kept a few stools. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t need anything. Really. I’m sure you’re busy, and I don’t want to intrude.”

Before I could respond, Eloise breezed through the door with my line cook, Skip, right behind her. “You’re not intruding.”

“Hey, Knox.” Skip glanced at Memphis, his footsteps stuttering as he did his own double take.

Memphis’s beauty turned heads twice.

“We’re making lunch.” I pointed for Skip to put on an apron.

Introductions could wait. At the moment, I just wanted to make this meal and send Eloise and Memphis on their way so I could concentrate without Memphis’s chocolate-brown eyes tracking my every move.

But did Skip get an apron off the row of hooks? No. Because apparently no one was listening to me today.

“I’m Skip.” He held out his hand.

“Memphis.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful lady. What can I make you for lunch?” He held her hand for a moment too long with a stupid grin on his face.

“Tacos,” I snapped, rounding the table to get a package of tortillas. “We’re having tacos. Or we would be if you’d let go of her hand and get to work.”

“Ignore him.” Skip laughed but released her hand and went to pull an apron over his head. Finally. He tied his graying hair out of his face before going to the sink to wash his hands. The entire time he worked the soap into a lather, he stared at Memphis.

“Skip,” I barked.

“What?” He smirked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

Skip had worked in my kitchen since I’d moved home five years ago. This was the first time I’d ever wanted to fire him.

“So Knox owns the restaurant,” Eloise said, getting both her and Memphis a glass of water. “My parents own the hotel. There might be times when we ask you to help run room service deliveries, just depending on how busy we are. It’s sort of an all-hands-on-deck approach around here.”

“I’m happy to help with whatever is needed. Do you also run a bar service? Or just have the in-room fridges?” Memphis asked.

“What’s a bar service?” Eloise asked.

“Oh, it’s a newer trend,” she said. “Most upscale hotels in the major cities offer a bar service, like Bloody Mary carts delivered to individual rooms or an on-call service to the hotel’s bar.”

Eloise’s face lit up.

Shit. “No bar service.” I squashed that brainchild before it grew legs. “We don’t have a full bar here. All I serve are beer and wine. Both are included on the room service menu, which is different than the restaurant’s menu.”