Juan crosses his arms, the corners of his mouth twitching. “But Iamshort on servers,mija.”
“Papi!” she sputters. “He’s…he’s a CEO of a company!”
“Good,” he says easily. “Then he probably knows how to take orders.”
From the prep counter, Lola the sous chef snorts, grabs a spare apron, and tosses it my way. “Your new uniform, Mr. CEO.”
“Lola!” Tara looks scandalized.
Lola only grins. “He’s handsome, Tara. We’ll definitely get more customers…of the female variety.”
I catch the apron and slip it over my head, tying it at my waist. “So,” I ask with a perfectly straight face, “where do I start?”
“You look good in that,” Lola declares. “I’ll ask Marisol to put a picture of you on our socials with the caption: have a French count take your order or something like that.”
“No!” Tara gasps. “You can’t do that, Lola. If people in Paris find out?—”
“Hey, I’m part of the team! Why can’t I be on the restaurant socials?” The words come out way more easily than I thought they would.
Yes, if people in Paris find out I’m working as a waiter,merde, it’ll be a whole thing with my parents. But I also have to learn not to care about what people say or think, including my family.
This is my life. This is my woman. And I’m goingto win her back and never be a slave to gossipmongers again. They don't control my life;Ido.
Juan claps me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Muy bien?*, Gustave. Tara, you train him.”
Tara gapes at both of us. “This is insane.”
“Welcome to the Mi Tierra family, Gustave,” Juan says on a loud laugh.
I glance at her, smirking. “You heard the man,mon amour. Teach me how to serve.”
Her glare could cut glass, but there’s color in her cheeks and the slightest tug at her mouth that tells me she’s fighting a smile.
“Fine.” She grabs a tray, and slaps it against my chest. “Let’s see if you can carry three plates without dropping them.”
“Avec plaisir?*.” I follow her into the dining room.
She shows me how to balance trays, how to call out orders to the kitchen, and how to refill water glasses without sloshing half of it onto the table.
I listen, watch, and mimic—smooth, quick, eager to please.
By the time the first order comes in, I’ve already anticipated it, gliding between tables. Who would’ve thought that I could do manual labor? Not me!
When I return to the bar, she’s watching me, arms crossed but eyes soft. “You pickthings up fast.”
I lean close, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “When the teacher’s this beautiful, I am a quick study.”
She pushes me away. “Get to work, Mr. Server.”
I pat her backside, and she gives me a look that says, “the cojones on you.”
Since I’m already in trouble, I say, “Ask me nicely,mon amour.”
“Askyounicely?” She’s incredulous.
“Oui.”
She gives me a measured look and then, dripping with sweetness, she says, “Please,le Comte, can you go clean up table eight?” She even flutters her eyelashes. “Is that nice enough?”
