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      DOING THE RIGHT THING had always been a pain in the ass, Cal thought as he took the sheet and unfolded it. This time was no different.

      He scanned the list, then tossed it back to her. Penny didn’t want an opportunity, she wanted his balls sautéed with garlic and a nice cream sauce.

      “No,” he said flatly, ignoring the way the afternoon sunlight brought out the different colors of red and brown in her auburn hair.

      “Fine by me.” She picked up the sheet and started to slide out of the booth. “Nice to see you, Cal. Good luck with the restaurant.”

      He reached across the table and grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

      “But if we have nothing to talk about…”

      She looked innocent enough, he thought as he gazed into her big blue eyes, but he knew better than to believe the wide-eyed stare.

      Penny could be convinced to take the job; otherwise she wouldn’t have bothered with a meeting. Playing him for a fool wasn’t her style. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t enjoy making him beg.

      Given their past, he supposed he’d earned it. So he would bargain with her, giving in where he had to. He would even have enjoyed the negotiation if only she didn’t look so damn smug.

      He rubbed his thumb across her wrist bone, knowing she would hate that. She’d always lamented her large forearms, wrists and hands, claiming they were out of proportion with the rest of her body. He’d thought she was crazy to obsess about a flaw that didn’t exist. Besides, she had chef’s hands—scarred, nimble and strong. He’d always liked her hands, whether they were working on food in the kitchen or working on him in the bedroom.

      “Not going to happen,” he said, nodding his head at the paper and releasing his hold on her. “You know that, too. So where’s the real list?”

      She grinned and eased back into the booth. “I heard you were desperate. I had to try.”

      “Not that desperate. What do you want?”

      “Creative freedom on the menus, complete control over the back half of the store, my name on the menu, ownership of any specialty items I create, the right to refuse any general manager you try to stuff down my throat, four weeks vacation a year and ten percent of the profits.”

      The waitress appeared with their lunches. He’d ordered a burger, Penny a salad. But not just any salad. Their server laid out eight plates with various ingredients in front of Penny’s bowl of four kinds of lettuce.

      As he watched, she put olive oil, balsamic vinaigrette and ground pepper into a coffee cup, then squeezed in half a lemon. After whisking them with her fork, she dumped the diced, smoked chicken and feta onto her salad, then sniffed the candied pecans before adding them. She passed over walnuts, took only half of the tomato, added red onions instead of green and then put on her dressing. After tossing everything, she stacked the plates and took her first bite of lunch.

      “How is it?” he asked.

      “Good.”

      “Why do you bother eating out?”

      “I don’t usually.”

      She hadn’t before, either. She’d been content to whip up something incredible in their kitchen and he’d been happy to let her.

      He returned his attention to her demands. He wouldn’t give her everything she wanted on general principle. Plus it was just plain bad business.

      “You can have creative control over the menus and the back half of the store,” he said. “Specialty items stay with the house.”

      Anything a chef created while in the employ of a restaurant was owned by that restaurant.

      “I want to be able to take them with me when I go.” She forked a piece of lettuce. “It’s a deal-breaker, Cal.”

      “You’ll come up with something new there.”

      “The point is I don’t want to create something wonderful and leave it in your family’s less than capable hands.” She glanced at him. “Before you get all defensive, let me point out that five years ago, The Waterfront had a waiting list every single weekend.”

      “You can have your name on the menu,” he said. “As executive chef.”

      He saw her stiffen. She’d never had that title before. It would mean something now.

      “And three percent of the profits,” he added.

      “Eight.”

      “Four.”

      “Six.”

      “Five,” he said. “But you don’t get a say in the general manager.”

      “I have to work with him or her.”

      “And he or she has to work with you.”

      She grinned. “But I have a reputation of being nothing but sunshine and light in the workplace. You know that.”

      He’d heard she was a perfectionist and relentless in her quest for quality. She had also been called difficult, annoying and just plain brilliant.

      “You can’t dictate the GM,” he said. “He’s already been hired. At least in the short term.”

      She wrinkled her nose. “Who is it?”

      “You’ll find out later. Besides, the first guy’s just coming in to do cleanup. Someone else will be hired in a few months. You can have a say on him or her.”

      Her eyebrows rose. “Interesting. A gunslinger coming in to clean up the town. I think I like that.” She drew in a breath. “How about five percent of the profits, a three-year deal, I get some say in the next GM and I take my specialty items with me.” She held up her hand. “But only to my own place and you can keep them on The Waterfront menu as well.”

      He wasn’t surprised she wanted to branch out on her own. Most good chefs did. Few had the capital or the management skills.

      “Oh, and that salary you offered me before was fine,” she said.

      “Of course it was,” he told her. “That assumed you didn’t get this other stuff. How many are you bringing with you?”

      “Two. My sous-chef and my assistant.”

      Chefs usually came with a small staff. As long as they worked well with the others in the kitchen, Cal didn’t care.

      “You’ll never take the vacation,” he said. At least she never had before.

      “I want it,” she said. “Just so we’re clear, I will be using it.”

      He shrugged. “Not until we’re up and running.”

      “I was thinking late summer. I’ll have everything together by then.”

      Maybe. She hadn’t seen the mess yet.

      “Is