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“You have a personality,” I informed him dryly. “A shitty one, but it’s in existence nonetheless.”
He pointed at me with the bottle, not even a little offended. “What’s your idea, Einstein?”
“Find me Donny and Heather, drag them here by the hair, and make them give us the two weeks’ notice they owe us.”
“Donny’s bald.” Rhyland took another greedy sip.
“He’ll be limbless too, once I’m done with him.”
Rhy swished the beer in his mouth, mulling over my words. “Even if I did want to spend my night at the police station awaiting bail for assault and harassment, they’ve probably already boarded the plane.”
Fuck.
Descartes attracted people from all over the East Coast, mainly out-of-towners. The price point and fine-dining aspect of the menu didn’t appeal to Staindrop’s usual palate, which favored anything that was breaded, deep-fried, oversalted, and swimming in ketchup.
“You must know some servers looking for a job.” I began pacing. Service opened in less than thirty minutes, and I had left Taylor, my sous-chef, to handle the kitchen while trying to extinguish this fire.
Rhy gave me a concerned look. “Not anyone desperate enough to work for your grumpy ass. Flip side? You’re about to run off to London to open your shiny, new restaurant.”
Flip side, my ass. He knew me better than that. My perfectionism wouldn’t allow this ship to sink, even if it had a hole the size of Antarctica at the bottom. Descartes was still mine, until it closed. I’d die before I failed.
“Hold on a minute.” Rhyland held up his finger, brows pinching into a tight V. “Why are you dressed like an Italian mobster who got lost at a Neiman Marcus store?”
I looked down. I wore a black dress shirt and designer slacks, a departure from my signature Henley and black, ripped denim uniform.
“Is it a crime to look good?” I really didn’t need him riding my ass about Cal right now.
“Hope the fuck not.” Rhyland pulled another beer from the fridge, uncapped it, and slid it my way across the bar. “I’d get life without parole, and do you know what they do to people like me in prison?” He gestured toward his face.
“Ten hours of community service and sex addiction rehab?” I asked conversationally. Someone needed to keep his ego from overtaking the continent. I was doing the whole nation a service.
“Oh shit.” Rhyland slapped the back of his neck. “Artem Litvin passed away. You went to his funeral today, right?”
Better get it over with. Rhy was going to find out sooner or later that Cal was in town. “He was the one teacher at school I didn’t want to set on fire.” I shrugged, bringing the bottle to my lips.
“So you saw Cal.” Rhyland’s eyebrows were floating somewhere above the atmosphere.
“Briefly,” I grunted.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Hard pass. She did enough talking for the entire decade.”
“Still adorably weird, I see.” He plastered his palms against the designer bar between us. “Well, if you wanna talk about it, we can grab a beer after we close.”
Rhy and I never “talked” about things. We bickered and taunted. Sometimes even brawled. Had I really been that pathetic growing up? I remembered being in love with her, but I didn’t recall handing her my nuts in a flower bouquet for Valentine’s Day.
I banged the empty beer over the bar after one sip, pointing at the thick butcher block between us. “Clean up the condensation before we open. This is not amateur hour.”
“Just remember you are not that kid anymore.” Rhyland produced a rag from a drawer behind the bar, slapping it over his shoulder. He made his way back to me. “You know, the one who’d have stayed here getting a McJob if it meant she let you in her flowery corduroy pants.”
“Shut up.”
“Eyes on the prize, Row. You can’t afford to veer off plan. You have a new restaurant to open.”
“Listen to yourself,” I snarled, fingers tightening around the shape of my cigarette pack in my front pocket. “I’m not changing shit for anyone.”
“She eats saltine crackers with a fork.” He slid the rag over the butcher block, wiping the condensation and ignoring my words. “Anyone deserves better than that. Even your sorry ass.”
