“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.”