“Do we like that?”
“We like money,” Taryn said. “We fear the comment section.”
A man at the bar lifted his glass. “What’s in this?”
“Tequila, coconut, blue curaçao, lime, and the belief that vacation choices don’t follow you home,” I said.
He looked delighted. “We’ll take another round.”
“See? Belief is expensive.”
The afternoon sun hit the boardwalk hard enough to make the air shimmer beyond the patio rail. Palm fronds rattled over tourists dragging beach bags and sunburned shoulders past the open front. The ocean flashed bright between moving bodies, blue and silver and rude enough to look peaceful while my life ran on card batches and salt rims.
At five fifteen, the first problem hit.
Mari came out of the kitchen holding one cannoli cup between two fingers. The shell had softened at the bottom, just enough to bend.
“No,” she said.
That one word carried more threat than most men with weapons.
I took the cup. The bottom bowed against my thumb.
The crowd at the front had doubled. Shay had fourteen drink tickets clipped above the well. Taryn was negotiating with a bachelorette group trying to turn one reservation into three tables and a minor land claim. Dusty had somehow acquired a pineapple he didn’t need.
I almost said I’d handle it myself.
My mouth opened.
Nico looked over from the rail.
I closed my mouth.
“Mari,” I said, “cream stays in the cold well. We stop piping at the pass.”
“That slows the dessert.”
“It slows the dessert. Not the room.” I pointed to Dusty. “You. Pineapple down. Grab the shallow hotel pan from under the prep sink, fill it with ice, and put it on the side station.”
Dusty set the pineapple on the nearest shelf. “The pineapple understands.”
“It better. Taryn, limited drops. Tell waiting tables cannoli comes out every fifteen minutes fresh, and if they want sad pastry, there’s a gas station four blocks down.”
Taryn lifted her pen. “I’ll make that sound warm.”
“Don’t make it too warm. The shells are already making choices.”
Shay slid a row of drinks toward the service edge. “What do you need from me?”
“Keep selling the drink. Push cannoli as limited. Scarcity is just panic with better shoes.”
Nico stepped closer. “What do you need me to move?”
I pointed toward the back shelf. “Dry shells to the office. It’s cooler upstairs. Bring down one tray at a time when Mari says. Don’t touch cream. Don’t give opinions. Don’t become poetic about pastry.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ll control myself.”
“I’ve heard mixed reviews.”
