And whatever Paul knew, he shared with his partner. Only, while Paul kept his opinions to himself, Alex didn’t, happily meddling at every opportunity. Paul was quieter in his matchmaking, but Isaac had long ago figured out why he’d been sent to Berkley’s on minor errands over the past few weeks. At times, Paul sent him under the pretext of planning parties for the Anderson-Sinclair household. And at others… well, how many of the restaurant’s dishes could possibly be left behind by accident?
With a smug grin, he admitted, “Well, I was going to, until the moment kind of came and went.”
Isaac knew Alex hadn’t liked the Frenchman much when they first met, because Thierry’s exuberance often overwhelmed the uninitiated. Over time and croissants they reached an understanding, and now Alex and Paul’s lavish parties were often catered by Berkley’s. Unfortunately, where Thierry went, Victor Reed invited himself along, as well. Isaac had taken an instant dislike to the arrogant little peacock with shifty, roving eyes and a forked tongue who butted into conversations to inject his uncouth opinions or made scathing remarks to the invited partygoers. Not to mention his slipping outside with the occasional guest, only to return a bit rumpled.
He never understood why Thierry either turned a blind eye or forgave the man. He had overheard Thierry’s profuse apologies the last time Vic had crashed a party, drank himself into oblivion, and made a fool of himself. Thank goodness Thierry had finally come to his senses and kicked the deadbeat out.
A look of disbelief on his face, Alex asked, “You’re going to give up without even trying? That certainly doesn’t sound like you.”
Paul, a long-time friend of Thierry’s, spoke up then. “Victor’s been gone for over six months now. Thierry has no intention of taking that jerk back this time, but if you don’t make your move soon, someone else just might.”
That got Isaac’s attention. He’d known Paul since the man was in his teens and had never once heard him say an unkind thing about anyone—well, except for Alex, back in their early days. For him to even utter the word “jerk,” Victor must have really gotten under Paul’s skin. Isaac also didn’t like the image that “someone else just might” brought to mind. He’d waited a long time for this—he wasn’t going to sit idly by and let someone else waltz off with his prize.
Looking from one grinning face to the other, Isaac decided to agree with his employers on this one. No matter how great the odds, he’d always gotten what he wanted when it truly mattered, and wasn’t it high time he forgave himself for past shortcomings and got on with his life? Isaac sipped thoughtfully at his wine before asking, “What should I do?”
“Go get him, of course,” Paul answered with a snort, as though it should have been obvious.
Isaac studied his two bosses, who were as dissimilar as day and night. It wasn’t so long ago that they’d overcome their own differences to become partners. Now they were inseparable. If two such opposite personalities could find common ground, why couldn’t a dreadlocked, muscle-bound black man and a pale, blond French entrepreneur? Full of renewed determination, Isaac stood and placed his napkin on his plate. “I may not be back,” he said, grateful that he was officially off duty and not expected to drive them home.
“Go get him, Isaac,” Paul encouraged.
As many times as he’d been to Berkley’s, Isaac had never before been in the kitchen. Striding confidently through the swinging door through which Thierry had disappeared, intent on his mission, he fully expected to find the man attending to a kitchen emergency. A short, fat cook and a busboy stood listening at the back door, the cook wringing her hands and chewing her bottom lip nervously.
“Leon, do something!” she urged the busboy.
“Like what?” the kid, pimply faced and barely in his twenties by the looks of it, hissed back.
“There a problem?” Isaac asked.
The pair stared guiltily up at him. Finally, the youth spoke up. “They’re at it again,” he said with a resigned sigh.
“Who’s at it again?”
Two pairs of eyes shot nervously toward the door. This time, it was the cook who answered. “That man!” she snapped, apparently finding her courage. “He came here wanting money. He always wants money.”
Angry shouting erupted on the other side of the door, but only one voice spewed obscenities: the familiar nasal whine of Victor Reed. Thierry’s deeper tones were oddly silent for a two-party argument.