“Right, yes. I know, I know, Mags. I got it.” I nod, trying to reassure her that I do remember and that I will take this thing seriously. I don’t tell her I’ll have to dig for the email she sent me weeks ago to remember whatthis thingeven is.
Mags and I have a very different opinion about what this business needs. The problem is, I’m a short-term thinker, and she’s got vision, which means, in this case, I know she’s right. I’ve got to make more of an effort to see things her way, but before I can say anything, she huffs at me and heads back toward the kitchen.
“Mags,” I call out. “Mags, I’ll go. I’m going to go.”
She stops but doesn’t turn back to face me. “Tomorrow. Nine thirty in the morning. You got the address?”
“I got the address.” Well, I probably do. Somewhere in my emails or maybe in my texts. I’ll find it, and I’m not going to piss off the best employee I have by admitting I only think I know where it is. “Thanks, Mags.”
She heads back toward the kitchen to clock out, and I sigh. Without Mags’s anger and Rita to worry about, I can finally release some of the tension in my shoulders. The warmth of the restaurant starts drying my damp hair, although my toes are an entirely different story.
Star Falls is a beautiful place to live every day of the year, but when Mother Nature decides to whoop our asses, she doesn’t play around.
The rubber soles of my boots squeak on the tile as I pass from the front of the restaurant toward the dining room. I can see there is someone still seated at the bar, but it’s not a guy, as I assumed. In fact, from what I can see of her back, the blonde cozied up to my bar looks young. Almost too young.
I toss the bartender, Jasmine, a questioning look, but it’s lost on her. She gives me the same shocked frown that Rita and Maggie did. “Did you swim to make all those food deliveries?” she asks.
“Just about,” I sigh. “You got any coffee made, Jas?”
She shakes her head but offers to make some.
“Nah.” I wave my hand. But then I point to the woman on the barstool. “Unless you’d like some for the road?”
At my words, the customer turns slightly on the barstool to face me. I can see right away she’s not underage. The crinkles around her eyes when she grins at me assure me she’s at least my age. I’m relieved, though I never doubted Jas. She’s got a seventeen-year-old son at home who got busted for underage drinking at a lake party this past summer. She grounded his ass for three whole months. I trust her to bring that same mama energy to my business and not serve anyone who isn’t legal, even if the whole damn place is empty now.
The woman on the barstool sucks her full lower lip into her mouth and squints at me. “Coffee for the road?” she repeats. “Is that your way of telling me the kitchen’s closed?” She softens her words with a grin. “I’m not from around here, so if I’m overstaying your hours…I can take a hint.”
Jasmine glares at me and sets two empty mugs on the bar. “You’re fine,” she says to the woman, giving me a look that I’m sure means something. But right now, I’m too damn wet andcold to interpret my bartender’s silent messages. “I’m going to make some coffee. He needs it, even if you don’t.”
Jas busies herself filling the pot, and I motion to a stool a couple down from the woman. “You mind?” I ask. “No need to entertain me. I’ve been running deliveries for hours. I’m dying to get off my feet.”
My customer waves a hand in silent invitation for me to sit, then she pats the stool beside her. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”
I shrug out of my wet jacket before laying it over a stool and taking the seat beside her.
I roll my neck and grimace a little when the joints crack as I work out the tightness. I heave a tired sigh, then shove the wet hair back from my face. “New to town, you said?” I ask.
“Here for business,” she says, turning a little on her stool.
I look up when Jas sets two steaming mugs of coffee in front of us, along with a condiment caddy containing sugar and creamer.
“Thanks, Jas. You out of here?” I ask, directing the question to my employee.
“You bet your behind I’m out of here.” Jasmine motions to the coffeepot. “Be a doll and turn that off before you go? I’ll clean it when I open tomorrow.”
I nod and then look to the woman beside me. “Jas is about to go. You can stay and finish your coffee. No rush. But if you want anything else…”
“I closed out my bill already,” she interrupts, giving me a smile. “But I’ll pay cash for the coffee.”
Jas already has her purse over her shoulder and her jacket on, tucking her hair under the hood. “Coffee’s on the house,” she calls, knowing I won’t mind. “Everybody get home safe.”
After she bustles away, I shake three packets of sugar into my coffee and roll the tiny paper envelopes between my fingers.It suddenly strikes me that I’m famished. I worked through the dinner shift and haven’t eaten since lunch. That feels like it was days ago. I reach for one more sugar—even if that only means a couple more calories, I’ll take them.
“You know,” the woman beside me says, breaking the sudden quiet, “far be it from me to criticize because the meal I ate tonight was absolutely fantastic…”
My gut tightens at her words. I’m braced for the “but.” Embedded in that compliment issomething. A searing critique of my small-town Italian eatery. The outdated carpet. The renovated home with a slightly kitschy vibe that gives Benito’s its family atmosphere. I’m a fantastic fucking cook, but I’m a one-man show. I do the orders, the inventory, staffing, training, and, like tonight, I even fill in for deliveries when I have to. And while this woman can’t know I’m hanging on by a thread here, I am. She can’t know that, but whatever she has to say, I’m sure as hell not in the mood for it.
“Go on,” I say, forcing my tight voice to loosen a little. She has no idea who I am. No idea I own the place. That the name on the front sign is me. I could just tell her I’m off the clock, not interested in talking about work. But she’s a customer, so I grip my mug a little tighter, take a sip, and wait for whatever critique she has.
