1
BENITO
“Benito,get inside. You’re going to catch your death.”
I try to shake the rain from my hair, but it doesn’t matter. I’m drenched. I’m pretty sure my raincoat hit its saturation point about two hours ago, but that’s what I get for trying to save a few bucks by taking the delivery guys off the schedule.
“I’m all right.” I wave my hand at Rita, the hostess who acts like she’s the one who owns this restaurant, not me.
She clicks her tongue, and all five-foot-nothing of her huffs to the front door. “You’re the hardest working man in Star Falls, but this is too much. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
There’s love under her motherly warning. In fact, Rita prides herself on being an honorary mother to everyone who works at Benito’s. Which means I not only have to put up with my own smothering mother, but I have one at my restaurant too.
“I’ll take you home tonight,” I tell her, wiping the back of my hand over the raindrops dripping down my face. “Lights are out across town, side streets have puddles deep enough to swim in. You’re not driving.”
Rita wags a highly polished fingernail at me and then points toward the parking lot. “You think I drove myself? With the forecast we had?”
I look through the glass door and see the headlights of the station wagon that belongs to Rita’s much-younger boyfriend. And by much younger, I mean seventysomething to her eighty.
“Thanks for the offer, sweetheart, but I have a ride home.” Rita rests her bottom against her stool and carefully slips on her rain boots. “And if I’m lucky, I’ll have a rideathome too.” She twists her glossy red lips into a pucker and blows me an air kiss.
I chuckle, trying not to cringe at the image of Rita getting lucky back in the senior community where she lives. “Anybody left inside?” I ask while Rita gathers her purse and umbrella.
“One at the bar,” she says, “and there’s a couple at table ten.” She lifts a hand up to pat my cheek, and I bend down so she can actually reach me. She grips my chin in still-strong fingers. “Now you go dry off and get some rest,” she tells me.
I grin at her and hold the door while she opens her umbrella. But before she can protest, I grab the flimsy handle from her and tuck her protectively under my arm. I angle the thin black fabric, pointing the tip of the umbrella into the wind, trying to keep it from flapping the wrong direction and leaving us both exposed to this brutal storm.
I hurry her through the buckets of rain pounding against the paved parking lot until we finally reach the passenger door of the waiting vehicle. I yank open the door and see Samuel, whose big smile glimmers under his bristly white beard.
“Benito,” he says, the windshield wipers running on high speed, a measured rhythm that feels predictable and comforting. “Good to see you.”
I nod at Samuel, holding the umbrella against the pouring rain while Rita climbs into the car. Once she’s in, I close the umbrella, shake it off, and set it beside her boots in the footwell. “Get home safe,” I say, then close the door and hoof it back toward the restaurant, trying not to skid and fall on my already-wet ass.
I meet a couple coming out just as I’m going back in. This must be my couple from table ten, so I wish them a safe drive and watch as they duck their heads and hurry toward their car.
I flip the small sign on the front door to Closed, lock the dead bolt, and blow out a hot breath that leaves a tiny mist of fog on the glass. If I have one more customer at the bar, I’ll want to make sure he’s able to get home safely before I let him out.
I shake my arms, covering the floor with water from my raincoat, and head toward the bar.
“Jesus. You need a towel?” Maggie, my kitchen manager, spots me before I even make it five feet into the restaurant.
I shrug. “I’m all right, Mags. Everybody else go?”
She tosses me a look. “Of course. You told us to close the kitchen early. You think I need to tell those heathens twice?” She chuckles, then gives me a wave. “I’m out too, now that you’re back. Jasmine’s up front at the bar, but once she sees you, I’m sure she’s going to take off. You’re good to lock up?”
I nod. “Drive safe.”
She nods. “Will do.” She jerks a thumb toward the kitchen, and her expression grows serious. “Benny. You remember about tomorrow?”
I tug down my hood and stifle a groan. Truth is, I remember nothing. So much goes into running this place, and Mags is my right hand. She could mean I’m meeting a new bread vendor or that we have a fire system inspection. I don’t have a freaking clue.
“Refresh me?” I say, bracing for Maggie’s ire. She’s been riding me hard the last few months—and with good reason. I’ve been running like a chicken with my head cut off. If Mags didn’t put food in front of me, I’d probably forget to eat most days. Not a good look for the head chef and owner of his own restaurant.
“Jesus, Benito.” Her brows, lips, and tone make me feel ten years old again, although my parents would never invoke Jesuswhen scolding me. Ma still keeps a swear jar in the house even though all her kids have grown up and moved out, and my Italian parents aren’t that religious, but we don’t take anyone’s name in vain if we can help it. Mags doesn’t seem to have that same concern, because she’s muttering something I can’t make out under her breath. Finally, she frowns, her words sharp as a paring knife. “This is important, Benito. You know we need that grant.”
Fuuuuck.
The grant.
