Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Still, there’s something telling me Murphy is actually a lot more thoughtful and responsible than Memphis gives her credit for.

“I’ve been really impressed with the food so far,” Memphis says, drawing me out of my short reverie. “And I’m thinking it’s about time we finalize the menu for the opening. I’d like to schedule a full menu tasting once front of house has been hired so that the entire vineyard staff can get a fairly good idea of what the offerings will be.”

I puff out a breath, scratching my chin. “I’ll be honest, Memphis. I’m only about seventy-five percent done with the menu.”

He waves a hand, as if that’s not an issue. “Not a problem. Why don’t we schedule it for the weekend before the opening? That should be more than enough time for you to finish things up.”

I swallow thickly, wishing I had as much confidence in myself as Memphis seems to have. He doesn’t understand what goes into settling on a menu. At my last job, I was part of the team that launched several new restaurants, and it took us nearly six months to finalize menus, not mere weeks.

And while this restaurant is on the smaller side, that doesn’t have any impact on everything that goes into recipe development. This is supposed to be about upselling wines. In this way, the entirety of the restaurant’s success feels like it rests on my shoulders alone.

A door opening has us both turning to look, and my lips can’t help but tilt up when I see Murphy walking toward us, her head held high.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” she says once she’s approached our table. “Being back here is … an adjustment.”

I glance to Memphis, and I find him with a similar demeanor, his chin up as he watches his sister.

If only these two could see how alike they actually are.

“Take a seat, Murph,” he says after a long pause. “Wes and I were just discussing an upcoming menu showcase for the family and employees.”

She pulls the chair out next to me and sits down. I’m instantly hit with the scent of her perfume—something sweet and fresh and slightly peachy—the delicious aroma faint but no less seductive.

Instead of discussing whatever menu showcase he’s hoping I’ll be able to throw together in the next few days, Murphy steers the conversation back to the dining room and the hiring of waitstaff.

I can hear the tension between them, but I’m only half listening.

My attention is consumed by the gorgeous woman sitting just inches from me. Her scent, her smile, her thick unruly hair up in a wild bun at the top of her head and the little tendrils that have fallen free at the nape of her neck.

“What do you think, Wes?”

I blink, realizing I’ve completely zoned out and missed whatever they were talking about. Clearing my throat, I try desperately to rewind the bit of conversation I managed to hear, but I can’t seem to figure out what I’m supposed to say.

“Sorry,” I tell them, shaking my head and giving an embarrassed smile. “I was thinking about the menu. What was that?”

“I asked what you think about handing over the hiring to Murphy,” Memphis says with an obvious tic in his jaw. “She seems to think it would be better for her to manage things, and you mentioned earlier that you might also see it that way. I’d just like to get your opinion based on all your years of restaurant experience.”

He says years with a dramatic flourish, looking to Murphy pointedly.

I clear my throat again, realizing it doesn’t actually matter whether I believe Memphis’s opinion of his sister or not, whether I know her well or not.

“I do believe that a front-of-house person should be managing the waitstaff, from top to bottom and start to finish. You said Murphy’s had nearly a decade of experience working in restaurants too, and in a role that would have a lot more understanding of the needs waitstaff will have.” I shrug a shoulder. “I can do it if you want me to, but I think you’re missing an opportunity to have someone with much more direct experience than I have handle it the way it should be handled. My official opinion is that Murphy should be in charge of not just hiring, but also training and scheduling. I don’t doubt she’s more than capable.”

Memphis’s expression tells me he doesn’t like my answer, but I can feel Murphy shifting in her seat next to me. And when I glance over at her, I can’t miss the upward tilt at the edge of her mouth.

Her eyes flick to mine, and I see gratitude there.

“Fine,” Memphis says, his tone clipped. “Murphy, I’d like a detailed report from you on what your plans are for hiring and staffing by the end of the week. Opening night is just around the corner, so there’s no time to fall behind. And, Wes, please keep me posted on the progression of the menu. I’ll have some farms for you to visit soon for sourcing ingredients.”

Then Memphis is rising from his seat and heading toward the exit, leaving the two of us behind, alone.

At the sound of the door closing behind him, Murphy and I glance at each other.

“Thanks for that,” she says, her voice soft. “Sometimes Memphis is a great guy. But I don’t tend to be on the receiving end of that very often anymore.”

I can hear the hurt in her voice, and it echoes my own pain. I know only too well what it’s like to wish familial relationships were different.

And I know how deeply those wounds can grow, digging in and creating roots that carve marks that feel impossible to heal from.