Dusty drifted toward the back hall. “The crates have summoned me.”
Nella looked at me. “You.”
I lifted my brows. “Me?”
“You’re six-four and currently underfoot. Make yourself useful.”
I stood. “Careful. That sounds like trust.”
“It’s labor. Don’t romanticize employment.”
She pointed me toward the back hall.
I moved the crates where Mari wanted them, stacked empties by the service door, and shifted a patio table after Nella pointed at the floor.
“Move it two feet toward the rail,” she said. “Stop there. No, your other left.”
“My other left?”
“The one where you listen.”
I didn’t take over. I didn’t give orders. I followed hers.
No one at Torretti Harbor Capital ordered me around in public.
Nella did it with a crooked apron, a damp curl stuck to her cheek, and a bar spoon in her fist.
I did it anyway.
At ten forty-eight, the line thinned.
At eleven thirty, Taryn locked the takeout window and leaned her forehead against the frame for two seconds before straightening.
At midnight, Shay counted her drawer while Mari wrapped prep.
Dusty tossed a towel toward the wrong bin.
Mari lifted a ladle. “Dusty, if that towel lands anywhere except the laundry bag, I’m going to explain consequences in a language you’ll understand physically.”
He caught the towel before it hit the floor. “I accept this growth opportunity.”
At twelve twenty-six, Nella wiped the bar in long, hard strokes and pretended not to notice I was still on the stool.
“You’re closed,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“Most people leave when that happens.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Tragic for the general population.” She tossed the towel into a bin and untied her apron. Her hair had fallen looser around her face, and a damp curl stuck to her cheek. “Taryn, go home. Shay, stop recounting. You were right the first time. Dusty, if you sleep in the storage closet again, I’m charging rent.”
Dusty paused near the back hall. “That happened one time, and I woke up emotionally closer to the paper products.”
“Home,” Nella said.
“Yes, captain.”
