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Bill—temporarily,” West added.
    If West had just slugged her in the stomach, it couldn’t have hurt less. All the years she’d put in at Due South, before and after her chef training in Invercargill. The hours of menial work and late nights. Even waitressing in what little spare time she had to help out. A few times, Bill mentioned that when he’d had a gutsful and wanted to hop on a cruise ship bound for the islands, Due South would be Shaye’s to run. All of that, and they were shoving her aside for a man who wouldn’t know loyalty if it jumped up and bit him on the butt?
    West blathered on. Phrases including Del’s experience will benefit us all , just until after the wedding , and Del will train you up blistered her brain, churned and steamed inside her belly. So Shaye had never dared voice out loud that Bill making her Due South’s head chef one day was her life-long dream, but still. She could do it now—she totally could!
    She tuned out West’s explanations of why he’d sold her out and addressed Bill.
    “Why didn’t you ask me to take over for you? I don’t understand—we’ve talked about this.” Pressing her lips tightly together, she glanced at West’s slack-jawed amazement.
    “You want to be head chef?” said West in an oops-oh-shit tone of voice. “You never told me you wanted…”
    Shaye expected fire-bolts to shoot out of her eye sockets and fry her future brother-in-law.
    West scratched his jaw helplessly. “And mum and I thought you’d be happy to have someone with his…ah.”
    Bill held up a placating palm. “One day, you will take full responsibility for Due South. But Shaye, I’m sorry. I just don’t think you’re ready to go it alone. West’s right—maybe it’s a good thing Del’s here for a bit. He’s worked in restaurants a lot bigger than our little place; he can teach you stuff I can’t.”
    Like hell. Like hell would she let some know-it-all walk all over her and her plans for Due South. Every muscle in Shaye’s neck ratcheted tighter than piano wire as she swiveled to glare at Del. He still stood arms folded, but his gaze—soft and sympathetic—scanned her face.
    Well, bugger him too. Mr. Fancy Hollywood chef could take his “pardon me while I screw you sideways” fake sympathy and shove it.
    “Why are you even here?” She stalked over to him. “Why would you want to work in a tiny hotel in the middle of nowhere?”
    “I have my reasons, and I haven’t agreed yet.” His guarded reply poured gasoline on her temper.
    “Oh. So you’ve not decided whether you’ll lower your standards to work here? Nice .”
    A muscle in Del’s jaw ticked.
    Touched a sore spot, had she? Hah! This was her job, her career, her pride on the line. People considered her a pushover because she strove to be nice, strove to keep harmony between those she loved.
    But those people were wrong.
    Her blood boiled so hot she could’ve served it as chili sauce. “Couldn’t you hack the LA pace anymore?” she asked. “Or maybe they fired your ass?”
    Del’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he stepped so close she could’ve stomped on one of his black and white Converse sneakers. “Are you always this unprofessional when your employers make decisions regarding the future of their business?”
    Her heart slammed into her throat, choking off her air supply. Her fingernails dug sharp crescents into her palms. At nine years old, she’d slapped Ben for deliberately breaking the head off her favorite Barbie, but since then she’d never hit another person in anger. Right this second, though, Del’s face resembled a big-ass neon target. His choice of words stung her pride even worse—she bloody well knew she was acting unprofessionally—but she just couldn’t get control of the hurt rampaging through her system.
    “Shaye, c’mon now. Pull your head in.” Bill’s voice sliced through the red haze, the resignation in his tone draining a fraction of her temper away.
    Bill was a proud