Page 76 of Catching Trouble

Not because Maxime and I were planning picket fences and weddings, but because if I stayed in Furze—and I intended to, at least for a little while—their opinion of him mattered. I wanted their blessing.

I wanted them to understand what it was about Maxime that stole my sleep and filled my every waking hour.

As I got closer to the bar, shrill voices met my ears, and I found the waitress cowering behind the coffee machine. “What’s going on?”

She didn’t speak, just poked her thumb over her shoulder, towards the kitchen.

I pulled my brows and headed towards the clutter of cookware and aging tiles making up the kitchen. Pushing throughthe shell-beaded curtain, I found Fifi with her hands on her hips. Beside her, the chef looked mutinous.

Both of them turned to face me.

“What happened?” At my question, the chef roared something French and angry sounding, before wiping his hands on a cloth and storming out the back door.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Fifi shook her head, throwing her hands up. “The new vegetable delivery arrived after Maxime’s menu changes. The box must’ve been wet because it gave way somewhere between the door and countertop.” She pointed to the pile of vegetables on the floor. “That’s the delivery.”

She ran a hand over her forehead. “I think this straw could be the one to break the camel’s back.”

“Or the chef’s?”

“Exactly. He’s demanding we get some help tonight, or at the very least give him a bonus for having to deal with Maxime’s ‘unprofessional attitude.’” She threw air quotes around the words.

I let out a heavy sigh. Chefs were notoriously temperamental, but we couldn’t afford any hitches tonight. Any drama.

I glanced down at the produce avalanche at my feet.

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. You follow the chef, soothe his furrowed brow, keep him calm—offer him your firstborn if you must. But whatever you do, bring him back.”

She nodded. “And you?”

I looked back to the floor. “I’ll fix this mess.”

As soon as she left the kitchen, I turned to the shelves. After a good rummage, I found the largest mixing bowl known to man and balanced it on my hip. Eight potatoes, six carrots, and a turnip later, a muffled ringing reached my ears.

I paused, listening. It was the bar phone.

When the ringing didn’t stop, I rolled my eyes, cursing thewaitress on shift. She’d probably nipped out for a cigarette on the beach—it wouldn’t be the first time.

Hefting the bowl higher onto my hip, I walked into the bar. After what seemed like an age, I located the phone, buried beneath a dishcloth, a menu, and a book of matches.

Scrambling to pick up before the caller lost patience, I tapped the accept button on the screen. “Hello?”

A tinny voice drifted over the speaker. The caller spoke in rapid French. With the echo on the line, it sounded like the caller was down a well.

I sighed. Speakerphone. Just my luck. But with one hand full and no idea how this phone worked, I’d just have to roll with it.

I put the mobile down on the bar and shouted into the microphone. “Parlez-vous anglais? Can I take a message?”

Silence greeted me, then after a long beat, the caller responded with a gruff, “Yes.”

Then she unleashed hell upon me.

Her French accent was as thick as a triple crème brie. Coupled with the tinny speaker and the ambient noise from the club, I caught maybe one word in five. My heart raced. I needed to find a pen and write down whatever she was saying as best I could.

I scanned the bar top, finally finding a ballpoint wedged between a napkin holder and an empty saltshaker. I lunged for it, almost dropping the vegetables, but when Fifi’s stack of pink Post-it notes revealed themselves amidst the bar top clutter, I set about playing catch up.

With my lip gripped between my teeth, I scribbled down the words Nice, Beech, and Selfi.