His attention dropped to my mouth.
The room noise thickened for one dangerous second.
Then Taryn called, “Nella, a woman on the patio wants to know if the black rim is squid ink.”
I turned toward the patio. “It’s sea salt, ma’am. We don’t season drinks with aquarium villains.”
Nico’s laugh followed me into the rush.
The solution worked.
Of course it worked. I knew my building. I knew the one upstairs corner where the air conditioner blew too hard because the vent had been installed by a man who’d called geometry “a suggestion.” I knew tourists loved limited anything. I knew cannoli shells had the backbone of men on dating apps once humidity got involved.
The next batch went out crisp.
Then the one after that.
By six, people were ordering the shark margarita in rounds and treating the cannoli drops like showtimes.
At six thirty, the card reader froze for seven full seconds.
I pointed at it. “Don’t you dare.”
The screen blinked.
“Good choice.”
Nico set a tray of dry shells on the service shelf. “Did you just threaten the card reader?”
“I threaten equipment before it gets ideas.”
“It worked.”
“Don’t sound surprised. Machines respect tone.”
From the front, Taryn lifted one finger. “Party of eight wants to split checks eight ways.”
Shay hissed. “Absolutely not.”
I looked over the room. The party had matching sunburns and enough hotel wristbands to make poor choices mathematically inevitable.
“Taryn,” I called, “tell them we can split by couple or by divine intervention, and divine intervention closed at five.”
Taryn smiled. “I love policy.”
Dusty drifted by with a tub of clean glasses. “Math is where hospitality gets dangerous.”
“Put the glasses down before you begin a sermon,” Mari said.
“Yes, Chef.”
“You know I’m not a chef.”
“Today you’re commanding pastry. Titles evolve.”
Mari pointed a piping tip at him. “So can consequences.”
The rush kept rolling.
