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I was standing at the heart of Descartes’ dining area, surrounded by rustic décor, stained glass, and useless idiots. I was two idiots short, though. Donny and Heather, my servers, had decided to quit together and hand me a generous twenty minutes notice, along with a figurative middle finger.
“Let me explain again. I’ll refrain from using big, scary words this time.” Rhyland, my restaurant manager, smoothed his crisp dress shirt with his palm, ignoring the staff milling around us to get the place ready for service. “Now, I’m going to talk extra slow, since I know your brain short-circuits once you’re pissed off. So Donny took out his phone, typed out a text saying he and Heather weren’t going to show up for service today, and hit the Send butto—”
“I suggest you get to the point before your balls make it to tonight’s entrée specials,” I said, cutting him off and glancing at my De Bethune watch. “You have five minutes. Use them wisely.”
“First of all? Work on your people skills. You’re about as personable as an STD test.” Rhyland sucked his teeth, shaking his head. He looked like a fucking Hugo Boss model in a suit. At six-foot-four with a blond, Charlie Hunnam man-bun, and a five-workouts-a-week physique, he distracted ninety-nine percent of my employees. “Second, you’re gonna have to tone it down. We live in an era where employees have rights and shit.”
“I can guarantee you their rights don’t include fucking me over with a ten-foot pole and twenty minutes notice.” I turned my thumb ring on my finger, imagining I was wringing someone’s neck.
He scrubbed his face exasperatedly. “See? This kind of language is why three of your ex-staffers filed a complaint against you to OSHA.”
“The R&B singer?” I frowned.
“OSHA, not Usher.” Rhyland pinched the bridge of his nose. “The pro-workers organization?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Why would Donny and Heather quit together, anyway?” I bit out. I was in a particularly dangerous mood today, having spent the last hour arguing, wrestling, and nearly creaming my pants thanks to Calla fucking Litvin, the bane of my miserable existence.
Rhyland stroked his chin leisurely, his douchebag vibes dripping all over my floor. “Hmm. Let me think. Maybe because they’re engaged?”
“To each other?” I tried to conjure them into memory, but I was bad with faces. And names. Fine, I actually had no fucking clue who Heather and Donny were. I just knew I needed them to open service tonight.
Rhy chuckled. “Shit, Row, do you care about anything other than work?”
“Baseball, during seasons the Mets don’t suck.” I glanced around, throwing blood-chilling looks at my staff to make sure they weren’t slacking. “How was I supposed to know they were bumping uglies?”
“Through the power of sight and deduction. They were all over each other like a genital rash after spring break.” Rhyland threw charming smiles at servers who smoothed tablecloths and arranged utensils around us. The man could flirt with a fucking Stanley cup and win it over. “You kicked them out of the meat fridge the other day, remember? Told Donny next time you saw his meat in that fridge, you’d make dumpling stuffing out of his intestines.”
That did sound like something I’d say.
Besides being my restaurant manager, Rhyland Coltridge was also my best friend. He’d been my wingman since I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu and called him up to supervise my restaurant in Paris. Rhyland was a boyfriend-for-hire by trade—a PC title for what really was de facto a male escort—but I’d convinced him to work with me through a fat paycheck, good food, and a limitless amount of pussy. That last selling point was his favorite. He’d yet to find a hole he didn’t want to shove his dick into.
Descartes was our last hurrah together, though. Rhy wanted to be a full-time pretend boyfriend in the Big Apple, after blazing through most of the willing women in Western Europe. The money was excellent, the hours measly in comparison to running a Michelin-starred restaurant, and one of his filthy-rich clients had bought him a condo in Manhattan as a birthday gift. Therefore, three weeks ago, he’d informed me he was done with the customer service field.
The only customers I want to service are millionaire women who pay me hourly for longingly staring at their eyes during family functions and telling their relatives and jealous ex-husbands how much I love them had been his exact words.
“You really don’t pay attention to anyone other than yourself and your kitchen, huh?” Rhy’s green eyes narrowed.
That wasn’t completely true. I did notice one person. She had blue-tipped, Rachel Green hair, wore overalls unironically, and possessed the ability to be klutzy without looking like a complete moron.
And I wanted to stay as far away from her as humanly possible. This wouldn’t be a problem, though. I had the uncanny ability to cut people off, and Calla Litvin had been plucked from my life five years ago, straight from the root. She was squarely on my shit list.
“Let’s get to the solution portion of this conversation.” I tapped my cigarette pack on my thigh, eager for a smoke. “How are we solving our staff problem?”
It was going to be a bitch to hire and train two new employees if I could even find them in this godforsaken town. The citizens of Staindrop weren’t exactly fans of mine, and Descartes was booked to the max until its closing date, the day before Christmas.
January first couldn’t come soon enough. That was when my one-way ticket to London was scheduled.
New restaurant. New adventure. Zero baggage.
“Become a tolerable, relatable human being and stop scaring off everyone around you.” Rhyland sauntered over to the bar, crouched down to throw the fridge open, and popped open a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 by banging the cap against the edge of the bar.
“Thanks for the tip.” My nostrils flared. “Any other ideas that fit our time constraint?”
“You wanted something immediate?” He took a pull of his drink. “Then your best bet is your sister and your mother.”
“The former is on bed rest, and the latter is recovering from the flu. Think harder. That brain of yours is good for more than taking directions from lonely rich women.”
“I’m too hot to use my brain. Only average people have to saddle themselves with an actual personality.”
