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Since she wouldn’t be eating fancy at Fresco’s, she dashed to the kitchen, grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge. She ate standing up, imagining the wall gone, new cabinet doors and hardware, some open shelves, some—
“Amiga mia, you need to eat food.”
“Yogurt’s food.”
Nina, now in a robe, put her hands on her hips. “Something that requires a knife and fork, and chewing. You’ve got that long, slim build naturally—bitch—but if you don’t eat, it’ll turn to skinny and gaunt. Seriously, one of us has to learn to cook.” She shot up a coral-tipped finger, then pointed it at Morgan. “I nominate you.”
“Yeah, I’ll take that up in my spare time. Besides, you’re the one with a mother who cooks like a goddess.”
“You’ll come with me for Sunday dinner. Don’t say you’ve got work—your spreadsheets, or whatever. You know Mama and Papa love you. And my brother, Rick, will be there.”
With the yogurt in one, the spoon in the other, Morgan waved her hands as if erasing a board. “I am not dating your brother, no matter how cute he is. That way lies madness. I’m not losing you as a roommate because your brother and I date, have sex, break up.”
Nina held up a gold hoop at one ear, a dangle of three circles at the other. “Which?”
Morgan pointed at the dangles. “Fancier.”
“Good. And maybe you’ll date Rick, have sex, and fall in love.”
“I don’t have time. Give me two years, maybe three, then I’ll have time.”
“I like schedules, too, but not for love. Now you’ve distracted me. You have to eat.”
“I’ll get something at the bar.”
“Dinner Sunday,” Nina insisted when Morgan tossed the container, rinsed the spoon. “I’m telling Mama you’re coming, and once I tell Mama, it’s done.”
“I’d love to go, honestly. Let me get through this week. We’ve been so damn busy at Greenwald’s. Spring makes everybody think of remodeling or painting or building decks.”
She grabbed her purse and kept going. “Have a great time tonight.”
“You can take that to the bank. I’m calling Mama before I get my gorgeous on.”
“Your gorgeous is never off.”
Morgan jogged to the car. Pleased she’d already made up a little time, she drove the five-point-four miles to the town center.
The shops along what the locals called Market Mile (actually one-point-six) would close within the hour. But the restaurants and cafés would keep Market Street lit and busy well into the night.
Most of the buildings—rosy or white-painted brick—kept the retail to street level and held apartments above. The Next Round was no exception and tended to rent to patrons or employees who had no issue living above a bar.
She swung off Market, circled around the back of the bar to the parking lot. With her car secured, she crunched across the gravel to the back kitchen door and stepped into the heat and noise.
The Round ran to burgers, steamers, nachos with sides of fries, onion rings, fried pickles, and three varieties of wings.
When she opened her own tavern, she intended to spread out to a few more, hopefully surprising, choices of bar food.
And she should probably learn how to cook first, because you never knew when you’d have to pitch in.
“Hey, Frankie,” she called out to the woman working the grill as she put her jacket on a peg. “How’s it going?”
“Good enough.” With her poof of ink-black hair tucked under a white cap, Frankie flipped three fat burgers. “Roddy and his brothers are grabbing some dinner before their dart tournament. Be glad you weren’t on for happy hour. We were slammed.”
“I like slammed.”
She exchanged greetings with the two line chefs, the teenage dishwasher, and the waitress who swung in to pick up an order of loaded nachos.
Though she had ten minutes before her shift, she walked through the door and into the bar.
