Chapter Four #2
“You’ll get verified numbers after the deposits are separated and matched to card batches,” Nella said. “You won’t get guesses I have to correct later.”
“You think accuracy protects you?”
“I think clean records are harder to lie about.”
Another silence.
Uncle Sal’s voice cooled. “Nico.”
“I’m here.”
“You hear the way she talks?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still standing there like this is a negotiation.”
“This is a negotiation,” Nella said.
“It’s collection.”
“It’s my business.”
“It’s our contract.”
She pressed her fingers against her elbow, but she didn’t raise her voice. “Then you’ll get money against the original balance, backed by receipts.”
“That doesn’t erase default.”
“No,” I said. “But it gives her a chance to cure the honest part.”
“The honest part,” Uncle Sal repeated.
The fan clicked twice in the corner.
Nella glanced at me. She held her chin level, but color rose high in her cheeks.
I lowered my voice. “Sal.”
“No. If tonight is as strong as you claim, I want you to inspect the collateral, review the lease language, and prepare enforcement paperwork. If she misses one more deadline, this stops being a courtesy visit.”
Nella pushed away from the desk. “You mean if I prove the bar is worth money, you try harder to take it.”
“I mean profitable assets pay debts.”
“I’m not an asset.”
“No,” Uncle Sal said. “You’re the person who signed for one.”
I closed my hand around the edge of the desk.
Nella saw it and shook her head once.
She didn’t need me to answer for her.
She leaned over the phone. “You’ll have verified numbers after close tonight. Until then, I have a promo to run.”
“You’re still under deadline.”
“I know how calendars work.”
“Do you know how default works?”
“I’m learning from your nephew. He uses smaller words and better shirts.”
My uncle went quiet long enough for me to picture his face.
Then he said, “Nico, call me after the event.”
“I will.”
“Alone.”
“No,” I said.
Nella met my eyes.
Uncle Sal’s voice dropped. “Careful.”
“I’ll call you after the event,” I said. “Nella will know what I’m saying about her business.”
The fan clicked again. Downstairs, Mari yelled, “Parsley isn’t decorative. It goes in the bowl.”
Nella stayed completely still.
Uncle Sal hung up.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then Nella picked up my phone, turned it facedown, and set it on the desk. “That man needs a hobby that isn’t predatory lending.”
“He likes fishing.”
“Of course he does.” She opened the office door. The prep noise came rushing back. “Come on. I’m about to make him hate theme nights.”
By noon, the bar had printed specials taped to the front rail, the takeout window, the patio posts, and one spot near the host stand that Taryn had chosen because confused tourists kept stopping there to read the chalkboard.
The air outside had turned thick and bright.
Palm shadows cut across the boardwalk. Tourists drifted past in swimsuits, cover-ups, and sandals that made me question the entire industry.
A woman at the first table tapped the menu. “What’s tomato pie?”
Nella aimed the clipboard at Dusty. “This is your moment. Explain it without using the words spiritual, journey, or vibe.”
Dusty stood a little taller. “Tomato pie is like pizza’s square cousin who went to the boardwalk and made better choices.”
Nella stared at him.
Taryn nodded slowly. “That was actually useful.”
“I contain multitudes,” Dusty said.
Mari slid a tray through the pass. “Tell the multitudes to run food.”
The lunch crowd built into the afternoon crowd without giving the staff room to breathe.
Nella stayed at the center of it, red halter bright under her apron, ponytail swinging, scarf tail brushing the side of her neck when she turned.
She called drink counts to Shay, redirected Taryn toward waiting tourists, answered Mari before the bell finished ringing, and sent me toward every heavy object that dared exist near her bar.
I carried tomato crates.
I moved glass racks.
I held the patio line back from blocking the service path by standing near it with my arms loose and my mouth shut.
A man in a straw hat tried to drift around the host stand. “I’m just going to grab that empty table.”
Taryn’s customer-service smile sharpened. “That table is for the next party on the list.”
“It’s empty.”
“It’s reserved.”
“I don’t see a sign.”
I stepped beside Taryn, not in front of her. “She said it’s reserved.”
The man tipped his chin up at me, then turned to Taryn, then to Nella behind the bar.
Nella didn’t stop shaking a drink. “The table’s reserved, sir. The line starts at the host stand, and Taryn has the list.”
The man lifted both hands. “I’m not trying to cause a problem.”
“Great,” Taryn said. “Then we’re all having a beautiful afternoon.”
He went back to the line.
Taryn glanced at me. “Nice supporting role.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
“Try not to strain anything.”
From the bar, Nella called, “He can strain something after he moves the backup tequila.”
I turned. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m managing labor.”
“You’re enjoying labor.”
“I enjoy being right. The labor is a bonus.”
Shay slid three margaritas down the service well. The blood-orange batch flashed bright under the lights, fresh lime and orange wheels on top, the kind of color tourists photographed before they drank. A woman at the rail lifted her phone.
“What’s that one called?” she asked.
“Tonight’s special,” Nella said. “Blood orange, fresh lime, and enough vacation optimism to make you believe in your hotel balcony view.”
The woman tapped the bar near the glasses. “We’ll take four.”
“Good choice. Excellent life path.” Nella tipped her chin at Shay. “Four more for the camera people.”
The table cards worked. The smell of meatballs and peppers pulled people from the boardwalk. Tomato pie squares left the kitchen in steady waves. Every time the card reader chimed, Nella’s shoulders dropped one fraction lower before she caught the next problem.
The bar could pay.
Uncle Sal would see the full patio, the crowded counter, the staff moving under Nella’s voice, the food leaving the pass, the specials selling, and the cash drawer filling.
He would want all of it.
At four thirty, Nella sent me toward the back hall. “Storage. More specials. They’re by the emergency candles.”
“Emergency candles?”
“We had one romantic power outage and tourists tipped better.”
“Of course they did.”
“I’m not above ambiance.”
I went to storage and found the stack exactly where she said it would be, under a shelf of candles, spare menus, and one plastic bin labeled DO NOT LET DUSTY DECIDE.
When I came back, Nella was in the hall outside the office with a roll of tape between her teeth and three flyers under one arm.
She took the tape from her mouth. “Did you find them?”
“I found them. I also found the Dusty bin.”
“Don’t open that.”
“I value my peace.”
“That bin contains four coconut cups, broken sunglasses, a fake mustache, and a shell he says looks like his childhood.”
“Why do you have it?”
“He labeled it during a slow shift, and I ran out of energy to fight the ocean’s chosen intern.”
I laughed.
The sound slipped out before I could stop it. Nella smiled at me for half a second, tired and quick, and my fingers tightened around the stack in my hands.
Her scarf had loosened. A curl stuck to the side of her neck, and the edge of the mark showed beneath it. The sight went through me hard enough that the printed specials bent in my grip.
Nella’s smile faded into something hotter.
“What?” she asked.
“Your scarf is slipping.”
She lifted her hand toward her neck, then stopped before she touched the mark. “Is it bad?”
“No.”
“That wasn’t an answer to the question I asked.”
“It’s showing.”
She checked the front. “Staff?”
“No one’s in the hall.”
“Customers?”
“No.”
She let out a breath. “Can you fix it?”
“Yes.”
“Nico.”
I stepped closer and held her gaze. “May I fix it?”
Some of the tension left her mouth. “Yes. You may fix the scarf.”
I set the stack on the shelf beside us and moved behind her. The hallway was narrow enough that I could smell warm skin under citrus, tomato sauce, and the sharp sweetness of the drink special. I lifted the scarf tails, gathered the loose curl away from her neck, and kept my fingers off the mark.
I had moved every case in the building without thinking twice. This took both hands and every clean breath I had.
Nella’s breath caught once.
I tied the scarf at the base of her ponytail. “There.”
She turned slowly, close enough that her apron brushed my shirt. “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m practicing.”
“Practicing what?”
“Not putting my mouth on you in the service hall.”
Her eyes darkened. “That’s a good skill for a man carrying flyers.”
“I’m full of useful skills.”
“I know. That’s becoming inconvenient.”
I rested one hand on the shelf beside her, not touching her, not trapping her. “Say the word, and I’ll step back.”
“You’re not trapping me.”
“No.”
“You’re not taking over.”
“No.”
“You’re looking at me like you remember exactly what my bedroom sounds like.”
I locked my jaw.
Nella’s mouth curved, but her eyes stayed serious. “I remember too. That doesn’t mean I trust you with everything.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t the time for you to kiss me.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.” She picked up the flyers and pushed them against my chest. “Then take these to the patio before I make a bad management decision.”
I took them. “After close?”
“After close, I may review your performance.”
“That sounds formal.”
“It won’t be.”
She walked away before I could answer.
I stood in the hall for three seconds, breathing like a man who’d been given orders and a promise in the same sentence.
Then Mari shouted from the kitchen, “If those flyers don’t reach the patio, I’m using them as plates.”
I went back to work.