A pause crackled through the speaker. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m looking at your delivery window from last week’s invoice on her desk.”
I snapped my fingers once. “Less creepy, please.”
Nico glanced at the invoice on my desk. “Because the bar needs limes before lunch, and you can bill the case separately.”
The man sighed. “One case?”
“One,” Nico said. “No substitutions. No bulk order. No changes to her account. Deliver to the side door and ask for Nella.”
“That’ll be before ten.”
“Good.”
He ended the call and set the phone down.
I narrowed my eyes. “That was almost normal.”
“I can be normal.”
“Nico, you were just a shark.”
“For me, that’s normal.”
“I walked right into that one.”
He glanced at the produce, the prep list, and the narrow office stuffed with receipts. “What do you need next?”
Nothing, I should have said.
Leave, I should have said.
Instead, the lunch prep clock ticked loud inside my head, and I looked at the tomatoes, the citrus, the pile of receipts on my desk, and the man who had told me the truth while standing in the Atlantic.
“Wash your hands,” I said. “Then you can move those cases into the walk-in.”
His expression softened. “Yes, boss.”
I pointed at him. “Don’t enjoy this.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
“I know.”
By nine, Shay had arrived with sunglasses on her head, iced coffee in her hand, and the look of a woman ready to smell gossip through concrete.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway when she saw Nico carrying a case of limes.
His shirt had dried enough to stop clinging, but not enough to help me spiritually.
Shay studied him, then me, then him again.
“Do I want to know why he’s wet and touching produce?”
“No,” I said.
