Page 72 of The Don’s Omega

He doesn’t answer.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” His expression is instantly guarded.

I don’t let it bother me. One tennis match isn’t going to knock down all his walls. “Do you miss working?”

He avoids my gaze. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He slides his gaze back to mine. “Why? If I say yes, will you let me go back to my old job in Philadelphia?”

“No.” I study him. “But I don’t think being a bartender was ever your dream. I think you took that job to survive.”

He pokes his finger at the sugar on the rim of his empty glass. “You’re right. When my parents died, I wasn’t able to go to college like I planned. I had to take whatever job I could get.”

“That’s what I figured.” I smile politely at the waiter who delivers our next round of lemon drop martinis. “So, what was it you wanted to do? Before your parents died, I assume you had hopes and dreams like any other nineteen-year-old.”

“Yeah, I did,” he says softly.

“So, tell me what those dreams were.”

He grimaces. “You don’t really want to hear that crap.”

I lean toward him. “Bullshit. I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“Elio,” I rumble. “Nothing about you bores me. Now tell me what you wanted to be when you grew up.”

He hesitates. “Well, I… I guess when I was younger, I thought I might go into consulting.”

“What kind of consulting?”

“I don’t know.” He looks embarrassed.

“Yes you do,” I coax. “What kind of consulting interested you?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure what it’s called. I was always good at seeing why some restaurants weren’t working well.”

“You wanted to go into restaurants and fix their problems?”

“I guess.”

I smile. “So, you’re secretly a control freak?”

“Maybe.” He laughs. “It’s amazing to me how many places look great, but are run poorly. The worst ones always seem to have either bad managers or a horrible layout. Sometimes both.”

I frown. “Can a layout really be so bad the staff can’t do their job?”

“Absolutely. I’ve worked in a few bars where whoever wrote up the plans put the blender sink twenty feet from the damn bar area. That’s a real problem when you’re having a busy night.”

I lean back in my chair, studying him. “It sounds like whoever drew up the plans had never worked in hospitality.”

“I suspect you’re right.” He sips his martini, then says, “I don’t know what a job like that is even called. Maybe hospitality consultant or something?”

“Not sure,” I murmur.