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Of course he was. Men always were. “Thanks for your opinion.”
He got up slowly, towering over her, and put a hand on her arm, which she immediately wanted to shake off. “If you make that call, if you involve yourself in their crap, you’ll never get out. You need to draw the line—their mess, their cleanup.”
Nice. Very supportive. Is that how he’d be if she had a mess she needed help with? Your mess, your cleanup?
Please, God, don’t let this relationship turn out to be typical.
Her cell rang again. Brit? She grabbed the phone, glanced at caller ID. Gladiolas. This time she didn’t glance apologetically at Troy before she connected the call.
“This is Darcy.”
“Chef.” Ace sounded freaked out, even for him.
“Ace?” She went into instant alarm. “What happened? Why are you calling?”
“I think you’d better get over here.” His voice was low, clear and deadly serious. “Now.”
11
TROY DROVE HIS TOYOTA CAMRY grimly east on 94, Darcy in his passenger seat, windshield wipers attempting to compete with the downpour, his stomach pouring out acid. Darcy had insisted on going immediately to the restaurant. He wasn’t sure what purpose he would serve. Supposedly he’d come to back her up, but he was having trouble giving his unconditional support to this fool’s errand.
From what Troy had been able to piece together out of Darcy’s near-hysterical babble, this Raoul character, who, granted, sounded like a complete waste of oxygen, had—newsflash—been in Darcy’s office. Apparently, his cell had run out of batteries so he’d ducked in to use her phone, away from the kitchen noise, and this was somehow, in the logic of someone named “Ace,” akin to a terrorist act.
Now they were risking a speeding ticket at close to midnight on a Saturday night when they should be in Darcy’s bed, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Because Ace had a bad feeling.
Troy relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, telling himself to calm down. Darcy knew Ace better than Troy did. Maybe he did have bad feelings. Maybe those bad feelings were legitimate sometimes. Or all the time. Or maybe those bad feelings came because he worked a high-stress job, ate crap and smoked his brain cells into oblivion every day. Regardless, Darcy had reacted as if she’d been told a nuclear device was found at Gladiolas and only she could defuse it.
He exited the highway, headed south on Twenty-Seventh Street to National, rain thundering on the car roof. Off they’d gone to see what Ace’s bad feeling was. Troy was coming, too, because Troy was the good guy every drama queen the world over could count on to support her while she discounted whatever he had to say.
He navigated the mess that was National Avenue and followed Darcy’s terse directions into the alley behind Gladiolas. Before he’d put the Camry into Park, Darcy had jumped out into the cold rain more suited to March than June. Troy turned off the engine and locked the car, resisting a childish impulse to move as slowly as possible.
Darcy wasn’t Debby. He’d made it his mantra, chanted it ceaselessly, but deep down, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe something important and threatening had happened. But when he’d suggested Darcy get more details from Ace before rushing off, she’d looked at him as if he’d suggested grilling a puppy.
Inside, except for the drumming of rain, the restaurant kitchen was quiet and clean, food smells light and lingering. Too bad his first glimpse of the empire Darcy ruled should be when he was indulging a terrible mood. He’d much rather be here as her special guest, celebrating her achievements with her, able to admire and compliment.
“Ace.” Darcy strode toward a kid who couldn’t be more than nineteen, with a mop of unruly red hair and freckles. He looked like the kid who played Ron in the Harry Potter movies. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Who’s he?” Ace turned his reddened narrowed eyes on Troy, whose stomach clenched, thinking of Tom. Hadn’t Ace said he’d quit?
“Oh, sorry.” Darcy turned back absently, gestured to Troy. “This is Troy. Troy, this is Ace, my dishwasher, sometimes line cook and right-hand man.”
