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“Tastes like ass to me.”
She hated me. Why wouldn’t she? I had spent every moment since she’d gotten back reminding her I hated her. My fingers tripped over the knife, almost dropping it. I cursed softly.
It didn’t help that I couldn’t look directly at her. That her existence was a stench I couldn’t un-smell. She was here now, not only in my territory but deep inside my head. Running circles in her little boots. I was just not used to having her in my vicinity. I’d get over my weird fixation in the next few weeks. Maybe even days.
You’ve gotten over her. She’s the past.
But if that was the truth, why didn’t I tell her I was McMonster?
My suspicion Cal was oBITCHuary had been confirmed the day she’d told me she was back in Staindrop. I’d put two and two together. And still, I didn’t fess up.
A sharp pain ripped through my forefinger.
Shit.
Blood oozed from my index, a thin river of crimson snaking along the cutting board. A fragment of my skin was nailed to the meat, which would now need to be thrown into the trash. “Shit, boss, are you okay?” Taylor rushed in my direction, tearing a wad of paper towels and pressing them against my finger.
“I’d be better if you’d fuck off,” I muttered. I hated being coddled.
It was the first time I had cut myself in the kitchen in over a decade.
And it was a great reminder of what I already knew.
When Cal was around, I bled.
My mood got progressively worse as the evening went on. Not because we were short on staff. We weren’t. Rhy had managed to hire two qualified temps from Vermont at an outrageous hourly rate. Still, I was distracted, uneasy; I checked on Cal through the window slit between the kitchen and the bar to make sure she wasn’t vomiting in anyone’s soup or accidentally falling in their lap. Seemed like she wasn’t.
Another thing she was not—a fine-dining server.
Her timings seemed acceptable, she properly cleared the tables, was well-groomed, and held a flawless posture. My issue was that she was friendly. Too friendly. Her giggle was in my ear all the fucking time. Contagious and joyful, even through the pockets of chatter and utensil noise. She stopped to chat with tables she wasn’t in charge of. Often and at length. Leaned down and cooed over photos people showed her on their phones. She even helped one of the patrons with the zipper of her dress.
It was unprofessional. It was tacky. And it was getting on my last nerve.
Looking at her from the outside, you couldn’t tell she had anxiety. But I knew better. I knew how she lied, how she bottled it all up to show a perfect front. Knew that deep inside, she was frightened of showing her true colors, her true feelings.
Like right now, Cal was standing in front of an elderly couple that screamed old money and appeared to be playing a game of charades with them. Either that, or I was witnessing her having a stroke. She contracted her face, then did a little dance that had the woman tipping her head back, laughing, and clapping.
Rhy glided into my kitchen armed with his iPad, going over inventory mid-shift. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over to the kitchen window, drawing petrified looks from my employees.
“Rhyland,” I seethed.
“Ambrose.” He was entirely unaffected by my behavior, even giving me his I-know-you’re-having-a-terrible-time smirk. “I see you’re in a good mood.”
“I’ll be in a better one once you explain yourself. What the fuck am I looking at?” I pointed at Cal through the partition. She fluttered around the room, a colorful butterfly flapping its wings. She landed at a table with two businessmen who eyed her like she was fucking dessert—and seemed to be in the middle of a fervent conversation with them. One that included whiskers, by the way she wiggled her fingers next to her nose. I did notice she stood as far away from them as possible, like she was worried she’d be pounced on.
“The subject of your desire?” Rhyland braced an elbow on the windowsill.
“What. Is. She. Doing?”
“What you should be doing.” He grabbed a cherry tomato from a nearby bowl, popping it in his mouth. “Working.”
“She’s making a spectacle of herself. Look at her.” One of the businessmen sat back and clapped. Like she was a circus monkey. A dark flame kindled in my chest, urging me to dismember him like a lobster.
Rhyland shoved his head in the wide slit of the window, scratching his golden stubble. “I’m seeing a woman so lovable she just got tipped four Benjamins and refused to part ways with them when I explained to her we use a tip pool. Things almost got physical.”
“But then you remembered I’d pelt you head to toe, turn you upside down, and stuff your inner organs with wasabi if you so much as lay a finger on her.”
His grin widened. “You’re so good at not loving her. Highly convincing.”
