Chapter 5 #2
At two, when Amber shows up—thank God at least she’s here—I get her up to speed. She helps immensely with clean-up, but I can’t shake the terrified look she gives me when I tell her Rose has called in sick too. Like she thinks something happened to her.
“Hey,” I tell her. “It’s just some nasty bug. Everyone caught it. Just please, bulk up on vitamins or something so I don’t have to do this alone all week?”
Amber laughs. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but it’s something. “I’ll pop orange slices like it’s oxy.”
“Attagirl.”
When we finally close up for the afternoon, I slump against the lounge counter and consider collapsing. Or getting shitfaced on Donald’s good liquors.
Too bad I can’t afford either. I need my overtime paid, and I need it yesterday. Staying lucid is non-negotiable for that.
Unfortunately.
Around eight, right in the middle of dinner service, Donald finally deigns to show up.
I follow him into the office with a full tray of spaghetti cacio e pepe balanced on my palm. “We need replacements,” I demand. “For Erin and Savannah. They both called in sick for the week.”
Donald laughs. “No.”
I am not taking no for an answer. “Then, we close tomorrow.”
That gets his attention.
“We are not closing.” His voice is firm.
“We do not have the staff.”
“We’ll make do.”
I stare at him. “Donald.”
“The restaurant has enough expenses as it is,” he says. “We’re not paying extra people because a few girls couldn’t be bothered to show up.”
This, from the man who vanishes before closing, is news to me.
“Then you need to stay on the floor tonight,” I say. “And help.”
He makes a face like I suggested he scrub the toilets with his tongue.
“Can’t. Dentist appointment in an hour.”
I blink at him. “At nine p.m.?”
He shrugs. “Orthodontic emergency.”
He is lying so blatantly, I almost admire it.
“Fine,” I say. “Then, before you disappear into your extremely urgent fake molar crisis, we need to talk.”
He looks annoyed already. Good.
“The overtime you owe me,” I say. “I need it on this check.”
His expression goes flat.
“What overtime?”
The rage that goes through me is so sharp I almost laugh.
“The overtime where I covered your shifts,” I say. “Repeatedly. The overtime where I closed for you. Repeatedly. The overtime where I did your job and mine because apparently you think management is a spiritual calling instead of actual labor.”
Donald gives me a slow, pitying smile that makes me want to throw something heavy.
“You put in no overtime.”
“I absolutely did.”
He walks into the office, pulls a schedule from a folder, and slaps it onto the desk.
“There,” he says. “See? All those shifts are under my name.”
I stare at the paper.
It is fake.
Not even well-faked. Just obvious enough that I know he never expected me to challenge it.
My pulse starts pounding in my throat.
“You weren’t here,” I say quietly.
He leans back against the desk. “According to the schedule, I was.”
“We both know that’s bullshit.”
His smile vanishes. “I’m the boss,” he says. “My word is law. Unless…”
The room goes very still.
Unless you want to be fired.
He doesn’t say the exact words. He doesn’t need to. They hang in the air between us anyway.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
And the worst part is that he knows exactly how trapped I am. He knows I have a kid. He knows I need steady money. He knows a single mother with unstable hours and no degree is not exactly spoiled for choice in the job market.
He knows I can’t afford to lose this job.
That is the whole game.
I look at the schedule again, at his neat little fraud in black ink, and force myself not to cry from pure homicidal frustration.
“Right,” I say.
Because what else is there to say? Thank you for stealing from me, sir, may I have another?
When I step back out onto the floor, my eyes are burning.
I blink hard, furious with myself for even letting the tears threaten. I do not have time for a breakdown. The restaurant is about to open, half my staff is missing, and I still need to figure out how to pay for afternoon daycare before they start side-eyeing me at pickup like I’m a deadbeat.
A deep voice says, very near me, “Is something wrong?”
I freeze.
Of course.
Of course it’s him.
I turn and find Niccolò Neri standing a few feet away, as if the universe decided I hadn’t been tested enough today and wanted to throw in my personal worst weakness for flavor.
He’s alone for the moment, one hand in his pocket, gaze fixed on me with that same unsettling steadiness he always has. Which is somehow worse.
I straighten automatically.
“Nothing I can’t handle, sir.”
His eyes flick over my face, and I know immediately I am fooling no one.
Great. Love that for me.
Without a word, he reaches into his jacket pocket and offers me a folded white handkerchief. Expensive-looking, because of course even the man’s sadness accessories probably cost more than my grocery budget.
For a second, I just stare at it.
Then, I take it.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He inclines his head once. No judgment, no questions. No attempt to force comfort where it isn’t welcome.
Just the handkerchief.
That almost undoes me more than anything else tonight.
I clutch it harder than I mean to.
“I should get back to work,” I say.
His gaze stays on me another beat.
“Of course. I won’t keep you.”
I nod too quickly, turn, and scurry away before I do something catastrophically stupid, like let him see too much.
The last thing I need right now is Niccolò Neri noticing anything about me too closely. Remembering what we’d once been to each other, even if it was just one night. Looking into me.
Looking into Noah.
For both our sakes, I need to pull myself together.
So I square my shoulders, tuck the handkerchief into my apron, and throw myself back into the fire.