“I see you,” she said. “You’ve got three people ahead of you.”
The man lowered the bill.
I took another drink from the plastic tasting cup she’d set in front of me and watched her keep the room from coming apart one problem at a time.
I was supposed to observe, collect, and report.
Instead, I sat at her bar with a watermelon-jalapeño margarita burning sweet and sharp on my tongue, a paper boat of stuffed cherry pepper bites near my elbow, and a woman behind the counter who moved like panic had personally offended her.
Nella worked in cutoffs, a black tank, and an apron tied crooked at her waist. Her dark hair had loosened from its twist, damp curls clinging near her neck. Hoop earrings flashed when she turned. Lime juice shone on her fingers.
She snapped a shaker tin into place, slid two waters toward a sunburned couple, and cut her eyes toward the kitchen pass before Mari rang the bell.
“Garlic knots with whipped ricotta,” Mari called. “Run them while they’re hot.”
Shay lifted a ticket from the service well. “Patio three wants the watermelon one without jalapeño.”
“Then they want watermelon juice and disappointment,” Nella said. “Charge them for both.”
I laughed once into my drink before I could stop it.
She pointed the bar spoon at me without looking. “Don’t encourage me, Torretti. I’m already delightful under pressure.”
Delightful wasn’t the word I’d have used.
She was small, loud, and dangerous, sharp enough to cut a man who forgot where to put his hands.
I looked down at my watch before I looked too long at the curve of her waist.
The number in my head stayed the same: five days.
That was the window Sal had given her on paper, and the window I’d allowed in public. Enough time for her to try. Not enough time for anyone at Torretti Harbor Capital to call me soft.
I didn’t get soft over debtors.
I definitely didn’t get soft over debtors who insulted my shirt, fed me peppers, and ran a beachfront bar like they could bully a balance sheet into mercy.
Dusty appeared at my left with both hands full of napkins. For once, they were stacked in the correct direction.
“You’re improving,” I said.
He blinked down at the napkins. “Do you mean spiritually or logistically?”
“I’ll take either.”
“That’s generous of you, my dude.”
Nella swept past us, grabbed the tray of garlic knots, and slid it toward Shay without losing the drink shaker in her other hand. “Dusty, patio rail needs menus. Taryn, tell the birthday tablewe don’t put sparklers in drinks indoors. Shay, if anyone asks whether the whipped ricotta is vegan, tell them no before Mari hears and starts sharpening something.”
Mari’s voice shot from the pass. “I heard that.”
“Then I’ve saved us all time,” Nella called back.
A man at the patio rail leaned too far over the counter, trying to catch Nella’s eye while she capped a shaker.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “We’ve been waiting.”
Nella poured, strained, and slid two drinks down the mat to Shay. “Sir, if you call me sweetheart again, your wait time becomes educational.”
