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Scanning left to right with practiced ease, he leaned forward and tucked something into my hand.
“But not here,” he murmured, clearing his throat. “And not now.”
Eight
QUINN
“Goddammit, we’re out of halibut!”
Trey’s face was red, but then again it was usually red. This early into the night however, it shouldn’t almost be purple.
“QUINN!” he snapped his fingers at me three times in rapid succession. “Get over here!”
I set down the pan of carbonara sauce I was reducing, and stormed over. My boss might be in a bad mood, but I was in no mood for his shit either. I generally went right back at him in situations like this, and sometimes even harder than he gave it to me. The worst part was constantly trying to come up with good enough insults. The best part was that deep down, I knew he respected me for it.
“What level of a brain aneurysm did you have when you requisitioned the fishmonger?” he demanded.
I stood toe-to-toe with him, and eye-to-eye. It was easy, because although he’d been blessed with a fiery Italian temper that rivaled any chef I’d ever worked with, Trey had drawn the short end of the stick when it came to his height.
“Ain’t my fault,” I shot back. “Your fishmonger probably shorted us.”
“You think?”
“Well he’s only got one good eye, so…”
“Sal’s got glaucoma,” Trey growled. “Don’t pick on him. The man took shrapnel in Vietnam. He’s in his eighties.”
“All the more reason he shouldn’t be weighing out portions of fish.”
It was all bullshit of course; I’d shorted the halibut order on purpose because I wanted to bring in other, more exotic proteins instead. Halibut was boring as hell, and I made a sesame tuna tartare to die for. Not to mention when the mood stuck, I could be an absolute fucking sorceress with a monk fish.
“We ever run out of halibut again and we’re going to run out ofyou,” Trey finished chewing me out. “You got that?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Good.”
“I treasure every moment we don’t spend together.”
He paused in the middle of walking away, trying to figure that one out. Halfway through, his brain shifted gears and he snapped his fingers in remembrance.
“Oh, and one more thing before you go back to burning that sauce.”
“Shock me,” I quipped. “Say something intelligen—”
“There was a guy sniffing around here for you earlier today,” said Trey. “And I say sniffing around because he looked like a rat, and he gave off an equally creepy vibe.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. All residual anger and sarcasm drained instantly away.
“A really big guy?” I inquired.
“Big? No.”
“By big I mean tall, too,” I added hastily. “Tattoos, maybe? Silver rings?”
Trey shook his head.
“Or did he have blond hair, or—”
