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My mouth was full of ice cream, so I couldn’t answer immediately, which Vlad took as agreement. “I’ll set you up for tomorrow night. You could go get a drink first.” More murmurs. “Yes, definitely a drink. Maybe at that rooftop bar you always talk about. Then dinner. And dancing afterward. It’ll be the perfect date.”
“I’m working tomorrow. We have an engagement party for most of the night.”
That he organized and had already prepped meals for. They’d ordered a three-course menu so we didn’t have to take individual orders; since there were fifty people coming in, I’d insisted that was the only way we’d be able to take their booking.
We didn’t usually cater for events, since they took a lot of planning and meant we had to take fewer bookings for the dining room. I didn’t have enough staff yet to do both. But we did have a private room that was perfect for it.
Maybe in a few months we’d be in a better position, but for now, it was all hands on deck. There was no way I would bail to go on another pointless date.
There was more grumbling and then some happy exclamations. “Two nights from now, then. I know it’s a weekday, but he won’t mind.”
I groaned around my spoon, not willing to stop eating for this argument. “I don’t have time then either. I have to do stock. And the fire inspector is coming through in a week. We need to make sure everything’s up to code before then.”
“Nothing is more important than finding happiness. You go on the date, and I’ll do stock. Now stop eating cheap ice cream out of a container. We make much better at Grazioso. And get some sleep so you can concentrate tomorrow, because your ravioli today was subpar.”
And with that parting comment, he hung up, leaving me with my spoon halfway to my mouth, stunned into immobility. Sometimes, I wondered who the boss was. Even though he was right. My raviolihadbeen subpar.
After dumping the empty container in my trash, I took a shower and set my alarm for four. Tomorrow would be brutal, and I had to get as much sleep as I could. My nights had gotten short and restless, and I blamed Liam.
Changing the locks on my apartment had just gotten bumped up my to-do list.
* * *
“Mophead’s asking for you.”
I leaned around the hostess station and spotted the guy Amber was talking about. He’d been coming in every few days for the past month. He stayed for two hours, always sat by himself, and ordered the same meal every time. He also had an unfortunate haircut that made him resemble a mop.
The first time he came in, we’d been overbooked thanks to a computer glitch, which meant I was helping out in the restaurant instead of hiding in the kitchen because we didn’t have enough waitstaff.
And now he asked about me every time he was in. Sometimes, I said hi, but most times I avoided him. I was usually good with people and enjoyed talking to our guests, but he gave off major creeper vibes. My gut told me to stay away, and in this case, I listened.
Unfortunately, he’d spotted me and waved, managing to make even his smile look oily and wrong.
Pasting a polite smile of my own on my face, I put down the menu I’d been updating. “If I’m still talking to him in two minutes, come over with a made-up emergency.”
Amber snort-laughed but nodded. “Will do.”
“Your life is in my hands.”
This time she rolled her eyes. “Always so dramatic.”
Forcing my legs to move, I wound my way through the busy restaurant, greeting guests along the way. We had a lot of regulars, and I’d made a point of learning as many of their names as I could. And the personal touch was something that set us apart in the cutthroat world of San Francisco’s restaurant scene.
I stopped two steps away from the table, not wanting to get too close. “Harold. How are you today?”
His eyes skipped over my body until they stopped at my boobs. “There she is. Looking as radiant as ever.”
My smile disappeared, a frown taking its place. The effort of maintaining it was pointless, since he wasn’t looking at my face. “I hope everything is to your liking?”
“Perfect as always,” he said to my boobs, as if expecting them to miraculously answer him.
“Excellent. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
I turned on my heels before he asked a question or found a reason for me to stay. Fighting the urge to glance at my traumatized boobs, I rushed to the kitchen, where I planned on hiding for the rest of the night.
Amara eyed me from behind a mountain of dough. “You look like you ate soggy tiramisu.”
I waved her off. “It’s nothing. Just a headache.”
