Chapter One #3
“The business is honest too, and it’s mine. I built this place out of loans, bad sleep, family guilt, secondhand equipment, and the kind of optimism only available to women who should know better.”
I reached for a calamari cone from the pass, wrapped the paper tighter, and set it in front of him.
Nico studied it. “Is this part of the negotiation?”
“This is part of being in my bar. You want to sit here and talk about what I owe? That’s fine. You do it while eating something I made possible.”
“You didn’t fry this.”
“No, Mari fried it because Mari is a professional and I respect the chain of command.”
Mari pointed the ladle at him from the pass. “If you insult my calamari, insult it loud enough for me to hear.”
Nico picked up one piece and ate it.
The entire staff developed sudden reasons to look busy nearby.
He chewed slowly.
I waited.
He swallowed. “That’s good.”
Mari went back to work with a satisfied sniff. “He can stay alive for now.”
The loan shark in linen seemed faintly offended by how much he liked the food. I busied myself with the bar mat before I gave the man sent to take my bar any satisfaction.
I leaned closer across the bar, my voice low.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Mr. Torretti.
You’re going to sit in my bar for five days.
You’re going to watch me earn back what I owe.
You’re going to see the receipts, the deposits, the whole ugly little miracle.
Then you’re going to collect your money, take your nice watch and your emotional-support chains, and get out of my life. ”
Nico stayed with me through every word.
The bar moved around us. Drinks traveled down the service well. Plates crossed the pass. The patio filled.
“I love Miami!” someone yelled behind him, and two glasses clinked hard enough to make me pray for the deposit.
Nico set the calamari cone down. “That’s a lot of confidence for a woman with a broken ice machine.”
“It’s not broken.”
The machine made a grinding noise like metal losing a fight.
He turned toward the back.
I planted my palm beside the bar mat. “It adds atmosphere.”
He smiled a little. “You’re giving me house rules?”
“I’m giving the loan shark at my bar a customer policy.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s basic. You eat, you pay, you stay polite, and you don’t scare my customers.”
“I don’t scare tourists for free.”
“Good. I’m not comping intimidation.”
For half a second, he stopped smiling. He kept his shoulders loose, but the line of his jaw tightened.
Then he nodded. “That’s fair.”
I held out my hand. “Then we have a deal.”
He studied my hand for a long second.
Then he took it.
My hand disappeared in his. His skin was warm, his grip firm, and faint citrus clung to him from the cup. Dark cologne threaded through the fried garlic and lime, and underneath it was something that reminded me of ocean air after dark. My breath caught once before I could stop it.
He shifted his thumb against my knuckles, barely there. His focus dipped to my mouth.
Damn him, I understood that little glance.
I pulled my hand back first.
“The deal lasts five days,” I said.
“That’s the deal.”
“And after that, you leave.”
“If you pay.”
“When I pay.”
He smiled again, slower this time. “When you pay.”
“Try not to get comfortable.”
Nico settled back on the stool, shoulders loose, one ankle hooked around the rung. “You’re making that difficult.”
I grabbed the shaker, poured a corrected limoncello margarita over ice, and shoved it across the bar before the heat in my neck climbed any higher. “Try that.”
He picked it up. “Am I paying for this one?”
“You’re paying for everything.”
He drank, watched me over the rim, and gave one slow nod. “This one’s better.”
“Careful. That was almost praise.”
“It was quality control.”
“It was flirting with manners.”
Nico flashed teeth. “Nella, if this were flirting, I wouldn’t be drinking citrus from a plastic sample cup.”
My neck went hot so fast I turned toward the blender and pretended it needed me for moral support.
Shay slid past with a tray of drinks. “I’m not getting involved, but table six has moved on to asking whether gluten-free mozzarella would be more authentic.”
“Tell her authenticity costs extra,” I said.
Nico laughed again, quieter this time.
I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re still here.”
“I’m eating.”
“You’re lingering.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re blocking my barstool.”
Nico rested one elbow on the counter, gold catching the neon shark light behind me. “Then I picked the right one.”
Outside, sunset turned the boardwalk lights pink while the debt notice stayed facedown by the limes. The machine coughed. The rush thickened. Beyond the patio, palm fronds flickered against the bulbs, and the ocean flashed silver between tourists moving along the rail.
I tied my apron tighter, picked up the garnish tray, and got back to work.
I had five days, one loan shark on my best barstool, and a rush line spilling toward the boardwalk.
I told myself I wouldn’t look back.
I made it through three drink tickets before I did exactly that.