Local Flavour (Book 1, the Local Flavour Series)

Part 3: The Middle of Nowhere

"I don't give a shit, Marcus. I want the reports by the end of the week — staffing, food and beverage sales, all of it. And tell the new chef to get his act together, or he's out." Quinn swore and threw his phone on the passenger seat. His latest restaurant was becoming a pain in the ass. Trying to run this one from afar was a terrible idea.

New York was thriving; they hardly needed him. The Vegas spot needed some love but was doing moderately well. The London restaurant was making money hand over fist, but problems behind the scenes led him to believe he may have bitten off more than he could chew. What made him think he could let Marcus and his partner, Élan, run it while he travelled the world, filming? He ran a hand through his hair and rolled the car window down. And where in the almighty fuck am I?

He felt like he'd been driving forever since the plane landed in Halifax. He was so bloody tired. The only thing that was helping was the stunning scenery, bathed in the light of the sinking sun. The countryside opened up ahead, rolling hills and farmland spread out like a gold and emerald tapestry against the expanse of ocean in the distance.

It would have been a gorgeous drive if he'd been more in the mood to take it in. Right now, he just wanted a hot bath and bed. The B&B looked old-fashioned and charming online; he hoped both the bed and the bathtub would be comfortable and large enough to accommodate his six-foot-two inch frame.

He yawned; rubbed his eyes. His latest show, Canada's Worst Restaurant, was one of the most popular on the Restaurant Network. Even he didn't know why. To him, the inner workings of a failing restaurant were unbearably dull. He couldn't fathom why Joe and Jane Public would care. Luckily for him, they did. Walking into people's restaurants and telling them why they suck had been very lucrative for him. He sighed as he double-checked the Ocean Mist B&B's directions. He hadn't heard from his trusty GPS guy in a while.

He pulled up The Black Keys on his phone and blasted the stereo, letting his thoughts wander, like the twisted country road he travelled. He had done all manner of restaurant reality shows for the last six years. The usual formula was to spend the first few days getting a feel for exactly how the owners had screwed their restaurant up, another couple of days training them on management practices they should damn well know already, and showing the staff how to cook the basics without burning the place to the ground. They did a minor interior redesign, new menus, cheery smiles all around and he was on to the next one.

It was a formula that worked well. This was the first time he'd ever been involved in a contest. He thought it was a good twist at first — a competition helping out family-run businesses — but Canada was a big country and the schedule was a grind. He was back and forth to London every chance he could to try and maintain some semblance of a relationship and keep his restaurant afloat.

No need to go back for Natasha now. He rubbed his face with a large hand crisscrossed with ancient burns and knife scars from years working in kitchens around the world. Maybe it was good that he was lost on a Nova Scotia highway. It was as good a place to be lost as any.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. The last restaurant in the national series was supposed to be shot in Prince Edward Island, but the owners backed out at the last minute. So there he was, first time in Nova Scotia. He'd been just about everywhere else and heard good things about the place. So at least there was that.

A couple of his A-list celebrity friends had summer homes in the province. It's beautiful and people leave you alone, they all said. "Nova Scotians don't really give a shit who you are, you stand in line and wait your turn at the grocery store like everybody else," his friend Lucas had said. Screaming fans mobbed the Hollywood actor just about everywhere else he went in the world.