“We’re shorthanded. If you can take an order without weeping when someone complains their fries are 'too potato-ey,' you’ll do. Friday and Saturday nights are bloodbaths. You’ll go home smelling like a deep fryer, but you won't have a second to think about anything else. Deal?”
The'won't have a second to think'part was the real selling point.
“I don't have weekend plans,” I said. The words felt like a relief. Beyond Luka—who was currently my only bridge to the land of the living—I didn't have friends here. I didn’t have a social calendar, or a life that wasn't currently a wreckage site, or a home that didn’t feel like an apology waiting to happen.
“Good. Grab a T-shirt and an apron. Tie it tight.” She jerked her chin toward the back. “And don’t let Gary hand you anything he says is ‘stable.’ It’s a lie.”
I took the items, the rough fabric a welcome reality. Between my afternoon lectures and the grease, maybe I could finally squeeze out the memory of the other night. Or at least, I’d be too exhausted to dream about it.
"Start now," Margaret said, already turning back to the register. "Gary’s about to drown in a milkshake order."
I didn't even have time to adjust the ties before the midday rush swallowed me whole. Any hope of a grace period vanished under a mountain of tickets and the aggressive hiss of the flat-top grill. By 4:00 PM, I was a walking heart-attack risk. My ponytail was a shipwreck, my feet were screaming in a language I didn't want to learn, and I’d explained that we were out of chocolate malt nine separate times.
But Margaret was right. The relentless rhythm of the ticket wheel was a sedative. There was no room for anything oranyoneelse in a brain occupied byTable 4 needs extra ranchanddon't slip on the floor drain. For five hours, I wasn't the daughter of a disgraced legend; I was just a person who forgot to put pickles on a sourdough burger.
When I finally pushed through the diner doors to head home, the ocean breeze felt like a personal insult. It didn't scrub the grease off; it just layered salt on top of it. I smelled like a carnival midway—fried, salty, and cheap.
The closer I got to the Valerio estate, the more the exhaustion settled into a dead weight. I was ready for the quiet. I was ready to slip into the pool house and avoid my father’s embarrassment for just a little longer.
But the silence was gone.
The bass line hit me before I even cleared the main gate, vibrating through the floorboards of my car. I slowed, my brow furrowing as I rounded the corner.
A party. Sunday afternoon, and the lawn was crawling with people—bright swimsuits, designer sunglasses, the sharp clink of glass against stone. It looked like a luxury car commercial, but the air felt wrong.
I cut the engine and stepped out, the music hitting me like a physical shove. I scanned the crowd, looking for the source of the chaos, and found it at the center of the gravity.
Dominic was sprawled on a lounge chair, the sun hitting the planes of his chest like it was paying rent. He looked infuriatingly serene, a king presiding over a kingdom of shallow noise.
I tried to keep my head down, to move toward the pool house without being seen, but I was a grease-stained thumb in a sea of swimsuits and linen.
“Whoa, hold up.” A guy with a beer in one hand and a frat-star smirk on his face stepped into my path, blocking the way to my door. He leaned in, his eyes roaming over my SHIFT T-shirt with a lazy, appreciative grin. “Where have you been hiding, honey? You smell like… a very delicious burger.”
I sidestepped, my composure fraying at the edges. “Move.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that.” He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder. “You look like you need a drink and a place to sit that isn't a kitchen.”
“She said move, Jax.”
The voice was low, cutting through the pulsing bass like a blade.
Dominic hadn't moved a muscle, but his head was turned, his sunglasses slid halfway down his nose. The bored indifference was still there, but his eyes were fixed on Jax’s hand with an intensity that made the air between them feel brittle.
Jax laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Just being friendly, Valerio. Relax.”
“Be friendly somewhere else,” Dominic murmured, the command quiet and absolute.
Jax rolled his eyes and drifted back toward the bar, but the damage was done. I stopped pretending to be nice. I didn't head for my door. I marched straight for the lounge chair.
I stopped at the foot of his seat, my silhouette stretching over him.
“Turn it down,” I demanded.
Dominic didn’t look at me. He didn’t even adjust his posture, his hands remaining folded behind his head. “It’s a Sunday, Shortcut. People like music on Sundays.”
“The speakers are pointed directly at the pool house,” I said, my voice tight. “Turn. It. Down.”
“Why?” He tilted his head back, finally looking at me through the dark tint of his glasses. The corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s my family’s property. We can play the music as loud as we want, wherever we want.”
