Chapter Three #2
Nico set down the crate in his arms. “I can get limes.”
I turned on him. “From where, the ocean?”
“From another supplier.”
“With what, your magic shark phone?”
“With a phone.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point is I solve my own problems.”
“You can solve it while I make a call.”
“That’s a very slippery sentence.”
“It’s a case of limes, Nella. Not your deed.”
I opened my mouth.
Then I closed it, because the man had picked an extremely inconvenient time to be right.
I pointed at the back counter. “Set those down. Then you can make exactly one call for exactly one case of limes. You don’t negotiate debt, discuss my business, threaten anyone, buy anything in bulk, or bond with citrus.”
Nico held my stare for one long second.
Then he said, “Understood.”
The delivery driver wisely stared at his clipboard.
I unlocked the service door and stepped into the back hallway. The quiet dark of Bite Me wrapped around me, smelling like scrubbed floors, garlic in the walls, and last night’s tequila. It was mine. Every inch of it. Even the pieces that misbehaved before sunrise.
Especially those.
Nico came in behind me with the produce, too big for the narrow hall and too wet for my peace.
I flicked on the kitchen lights.
The fluorescents buzzed to life over stainless steel, stacked containers, and Mari’s prep lists taped to the shelf with aggressively straight edges. I went to the espresso machine by the tiny office nook, because some emergencies required caffeine before strategy.
Nico set the last crate exactly where I pointed.
Then he stood there, bare chest half-visible through damp linen, and waited.
My fingers slowed on the espresso cup.
“Espresso?” I asked.
His eyebrows lifted. “You’re offering me coffee?”
“I’m offering you a tiny cup of civilization so nobody gets bitten before lunch.”
His attention dipped to my mouth for half a second.
Heat moved through my face.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is becoming a problem.”
“Your face has been a problem since yesterday.”
I poured the espresso and shoved one cup toward him. He took it, careful not to touch my fingers.
The space between our hands felt louder than it needed to.
We drank standing in the kitchen while dawn pressed against the back windows and the bar stayed closed around us. The espresso was hot, bitter, and exactly what kept me from spiraling into a family group text titled Nella Accidentally Borrowed Money From Jaws.
Nico finished his first. “I’ll call for the limes.”
“Do it where I can hear you.”
His eyes came back to mine. “Good.”
“You’re not offended by surveillance?”
“I’m relieved by it.”
“That’s weird.”
“That’s smart.”
He put the call on speaker, because apparently he had a survival instinct after all.
A sleepy voice answered on the third ring. “Marlowe Produce.”
“This is Nico Torretti,” he said. “I need one case of limes delivered to Bite Me Boardwalk Bar & Bites this morning.”
The man on the phone yawned. “We don’t usually add single cases after the route goes out.”
“You have another truck near Ocean Drive in forty minutes.”
A pause crackled through the speaker. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m looking at your delivery window from last week’s invoice on her desk.”
I snapped my fingers once. “Less creepy, please.”
Nico glanced at the invoice on my desk. “Because the bar needs limes before lunch, and you can bill the case separately.”
The man sighed. “One case?”
“One,” Nico said. “No substitutions. No bulk order. No changes to her account. Deliver to the side door and ask for Nella.”
“That’ll be before ten.”
“Good.”
He ended the call and set the phone down.
I narrowed my eyes. “That was almost normal.”
“I can be normal.”
“Nico, you were just a shark.”
“For me, that’s normal.”
“I walked right into that one.”
He glanced at the produce, the prep list, and the narrow office stuffed with receipts. “What do you need next?”
Nothing, I should have said.
Leave, I should have said.
Instead, the lunch prep clock ticked loud inside my head, and I looked at the tomatoes, the citrus, the pile of receipts on my desk, and the man who had told me the truth while standing in the Atlantic.
“Wash your hands,” I said. “Then you can move those cases into the walk-in.”
His expression softened. “Yes, boss.”
I pointed at him. “Don’t enjoy this.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
“I know.”
By nine, Shay had arrived with sunglasses on her head, iced coffee in her hand, and the look of a woman ready to smell gossip through concrete.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway when she saw Nico carrying a case of limes.
His shirt had dried enough to stop clinging, but not enough to help me spiritually.
Shay studied him, then me, then him again.
“Do I want to know why he’s wet and touching produce?”
“No,” I said.
Nico set the limes on the counter. “Probably not.”
Shay sipped her coffee. “That was a very synchronized answer for people I’m not asking about.”
“We’re short limes,” I said.
“That explains the limes.”
“I respect your investigative process.”
“It doesn’t explain the wet.”
“He lost an argument with the ocean.”
Shay glanced at Nico’s gold chain and open shirt. “The ocean has taste.”
“Shay.”
“I’m going to prep mint now,” she said, and walked away with a smile she didn’t deserve.
By ten thirty, Taryn had opened the takeout window for early pickup orders, Mari had threatened a tomato into behaving, and Dusty had arrived wearing a shirt that said SURF THE NOW even though the now was mostly him dropping a stack of napkins.
Nobody knew Nico was a shark.
Everybody knew something had happened.
That was worse in some ways, because restaurant staff could make eye contact feel like a deposition.
I kept moving.
“Mari,” I said, “push roasted peppers, tomato prep, and anything that doesn’t need blender space. I need the board special shifted toward spicy pineapple.”
Mari pointed her knife at the prep list. “Already doing it, but I appreciate the illusion that you’re in charge of my tomatoes.”
“I live for illusion.”
I turned toward the takeout window. “Taryn, charm the beach-volleyball crowd toward anything easy to batch. No blender promises until the second case of limes lands.”
Taryn gave me a thumbs-up. “I’ll make pineapple sound like destiny.”
“Make it sound like fifteen dollars.”
Dusty drifted past with bar towels.
“Dusty,” I said, “restock the service well from the auxiliary chest.”
He saluted with two towels. “The auxiliary chest and I have been preparing for this moment.”
“Prepare faster.”
Nico stayed useful and quiet. He moved cases.
He held the storage-room door open when I pointed at it.
During the early lunch pop, three drunk men tried to turn the patio line into a philosophical concept.
Nico stood near the rail, broad shoulders loose, gold chain catching sunlight, and all three of them remembered how lines worked without hearing one threatening word.
I took a tray of waters past him. “I hate how effective that was.”
“Do you want me to apologize?”
“No. I want you to become less visually persuasive.”
“That may take time.”
“Put it on your list.”
By one thirty, Bite Me had survived an early lunch rush, the replacement limes had arrived, and I had eaten half a roasted pepper and provolone sandwich while standing over the prep sink like a woman making excellent life choices.
Nico found me there.
“You need more than that.”
I looked at the sandwich in my hand. “Don’t start a food fight with an Italian woman.”
“I wouldn’t win.”
“You wouldn’t survive.”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, still too big, still too calm, still exactly the wrong man to want near my bar and inside my head.
The bite of roasted pepper turned sweet and smoky on my tongue. I swallowed and set the sandwich down.
“Upstairs,” I said.
Nico’s expression sobered. “For what?”
“Answers. Privacy. Possibly yelling. Don’t get excited.”
“I’m already excited.”
“Nico.”
“I’m also prepared to be yelled at.”
“Good. Hold on to that.”
I grabbed my keys, checked the floor one more time, and turned toward the service well. “Shay, I’m upstairs for thirty. If anyone needs me, they can wait unless blood, fire, or health department uniforms are involved.”
Shay looked between us. “That’s a very specific list.”
“I manage expectations.”
Mari leaned from the kitchen. “Do I need my knife?”
“Not yet,” I said.
Nico looked away for half a second.
I pointed at him. “Not a word.”
He followed me through the back hall and up the narrow stairs to the apartment-office above Bite Me.
The space was small because Miami believed square footage was a luxury item.
A narrow bed sat against one wall under a window facing the water.
My desk lived under a shelf stacked with invoices, menu drafts, and a framed photo of my mother holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
A rolling rack held emergency clothes, aprons, and one sparkly top I had bought after two margaritas and misplaced confidence.
The air smelled like clean laundry, coffee, sun-warmed wood, and the ocean pushing in through the cracked window.
I locked the door behind us.
Nico watched the key turn. “You sure?”
“No,” I said. “I’m informed.”
He stayed where he was.
I crossed my arms, mostly so I wouldn’t touch him. “Say it again.”
“I’m a shark shifter.”
“And the company?”
“Torretti Harbor Capital is the lender. Sal uses my side of the family to collect when paper isn’t enough.”
“Because you’re scary.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re a shark.”
“That helps.”
I laughed once. It came out too sharp.
Nico didn’t move.
His stillness gave me room to breathe.
“Last night,” I said. “In the back room. You knew I didn’t know.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You wanted me anyway.”
“Yes, I did.”
The answer hit low in my stomach.
I curled my fingers against my ribs. “You stopped.”
“I did.”
“Because Dusty came in.”
“And because you deserved to know what I am before anything went further.”
I stepped closer before I could decide not to. “You should’ve told me before you kissed me.”
“Yes.”