Page 18 of The Strawberry Patch Pancake House

It was like he was caught in one of those nightmares where you’re in school but can’t remember how to open your locker or tie your shoes. The one thing he’d always been good at, always been able to do, somehow wasn’t working anymore.

He cleared his throat.

‘I can certainly make you a simpler pancake. I’ll get it right out to you.’

‘Thanks so much!’ Pete clapped a hand on his shoulder before he could walk away. ‘We are delighted to have such a talented chef in town. I’m sure you’ll get your footing soon enough.’

Archer forced a smile before stalking back to the kitchen. Get his footing? He was a world-renowned chef, for fuck’s sake. He had his footing. His footing was great. It was world-renowned.

‘Cyrus,’ he barked, storming back into the kitchen. The old cook looked up with a smirk. ‘Make me another batch of simple pancake batter.’

Cyrus raised a gray brow but didn’t argue. ‘Yes, chef.’

‘And Maribel, the mayor eats for free.’

‘Yes, chef.’

Yes, chef. Those words used to mean something. They used to mean that he was the captain of the ship, that he was in charge, in control. And now the whole damn ship was sinking.

ChapterEight

He’d completely forgotten the nanny was moving in today until he pulled into the driveway and found her hauling two garbage bags filled with her possessions in through his front door. He resisted the urge to throw the car into reverse and drive anywhere but here.

This was his life.

His house.

His kid.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as though he could massage out the tension. He didn’t live in Paris anymore. He literally didn’t have a home there for the time being. He’d sublet his apartment to a friend of a friend for the rest of the year. This was all he had now. He didn’t spend his time cooking and smoking and sleeping with waitresses anymore. Now he lived here, in the suburbs, and he got home at a reasonable time and used his paychecks from the diner to support his daughter and not to buy cigarettes and expensive wine.

It was the right thing to do.

For now. He just had to do it for now. In six months, if all went well then he and Olive could move back to France.

And with that helpful thought in mind, Archer got out of the car and made his way to the front door where Iris was currently wedged with her bags.

‘Need some help?’

She turned abruptly. He’d startled her.

‘Oh, hi.’ She looked flustered, little wisps of hair escaping her braid. It was dry today and now he could see that it was somewhere between blonde and red, a rose-gold color he’d never seen before and … he was staring.

He cleared his throat and grabbed one of her bags.

‘Thanks,’ she said, shoving the other one through the door. ‘You never really realize how much stuff you own until you have to move it.’

Actually, he’d had the opposite problem, needing to buy furniture and stuff to fill the house he’d rented, to make it feel like a home. Or a rough approximation of a home. But he didn’t say any of that. He followed her into the house where a few more bags and boxes were now piled in the living room. Gladys was on the couch with Olive.

‘Hello, there,’ Gladys said. ‘How’s my diner?’

Honest answer? People hated his first new-menu addition, he couldn’t find the magic pancake recipe that everyone loved so dearly, the staff hated him, and he still hadn’t gotten the kitchen up to his level of clean and organized. He was failing, but Gladys didn’t need to know all that.

‘It’s going well.’

‘Wonderful!’ Gladys beamed. ‘I knew it would.’

‘Hi, Olive,’ he said. ‘How was school?’