Mixed Up(23)

If she'd called me this morning, I could have had Vicky, the waitress, stay on for an extra hour or two to help us manage the crowd outside of the bar. Instead, I ended up having Parker stay for longer.

Worse: I opened my mouth about my deadly cocktail. The one I rarely made because of its potency, and the one I never freaking named because, well, it wasn't the kind of thing you yelled about unless you were starring in a fucking porn movie.

Now, he knew about it, and the way he'd looked at me every time since that conversation made me realize that he isn't going to stop unless he knows its name, too. I didn't know if it was the way he side-eyed me or that amused yet determined glint that flashed every time I caught him blinking.

Right now, I was choosing to focus on the miracle that we hadn't killed each other.

And a miracle it was. We'd successfully gotten through twenty-four hours of a legit work day and neither of us had hurt or maimed or even attempted to kill the other. Sure, it'd probably be a different story if we were working in the same room, but we kinda had been. As it was, it was just past midnight and although we'd shut down before I'd anticipated, it was still late.

After all, I'd been on my feet since seven this morning.

And I'd finally been able to check my phone and see that Yia-Yia and Company had touched down in the sunshine state and were now safely tucked into my parents' spare bedrooms.

There was also a message from my brother asking if he could steal my spare room above the bar.



       
         
       
        

That was a big, fat no.

Penance for not working for your sister. I warned him, it was real. I just didn't tell him I'd be the primary deliverer of it. Sibling prerogative, I figured. He deserved it. He knew I was looking for a chef before he got his job in Key West so his excuses were worthless.

As it was, I'd ended up with Parker, and as much as I might have hated that fact, I couldn't deny the endless stream of compliments I'd gotten on the food tonight. Everyone who'd ordered had loved every mouthful they'd had, and I was equal parts happy and still terrified.

Happy because I knew that meant I was set for a while. Terrified because he'd still leave one day and then...Well.

"Tired?" Parker asked me, perched on a bar stool with a finger of whiskey in front of him.

I nodded twice and pushed off from the door. "I have to count the tips. Hold on." I retrieved the mason jars with our names on from beneath the bar and set them on top of it.

"Want help?" Parker motioned to Sienna's jar.

I nodded again. "Take twenty percent when you're done. That's for Vicky."

"Vicky?"

Oh dear god. "The waitress. The person whose face you've seen fifty thousand times tonight."

"Oh." He took hold of the mason jar and tipped it upside down, scattering notes and coins across his immediate area of the bar. "I forgot her name. She became Food Girl after a while to us."

It took every ounce of my strength not to roll my eyes. Fucking Food Girl was the most ridiculous thing I'd heard in ages. "How did Wes do? I didn't get a chance to ask you earlier." I stacked twenty dollars in ones to the side.

"He did good. I'm surprised, not gonna lie. I thought he'd be a fucking mess, but he did great. No complaints, no issues, nothing."

"Good. Did he actually cook at all or did you monopolize that?"

"He took control of the calamari toward the end," he said, pushing some ones to the side. "Something little, but he's basically still in his workplace diapers. He took to it well. He makes a pretty mean batter."

"I've made a mean batter since I was fifteen. What's your point?"

"You were taught to cook by the same person I was. That's my point."

It was a relatively strong one, too. My mom was, hands down, the best cook in the world. She could cook any cuisine to perfection, and it wasn't that she'd been trained, because she hadn't. She'd recently discovered the brilliance of YouTube, and apparently, that was encouraging her to broaden her horizons.

I didn't know how much further hers could broaden given that she was proficient in Greek, Mexican, Italian, French, and German cuisine, but whatever. It was her spare time, and as long as she still made me gyros when I asked for it, I was good with that. 

"Fair enough, but Mom is crazy good in the kitchen. You can't hold everyone to her standard," I reasoned.

Parker caught my eye and said, "If she hadn't held me to her standard of cooking when I was a teenager, I'd be flipping burgers in a taco truck."

"Taco trucks don't flip burgers. And they make mean tacos, so watch your mouth."