Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 70368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Oh good, Zeb came through with a shirt.” Gabe gave my attire a cursory once-over. Funny how different Zeb’s gaze in the changing room had felt from Gabe’s out here. “We’ve got a lot to do before the doors open for the first seating.”
“Put me to work, boss,” I said right as a person with shockingly white hair adorned with magenta tips emerged from the kitchen. Thin but muscular like a rock climber, they had matching eyeliner, looking more ready to highlight one of my playlists than any culinary endeavors. This had to be Nix, who had starred in several breezy email updates from Paige.
“Gabe!” Nix shook a gloved hand in Gabe’s direction. “What am I supposed to do when—not if—when we run out of cranberry sauce for the second seating?”
Next to me, Zeb slumped against the wall. “I’m so sorry, Nix. Just tell people the truth. I dropped the bowl.”
Seeing Zeb so sad made something twist in my chest. He’d apologized enough for one day.
“Can’t you get more?” I asked Gabe. As far as I knew, cranberry sauce came in two forms, both canned and trotted out for this one meal each year. I liked it, but I couldn’t say I’d ever craved the stuff.
“It’s homemade.” Gabe made the same sour face he had when faced with a pop quiz back in the day. He’d always hated being unprepared. “Grandma Seasons had a secret recipe.”
“Cranberry sauce needs to be made the day before,” Nix added while Zeb continued to look miserable. “It needs time to chill.”
“What makes it different from canned?” I asked Nix, not giving up on my quest to save Zeb from taking all the blame. “Would guests really know the difference?”
“Yes,” Gabe insisted at the same time Zeb said, “Probably not.”
“The secret is citrus.” Nix rolled their eyes at the feuding brothers. “Orange zest and some juice, along with a few other ingredients. We could probably doctor up some canned stuff to pass, but good luck finding an open grocery store around here today.”
“Some stores have Thanksgiving hours.” I’d shopped at base commissaries so long I wasn’t entirely sure what chains northeastern Pennsylvania featured these days, but surely a case of cranberry sauce and some oranges weren’t that big an ask.
“Welcome to the sticks.” Zeb groaned, the same tone used by generations of Kringle’s Crossing high schoolers desperate to escape this little town, which sat at the intersection of rural and Philadelphia suburb. The city was too far for easy daily commuting but close enough for temptation. And grocery stores.
“Philly?” I asked.
“Too far.” Gabe huffed a defeated breath. No way was this the same guy who’d once driven two hours with me in his old junker Civic searching for a rare Whoopie Pie flavor. There was a time after high school when his drive and determination had far exceeded mine. However, this version of Gabe was already ready to give up. “There’s no time to make it there and back, and we’ve had two servers call out. We’re going to be spread thin as it is.”
Gabe pulled an honest-to-God cotton handkerchief from his pocket to mop at his thinning hairline. Damn. Thirty-five was apparently the new eighty. I guessed we really had gone and gotten old.
“This isn’t an insurmountable problem.” I already had my phone out and was scrolling contacts. “What you have here is a logistics problem. Supply chain issue. Let me make some calls.”
“I appreciate the offer, but this is cranberry sauce, not national security.” Add grumpy to the other new things about Gabe. Probably stress. Dude needed to learn how to delegate, and lucky for him, he had me to help.
“Exactly.” I might suck at taking time off, but I lived for problem-solving, and the idea of saving what could be a rather trivial disaster was catnip to my soul. “Ten minutes with a decent cell signal, and I’ll have a solution.”
I didn’t give him a chance to protest, leaving the other three workers standing in the hallway as I paced back and forth to work my magic. The fourth call was the charm, and I hightailed it back to Gabe, who was straightening silverware on the tables. Zeb was working nearby on setting other tables.
“Any chance of three extra seats for the second sitting? I’ve got a lead on some sauce and oranges from a supply specialist I sat near on the transport flight. He’s in Philly and returned from DC to surprise his girl for Thanksgiving. He’s willing to drive to bring us the goods if I can guarantee him dinner. His girlfriend and her mother hadn’t planned on cooking today.”
“We’ve been sold out of reservations for weeks.” Gabe looked around the room as if willing an extra table to appear.
“We can make it happen.” Zeb was surprisingly decisive. I liked that quality in a person. “Tell your new friend to come hungry. Dinner is on Seasons.”