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Mom, please, I plead silently, hoping we can cease discussing personal matters with Randy.
“I don’t think she had shellfish today,” Randy interjects smoothly. Oh, that grin. I could just eat him alive. “Maybe last night. She went on a date with my cousin, Jeremy. He’s a nice guy, just so you know.”
My horror deepens at Randy’s disclosure.
“A date? Well, that’s nice,” my mom responds passively. “How about having dinner with us on Saturday night?” she asks, getting to the crux of her surprise visit. “Then you can tell Dad and me all about your date with this handsome man’s cousin.” She winks mischievously. “Unless you’ve got other plans, of course.”
“No, I don’t have other plans,” I murmur, hanging my head, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Good, because we just want to see that lovely face of the daughter we made. Hear her voice…” My mom inhales deeply through her nose. “Smell her skin,” she says dramatically.
Randy chuckles, evidently amused by my mom’s quirky sense of humor.
She’s grinning from ear to ear. My mom loves it when someone appreciates her unique brand of wit.
Before I can break the two up, Brady, one of the kitchen staff, thankfully interrupts by poking his head into the front of the café to inform Randy that everything is prepped for the dinner crowd.
“Right. Be right there,” Randy responds before turning his attention back to my mom. “Are you staying for dinner, Faye?”
“No,” my mom and I answer simultaneously.
Startled by our chorus, Mom shoots me a perplexed frown, as if questioning my sanity.
“I mean, I’m assuming you’re not staying because Dad isn’t with you,” I quickly add.
“No, he’s not,” Mom whispers, her gaze piercing through me. I can tell she senses something off about my behavior.
Randy smoothly assures my mom that it was a pleasure to meet her and generously offers that anything she orders tonight will be on the house. Then he pivots to me. “Gina, we’re short-staffed tonight. Could you cover some tables until your shift ends?”
My mouth drops open, totally caught off guard. Randy knows I’m supposed to start working with Pete in about an hour. I won’t argue with him in front of my mom, and he seems to be well aware of that.
“Sure thing, boss,” I manage to say, though my eyes shoot daggers at him.
He chuckles—a deep, taunting sound—as he heads to the kitchen.
What an ass. Score one for him.
* * *
Oddly enough, I’m still fuming hours after my mom’s departure, even though when she left, I promised to eat dinner with them on Saturday night, which usually makes me happy. I’m one of those people who loves hanging out with their parents. But I’m angry because Randy was charming, almost in a scheming way. It feels like he ultimately used the interaction with my mom to get me to stand down, and that doesn’t sit right with me.
I would be angrier if I hadn’t gotten so much exercise by moving from table to table, but the nonstop hustle quelled my irritation. The evening rush kept us exceptionally busy. Even though we don’t officially have wait staff, the combination of Randy’s culinary expertise and our warm service consistently encourages diners to leave generous tips. Now, as the shift winds down, Sarah and I find a moment to take our final break together.
Tonight’s “Star Chef Special”—Randy’s brown butter lamb ravioli—was a massive hit with customers. I’ve been on my feet for three hours straight, receiving all kinds of “compliments to the chef” that I’ll never deliver.
“Mmm.” Sarah’s eyes roll back in delight as she takes a bite of the ravioli. “This man definitely knows how to cook.”
Reluctantly, I have to admit that she’s right. Randy’s culinary skills are undeniably impressive. However, this seems like the perfect moment to ask Sarah something that has been on my mind since last night.
“So, Sarah—” I take a bite of ravioli. “What’s it like working for Randy? Do you find him as annoying as I do?”
“Oh, you two,” she says with a laugh. “I find him friendly, Gina. He’s been a game-changer for Calypso Café. He’s like a big fish in a small pond, and he seems content with that, which is great. Well, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?” I blurt out, taken aback.
“He loves bantering with you,” Sarah says matter-of-factly, as if it’s common knowledge. “You both thrive on it. And by the way, you’re not fooling anybody. The way you two look at each other. All chemistry and sexual tension.” She shrugs, her eyebrows animatedly raised.
I’m so shocked by her words that I feel utterly exposed, as if I’ve been left out in the cold, bare and vulnerable.
