I don’t write anything down, just glare at him. “It’s coffee.”
A hint of a smile crosses his lips. “You’re a terrible waitress.”
“And you’re a shit husband,” I hiss. “You want fries with that?”
His voice drops intimately. “I want you to come home.”
The din of chatting customers, silverware scraping on plates, and clunking water glasses is loud in my ears, but I’m hyper focused on what he’s going to say next. What the hell did he come three thousand miles from home to say to me?
“You’re my wife,” he says. “You have a duty to me, and to the winery.”
Really? That’s the best he can do? He’s not even fighting for me, he’s ordering me to fall in line. He hasn’t apologized, either, or even asked why I left in the first place.
“If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
He glares at me. “Stop wasting everyone’s time. You need to come back.”
I could not be less impressed with his little speech.
Slipping my order pad into my pocket, I say sweetly, “I’m sorry, but we don’t sell doormats here. Maybe you should try the hardware store down the…” My voice trails off as I’m gripped by a familiar wave of nausea. I consider running.
Dante grabs my wrist. “Frankie? Are you okay?”
Bad, bad timing. I try to pull back, but he won’t let me go. My insides lurch. There’s nothing I can do.
Bending over, I puke in Dante’s lap.
6
Frankie
Dante leans backin the booth with his arms spread as I heave on his Italian merino trousers.
A collective gasp and disgusted groan go through the diner.
Dante looks shocked. His suit is obviously ruined. So is the appetite of everyone in the restaurant.
“Free milkshakes for everyone!” I say flippantly as I grab a napkin from the table and wipe my mouth.
The couple in the booth next to Dante’s gets up and leaves without ordering, and a few more customers waiting up front to be seated decide to walk out instead.
I should care, but I don’t.
“Sorry about your suit,” I tell Dante, my voice deadpan.
“God, Frankie, are you okay?”
The honest concern in his voice pulls something in my heart, but I don’t get a chance to respond as Charles storms over, clipboard clenched in one meaty fist.
“Frankie! What did youdo?”
Before I can explain, my boss launches into one of his tirades.
“This is unacceptable. First you screw up more orders than I can count, then you practically run the milkshake machine dry, and now you’re getting sick on customers. Do you think I—”
“Is this really how you run a business? By forcing an obviously sick woman to work?” Dante says as he gently moves me aside and stands, tall and imposing despite the vomit on his Tom Ford suit. His face is that hard slab of stone I hate so much, but it’s not pointed at me this time.
Charles draws back as Dante comes face-to-face with him.
