“What time do you open?”
“Hmm?” Paolo startled, frozen with ten slices of bread in each fist. “What?”
Luis took a step closer, then seemed to change his mind. “It’s six o’clock and there’s people outside. I was wondering when you open.”
Paolo threw a glance at the clock on the wall. Six o’clock.Shit. He dumped the bread in the baskets and reached for his apron. The keys were by the till. He tossed them to Luis. “We open now. Unlock the door, will you?”
Luis sloped off to the door. He unlocked it and held it open for the first customers of the day. He hadn’t looked at Paolo much since their first encounter the day before, but it was hard to miss the way his gaze slid to the floor as the early birds filed in. His hair fell over his face, hiding the chiselled good looks and mean mug that made him look like the road man Paolo judged him to be. For a moment, he seemed to shrink into himself, and an odd urge to cross the cafe and brush his hair back swept over Paolo, a prickly heat that made his skin tingle.What the actual fuck? I need coffee, man. I’m losing my mind.
Paolo retreated to the grill. Luis joined him. “What do you need me to do?”
“Bus tables, rinse stuff and stick it in the dishwasher. Clean anything that gets dirty.”
“That’s it? Who’s going to serve and cook?”
“Me.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
Luis didn’t seem worried. If anything, he looked relieved, but there was no time to ponder it. A line formed at the till. Paolo took orders as fast as he could manage and lined them up over the grill. Bacon hit the hot bars, sausages sizzled over the flames, and the scent of Toni’s famous fried breakfast filled the cafe. The hours flew by. Luis bussed tables like a pro while Paolo grilled too many rashers of bacon to count and didn’t burn a single slice of toast.I could get used to this.
Around eleven, the breakfast rush died off. Paolo made two final plates of food and carried one out the back to where Luis was working the dishwasher. “Take a break.”
Luis didn’t answer.
Paolo sighed and tapped him on the shoulder. “Take a—”
Luis whirled round, arms raised. His elbow connected with the plate and set it flying across the room.
It clattered into the wall. Egg yolk and plate fragments slid down the old paint in slow motion, and it took a second for Paolo to realise Luis’s elbow had been meant for his face. “The fuck?”
He shoved Luis back. Luis hit the dishwasher with a metallic thud, and a spark lit his eyes. Anger. But in a split second, it was gone, and horror replaced rage. His gaze darted between Paolo and the broken plate, and he cringed. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“How could you not hear me coming?” Paolo snapped. “It’s not a fucking nightclub in here, and there’s like, three customers out front.”
“Sorry.” Luis stepped around Paolo. He bent to retrieve the broken plate, gathering the pieces with shaky hands. The tendons in his neck stood out. Everything about him screamed distress, and Paolo was struck by a sudden certainty thathewas the one who’d fucked up.
He took a step forwards, but a customer called for attention.
Cursing, he dashed for the service counter and threw together the quickest bacon sandwich known to man. He served it up and returned to the kitchen, but there was no sign of the broken plate or the mess it had made. Luis was at the dishwasher, loading plates like nothing had happened.
Lacking any better ideas, Paolo left him to it.
* * *
The cafe shut at four, but it was barely three when Paolo came to find Luis to tell him he was done for the day.
Luis eyed the cleaned dishes that still needed to be put away. “What about those?”
“I’ll do them. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to get so much done. I’m usually just starting to catch up by now.”
Luis could believe it. The cafe did a roaring trade, and it was hard to imagine anyone could manage it on their own.
Paolo never stopped moving. If he wasn’t cooking, he was serving, taking money, or doing the thousand other things that needed doing when no one was asking for food. And he did it all with a scowl and a sharp tongue. Paolo Cilberto was a moody motherfucker. All day long, he growled and swore, muttered under his breath, and kicked anything and everything that got in his way. It was something else to watch, but Luis had spent most of the day with his head down, especially after he’d elbowed a full plate of food across the kitchen.
Mortification burnt his cheeks. He washed his hands in the sink and considered making a break for it, but the masochist in him needed to face Paolo and find out if his mini meltdown had cost him his job.
