7. Wrong
Chapter 7
Wrong
CALLIE
“ D o you know what happened? Because something is definitely going ooph ?—”
Catching my approach over Dean’s shoulder, Aubrey elbowed the other server to cut off his words. The smile she gave me was friendly but tight.
Ooookay .
Most of the staff were pleasant but reserved around me. Or just in general, according to Tess. She said that there wasn’t a lot of the typical restaurant gossip because no one wanted to risk losing the coveted job. If they were already cautious about what they said, they treated me like I had a direct line to every gossip website on the internet. What little chatter did happen always cut off around me because no one knew if they could trust me yet. I’d only been there a little over a month—two weeks of training and then as a regular employee—but I was still the new kid.
It was a role I was all too familiar with.
The exception was some of the chefs and dishwashers. They had no problem letting their guards down—so long as none of the supervisors or Chef Frédéric were within earshot. I didn’t read into their compliments or comments since they seemed willing to flirt with anyone with a pulse.
Actually, based on a conversation from the week before about AI women, they were willing to flirt with anyone without a pulse, too.
Not wanting to push the tepid friendship I’d developed with Aubrey, I pretended I hadn’t overheard a thing and clocked in as usual. I assumed whatever they’d been discussing would be forgotten as the start of the shift neared.
But I assumed wrong.
As more employees arrived for dinner service, the louder the whispers, rumors, and speculation grew.
The already charged air grew electric when Manny, Chef Frédéric, and two of the uniformed security guards from Moonlight came out of the back office.
“Gather everyone,” Chef Frédéric ordered as he walked toward the server area. When the back of the house continued doing their prep, his tone grew sharp. “I said everyone .”
The group converged quickly, and Chef’s careful gaze went over the group like he was doing a headcount. His expression tightened as he scanned again, and I knew it was me he was looking for.
I inched over so I wasn’t hidden behind Alex’s lanky height.
The salad chef—or garde manger, technically—glanced down before doing a double take when he saw it was me at his side. His mouth curved into a smirk as he dragged a hand through his tousled blond hair. He shot me a wink, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
Of all the flirtatious chefs, he was the most blatant and nondiscriminatory. I was pretty sure he’d wink at the statue out in the fountain if he thought he could get under her marble skirt.
“We all here?” Manny asked, and I looked toward him.
But not at him.
My attention was caught on the chef next to him, who was glaring daggers my way.
Yikes .
There was nothing to the tiny interaction with Alex, but I was willing to bet that interpersonal relationships were frowned upon in the busy restaurant that required all the different units to work flawlessly together without drama.
Like I’d imagined his tight expression, Chef’s face smoothed out as he turned his focus toward Manny.
“Okay, folks, Chef Frédéric will get to the specials in a minute, but a few housekeeping notes. Starting tonight, we’re implementing new safety regulations. For those of you who take the bus after shift”—Manny gestured to one of the security guards—“Greg will now be driving a shuttle to your homes. No, he won’t take you to pick up your dry-cleaning or push the cart while you do your shopping. He would, however, likely make a pit stop at a drive-thru if you buy him a milkshake.”
The guard gave a thumbs-up.
“But I actually do my grocery shopping after shift,” Laura said. “I’m already awake, and there are no crowds to deal with.”
“We can’t force you to use the shuttle, but I’d strongly suggest you adjust your schedule for the time being.”
“Is this because of the serial killer?” one of the hostesses asked.
I’d seen the growing news coverage that speculated some deaths were connected, especially after a decomposed body was discovered in a cruddy motel. I hadn’t been overly concerned, but the changes made unease ripple through me.
They’re just being overcautious. The mayor said there was no link.
Unknowingly echoing my thoughts, one of the chefs said, “The cops say there isn’t a serial killer.”
“Riiiiight,” Alex drawled under his breath to the saucier on the other side of him. He quickly moved his fist in an obscene gesture. “Because we can believe anything they say.” Glancing over to see I’d caught the motion, he grinned and winked again.
That time, I didn’t try to fight my eye roll.
“We’re not here to speculate,” Manny continued, “but we’re taking precautions anyway. If you’re going to be using the shuttle, please stop before shift to give Greg your address so we can plan. If you drive and park on the employee level”—he pointed at the other man—“Joey or someone dressed in this same uniform will be escorting you to your car.”
Since getting to work on time had been contingent on multiple buses running on schedule—something that rarely happened and didn’t help my time management anxiety—I’d used some of the hiring bonus and initial tips to buy a crappy car. A big chunk of those tips coming from Chef’s wife. She gave me far too much, period, but especially since she was always my easiest table.
Not that I drew attention to her generosity. She didn’t either, always handing the cash directly to me since there was no check to hide it in. The other servers always stared at the pretty redhead. No one was stupid enough to whisper about her, of course. But I got the distinct feeling they were grateful not to have the pressure of waiting on her. That would change if they knew how lovely she was or that she tipped more than the rest of my tables for the night combined.
Sometimes multiple nights.
My new-to-me car was a gas-guzzling boat that was older than I was, but it got me from my apartment to Parisian Crescent.
A few employees asked questions about why the sudden change in policy and what the plan was when shifts ended at different times, but the general vibe was gratitude for a workplace that cared.
Except some of the men. They were under the impression that they could take down any killer because they grew up playing Mortal Kombat and had seen the John Wick movies a dozen times.
“For dinner service,” Chef Frédéric, his words and glower cutting off Alex’s boasting, “we only have two specials.”
He took over the rest of the pre-shift meeting, explaining the dishes and allowing everyone to taste them. Even though they were delicious as always, people didn’t descend on the food with the usual enthusiasm.
The wired undercurrent remained after the restaurant opened. The customers—most of whom were visitors in town for vacations or meetings—didn’t seem to notice. They likely were unaware of the gossip and didn’t realize that the security guards stationed at the entrance weren’t always there.
Partway through the weird night, Juliet was sat in my section. I wasn’t sure if it was because the placement allowed her mountainous guard to stand watch or what, but she was always at the same table.
As I approached, I saw it wasn’t just Marco with her. Cole sat opposite in the booth. It wasn’t unusual for that to happen, but the way he seemed extra watchful was. Miles stood at a distance, tucked out of the way near the bar but with a good view of the entrance and my tables. I was pretty sure he was a higher-up security guy since he wore a suit rather than a uniform like most of the others. We’d spoken a few times when he’d seen me sitting in my hidden alcove before shift. I wasn’t positive he was with Juliet, but the way his attention moved between her and the rest of the crowded restaurant made it seem probable.
“Hi,” I greeted the table, looking over to include Marco. His focus was already on me, and he did his usual chin lift before returning to scowl at the masses.
For the previous couple of weeks, Marco and Cole had been in almost daily—though rarely at the same time and not always with Juliet. Usually, Marco popped in to talk to Chef or Manny, and Cole worked on the computer systems. He didn’t look like the nerd Chef accused him of being, but he had the skills of one.
He’d used that expertise to help me the week before when my cell and laptop were blocking each other as threats rather than syncing like they were supposed to.
Sure, he’d looked personally insulted by the outdated technology, but he’d still patiently explained how to fix the problem when —not if, he’d said—it happened again.
Marco hadn’t offered any tech help. Or anything more than briefly asking how I was. For whatever reason, though, I got the feeling that was major for him.
With both men, there’d been a few—likely wishful—moments where I’d thought they might ask for my number. Where I’d hoped one of them would. And then I’d felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment when it never happened.
As badly as I wanted it to happen, accepting a date with either man when I was also attracted to his friend seemed wrong.
It was secretly even worse since it was technically two of his friends—and one was already married.
A fact that made the guilt grow even though I barely looked at Chef, much less anything more.
His usually cheerful wife lifted her head to smile at me, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Eyes that also had bags under them.
“Are you okay?” I asked before I could think better of it.
Thankfully, Juliet wasn’t offended by the nosy invasion. She gestured around but kept her voice quiet so other tables couldn’t hear. “All this. It’s been… a stressful couple of days. And sad, too. I’m lucky enough to have goons to keep me safe, but—” Her words cut off abruptly, and she grimaced. “But now I sound like some selfish, out-of-touch elitist.”
Cole opened his mouth, but I spoke first, even though I had no clue who or what goons were. “You don’t. If you were selfish, you’d be unconcerned for others. Since that’s clearly not the case, you shouldn’t burden your existence with hypotheticals out of your control.”
Oh great, I sound like one of the hippies I grew up with.
Or worse, Abraham during meditation.
I politely moved off the topic I had no business being on. “Are you in the mood for a Diet Coke or water today?”
“ Always Diet Coke, but since it’s late, I’ll stick with water.”
“Got it. Usual cake or would you like something else?”
“Cake.”
“Juliet,” Marco and Cole said at once.
“But I’m supposed to be here to eat actual food,” she amended before smiling. “ Then the cake.”
“Do you want to hear the specials?”
“Is one of them the gnocchi gratinée?”
“Actually, yes.”
I wonder if they discuss what recipes he’s serving each day. Pillow talk with a chef must be weird.
And hunger-inducing.
She gave a firm nod. “Perfect. I’ll have that.”
“And a salad,” Cole said.
The men never ordered, so I was caught by surprise. “Okay, and what to drink?”
“No, I’m good. The salad’s for her.” Juliet made an indignant noise, and he looked across the table. “You have to eat some kind of vegetable.”
Juliet rolled her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll also have a side salad with house dressing.”
“Got it.” I looked at Marco but didn’t have to ask.
He gave me the usual headshake.
I went to ring in the order and found Alex grabbing water from the dispenser closest to where I usually stood.
Oh joy.
“You know,” he started as soon as he spotted me, “I could always give you a ride.” He let the pause stretch before adding, “Home, I mean. To keep you safe.”
“I’m good.”
His mouth tipped as his eyes dragged down my body. “I’m sure you are.”
I wasn’t a prude. I’d been raised around a lot of openness. Frankly, too much openness. His corny innuendos didn’t shock me or make me blush.
I also wasn’t stupid. Men—especially the ones with the mental maturity of a sea sponge—liked a challenge. It’d been true at Eternal Sun, and it was true right then.
Acting like an offended virgin—I was only the second part—would make him lose his tiny mind. I also couldn’t meet his aggression with fake wanton comebacks in hopes it would put him off since that might backfire.
I went with my trusty option.
I ignored him.
And, thankfully, that worked. He said something to one of the other servers that I didn’t care enough to pay attention to, then returned to his area.
By the time I got her ice water, Juliet’s dinner that I’d just rung in was already waiting.
The man knows his wife.
I added the food to my tray and carefully carried it out to the table. I was almost done unloading the dishes when Juliet looked behind me, and a grin split her face, lighting it from pretty to show-stopping.
“Hi, Daddy,” she breathed.
Again, I wasn’t a prude. I’d also been raised around all sorts of unconventional relationships. I didn’t judge them, even if they weren’t for me. Still, that wasn’t the greeting I would’ve anticipated her using.
And I hated how fitting the nickname really was for Chef Frédéric. His natural authoritativeness made the role play more realistic than any of the other like-minded couples I’d known. Where the woman playfully called her partner that as a pet name. It had always been just another atypical relationship in a sea of many and nothing more.
But right then, it felt like more. And not in the unpleasant, awkward, or cringe way I would’ve anticipated.
From the very tips of my toes to the top of my scalp, a rush of heat spread across every inch of my flesh, leaving me flushed and achy.
Like my skin was too tight.
The bowl of scalding gnocchi shook in my trembling fingers, and I would’ve dropped it if not for Cole’s quick reflexes. He grabbed the dish from me and set it in front of Juliet.
“Thank you,” I forced out through my heavy breaths. Avoiding actually looking at anyone, I scanned the table to make sure everything was okay, turned, and nearly crashed into Chef. I couldn’t even muster an excuse me . I aimed my eyes in front of me and strode past him and another suited man.
I kept going, not stopping—not even breathing —until I was in the walk-in fridge.
My breath whooshed out in a visible plume as I finally exhaled. The chilly air helped my overheated skin, but it did little to cool my thoughts.
I have no clue why I’m so rattled by this. I’ve literally been around throuples, swingers, age-play, open marriages, and other arrangements I couldn’t even begin to understand. This is nothing new.
I need to get it together.
Inhaling, I was about to return to work when the door opened behind me.
In that split second, I hoped it was Marco or Cole—not that I had any clue how to explain why I’d fled to the walk-in.
It didn’t matter because it wasn’t a gruff or a gentle voice that asked, “Waiting for me?”