Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Another thing she was not—a fine-dining server.
Her timings seemed acceptable, she properly cleared the tables, was well-groomed, and held a flawless posture. My issue was that she was friendly. Too friendly. Her giggle was in my ear all the fucking time. Contagious and joyful, even through the pockets of chatter and utensil noise. She stopped to chat with tables she wasn’t in charge of. Often and at length. Leaned down and cooed over photos people showed her on their phones. She even helped one of the patrons with the zipper of her dress.
It was unprofessional. It was tacky. And it was getting on my last nerve.
Looking at her from the outside, you couldn’t tell she had anxiety. But I knew better. I knew how she lied, how she bottled it all up to show a perfect front. Knew that deep inside, she was frightened of showing her true colors, her true feelings.
Like right now, Cal was standing in front of an elderly couple that screamed old money and appeared to be playing a game of charades with them. Either that, or I was witnessing her having a stroke. She contracted her face, then did a little dance that had the woman tipping her head back, laughing, and clapping.
Rhy glided into my kitchen armed with his iPad, going over inventory mid-shift. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over to the kitchen window, drawing petrified looks from my employees.
“Rhyland,” I seethed.
“Ambrose.” He was entirely unaffected by my behavior, even giving me his I-know-you’re-having-a-terrible-time smirk. “I see you’re in a good mood.”
“I’ll be in a better one once you explain yourself. What the fuck am I looking at?” I pointed at Cal through the partition. She fluttered around the room, a colorful butterfly flapping its wings. She landed at a table with two businessmen who eyed her like she was fucking dessert—and seemed to be in the middle of a fervent conversation with them. One that included whiskers, by the way she wiggled her fingers next to her nose. I did notice she stood as far away from them as possible, like she was worried she’d be pounced on.
“The subject of your desire?” Rhyland braced an elbow on the windowsill.
“What. Is. She. Doing?”
“What you should be doing.” He grabbed a cherry tomato from a nearby bowl, popping it in his mouth. “Working.”
“She’s making a spectacle of herself. Look at her.” One of the businessmen sat back and clapped. Like she was a circus monkey. A dark flame kindled in my chest, urging me to dismember him like a lobster.
Rhyland shoved his head in the wide slit of the window, scratching his golden stubble. “I’m seeing a woman so lovable she just got tipped four Benjamins and refused to part ways with them when I explained to her we use a tip pool. Things almost got physical.”
“But then you remembered I’d pelt you head to toe, turn you upside down, and stuff your inner organs with wasabi if you so much as lay a finger on her.”
His grin widened. “You’re so good at not loving her. Highly convincing.”
“Shut up.”
“I honestly haven’t seen acting this bad since Tommy Wiseau.” He smirked. “You deserve a Razzie Award.”
“I hate you,” I grumbled.
My best friend’s chest rumbled with laughter. He tapped my back with the intention of breaking a bone or two. “Point is, people respond to her. She is personable, knows the entire menu by heart—cocktails and wine included—and never keeps customers waiting. Don’t worry about her. She’s doing great.”
That’s what I was worried about. It would be so much nicer to slip a check into her mailbox every weekend and forget she existed. A charity of sorts.
“These fecal matters are looking down her shirt.” A muscle in my jaw twitched.
“The uniform is a turtleneck.” Rhyland’s brow knitted in confusion.
I ignored him. “Throw them out.”
“Row, you can’t start beefing with anyone who sniffs around Cal’s ass.”
What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course I could. I’d been doing that since she was in middle school. That someone had still managed to somehow hurt her along the way, make her find men distrustful, was something I took as a personal failure.
“Thought you said you’re over her.” He grabbed another cherry tomato, tossing it high in the air and catching it in his mouth.
“I am. Now I’m just paying it forward by making sure she isn’t ruining more lives.”
“Don’t bother, Rhy.” Taylor, wiping the residual accents off plates of poached lobster and fennel salad, sighed. “Chef’s been like this all evening. Can’t rip him away from that window.”
“Am I no longer allowed to check on my own restaurant?” I turned to pin Taylor with a glare. “Also, your fennel–cucumber ratio is wrong. Start from scratch.”
“There are no mistakes in art,” Taylor pointed out.
“There are when it’s in my fucking kitchen. Start. From. Scratch.”