Palmer
"Excuse me while I take this call," I say, pushing my chair back from the table.
My cell phone is vibrating in my pocket as I grab it and walk out the front door.
"Palmer speaking," I say, pacing the front porch.
"Finally—there you are. You're a hard man to get a hold of. Look, I'll get straight to the point. I have some bad news." It's Roger Mills, my business manager.
Any time I get a call from him, I brace myself and expect anything to come out of his mouth because he always gives it to me straight. But now the words bad news bounce through my brain like ping pong balls and I don't know what to think.
"Give it to me."
"The bottom line is that investors are feeling shaky about your restaurants, not just The Pearl on Park," he says.
"Why now?"
"It boils down to all the bad coverage you've received."
I know exactly what coverage he's referring to. Percy Whitman.
"I already know about those reviews—they're bullshit. Unfounded garbage and—"
"Unfounded or not," Roger says, cutting me off, "investors are freaking. Those are some of the worst reviews a restaurant has ever seen."
"It's all lies, they can't be believed."
"Tell that to the rest of the world," Roger says. "I'm serious. This is bad. Real bad."
"Look," I say, "I'm actually in the middle of lunch and I'm busy, can I—"
"We don't have time," he says. "We need to act now."
"I don't want to talk about this right now. I'll figure it out and I'll call you back soon."
"Palmer, wait, Listen, I think—"
But I don't give him a chance to tell me what he thinks. Instead, I end the call and the connection goes silent.
It's strange. It seems my entire business is in jeopardy, but being here with Nicole and her family—I'm happy. I gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and enter the house.
"I was just telling Nicole's father about your chicken story," Nicole's mom says. The entire table is laughing.
I smile. "There are more funny stories where that came from. I could spend hours telling you stories."
"Well, we aren't going anywhere," Nicole's father smiles. "Tell us what happens in those kitchens of yours."
"Well, in this business, we get every kind of customer you can think of. One day, many years ago, when I was first starting out, we got a particularly difficult woman. She orders the soup of the day—a French Onion.
“The waiter brings it to her. She says it's too cold. So, no problem, right?
“This is a typical, routine sort of complaint, if you will. The waiter brings it back into the kitchen, and we give her a new, piping hot batch."
"Was she satisfied?" Nicole asks.
"Oh no—the story doesn't stop there," I laugh. "So, the waiter brings it to the woman, but now she says it doesn't taste right and that we must've changed our recipe. The waiter assures her that isn't the case, but she keeps badgering him and badgering him. He tries to change the soup again, but to no avail.
“The woman is insistent that again, it isn't right. She's really digging into him now, saying things like How hard is it to make soup, and Isn't this your job. So finally, the waiter reaches a breaking point. And I kid you not—he grabs that soup bowl and saucer and flings it across the dining room like a Frisbee.
“The entire thing smashes against the wall and everyone is stunned. And what does that waiter do? He leaves without a word. We never saw him again."
"You have to be kidding!" Nicole shrieks. "Was anyone hurt?"
"No, but we got a good laugh out of it later."
The entire family is laughing now, and as I turn to look at each of their faces, I realize that I'm having the time of my life. I never expected to enjoy myself as much as I am.
It's as if the worries of the world—my restaurant, my health, Percy Whitman trying to sabotage me at every turn—fades away.
I like Nicole's family. They're simple people and that's refreshing.
Her family has completely managed to charm me.
"Here, try this," Nicole says, passing me a small, chilled glass.
"This looks interesting."
"It's Limoncello—my grandmother's recipe."
"Then I bet it's good. Your grandma seems to have the best recipes."
I take a sip, and it's better than I imagined. It's the perfect palate cleanser—the citrus infused, lightly sweetened alcohol couldn't get much better.
Nicole can sense the satisfaction on my face and she smiles.
"Glad you like it," she says, and under the table I can feel her slide her hand up my thigh. "Because there's more where that came from."
I don't know if it's the hint in her words, or her touch… or maybe both, but my cock twitches and I shift in my seat. Letting my dick get hard, right here, at a table surrounded by Nicole's family, is not something I want.
But Nicole seems to understand this, and a devious smile forms on her lips.
Just as her mother's asking me if I'd like a second helping of food, Nicole drags her fingers up my thigh, coming within inches of my cock.
I can feel it harden with the proximity of her touch. Within seconds, I'm going to be harder than a steel rod.
"I'm, I'm fine—I uh, the food was, well, it was great—it really was—but I'm full, thank you," I stammer stupidly.
God, can I sound anymore ridiculous?
Nicole grins wider.
"I think I'm going to show Palmer the house—give him a tour," Nicole says, and her parents nod.
Then she turns to me.
"I want to show you my childhood bedroom."
My heart kicks in my chest and my cock leaps.
"Show me the way," I smile.