Grace
One of my employees built something called an “ice luge” at the bar.
An ice luge, which is meant to emulate the Olympic sport in the least athletic way possible, is a ramp made of ice.
One person pours a shot down the ramp while someone waits, mouth open, at the bottom. It’s just as stupid as it sounds.
We’re up at the bar watching the mayhem, having a drink.
Hector runs by and joins Zoe and her crew, flailing as “Jump Around” by House of Pain starts. He waves to me to join, and I give him a look like, I’d rather be attacked by sewer rats, and he laughs, bunny ears bouncing.
“God, they love you, though, don’t they?” Dom says.
“Who, these goons?”
He’s right, they do, and I love them.
“It’s admirable,” says Dom. “Personally, I prefer my staff to secretly resent me, but the comradery is nice. You must be a pretty good boss, I guess.”
“Yes, chef,” I say.
Zoe has made it her mission to keep a drink in my hand, so I’m currently about fifty percent more intoxicated than I should be as the authority figure here.
Dom’s handsomeness has been an ever-present thing that I’ve gotten used to over the years, like air pollution, but his suit tonight has tipped the scales toward madness.
I note the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, a chef’s knife, and it would be the one I’d bite first if I ever slept with him.
I grab that wrist now—the other one, too.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“People ever dance at that fancy restaurant of yours?” I ask.
“Grace,” he says.
“Didn’t think so. The good news is, you’re at Edgar Allan’s tonight.”
He says my name again, resists, then lets me pull him onto the dance floor, and my co-workers cheer.
“Get it, boss!” shouts Hector.
Zoe slaps Dom’s ass. “Show us what ya got, Scorsese!”