Читать книгу No Strings Attached - Susan Andersen, Susan Andersen - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

“I’M REALLY SORRY, TASHA,” Tiffany said as they walked out of Bella T’s kitchen the following Friday afternoon. “I hate that I’m letting you down.” Her normally cheerful face was etched in misery, causing Tasha to stop in her tracks to stare at her waitress.

Then she reached out and grasped Tiffany’s plump shoulders, giving them a squeeze as she bent her head to pin the younger woman with a no-nonsense look. “Tiff. Honey. No. You have nothing to be sorry about, and you haven’t let me down at all. I didn’t really think you’d be happy in the kitchen. But you’ve been with me since I opened this joint, and I thought I should at least give you the right of first refusal before I go outside again for help.” She grinned at the plump brunette. “Just in case you’ve been harboring a secret hankering all these years to be a cook.”

“Gawd, no.” Tiffany shivered. “Even with it half-open to the dining room, I’d go nuts in the kitchen all day. Not to mention mess up my mani. I like being around people.”

“And that’s where you shine, so don’t give it another thought.” Dropping a hand, she slid her other around Tiffany’s shoulders and pulled her in for a quick one-armed hug. Then she stepped back and automatically gave the dining room a swift perusal. “Looks like the after-school rush is kicking in, so get your tush out there and hustle some orders.”

“Aye, aye, boss.”

Tasha took up her customary station behind the counter, where she could keep an eye on the growing crowd until the orders started coming in. She watched Tiffany sashay from table to table, laughing and joking with the students as she wrote down their orders, then turned her attention to Jeremy, the Cedar Village boy who bussed dishes for her.

She’d originally hired him as a favor to Max and Harper, who were both very involved in the boarding school for troubled boys. Yet it turned out they had done her the favor, because Jeremy was working out great. He was a tall, built, good-looking eighteen-year-old, and when she’d first agreed to take him on she had half feared that he’d spend his entire time flirting with the high school girls. But no matter how many of those girls tried to get him to do exactly that, he refused to be sucked in. He wasn’t a social creature like Tiff. He did his work but kept to himself. She could only assume the loner trait made him even more attractive to the young females, because God knew they didn’t let up in their attempts to get his attention.

And when they weren’t trying to flirt with him, they watched him.

She saw Peyton Vanderkamp doing exactly that right now. The pretty fair-skinned, black-haired girl shared a table with Davis Cokely, but she kept shooting covert glances Jeremy’s way as he cleared a table a short distance away. Davis was a handsome kid himself, but as far as Tash was concerned, his smug air of entitlement took the shine off his nice looks.

Peyton, she didn’t know that much about. The Vanderkamps were relatively new in Razor Bay, but they were immensely wealthy, from all accounts, and the girl ran with Davis’s posse, so Tasha didn’t expect a lot from her in the way of character. She knew that prejudices born of her own high school experiences likely colored her opinion, and she freely admitted that wasn’t very grown-up of her. But since she doubted she’d ever have an intimate relationship with the girl, she didn’t see the point of spending a lot of time worrying over her lack of maturity.

She was about to turn away when Davis turned so he was facing her more fully. The calculating look that crossed his face caught her notice, so she was watching when he, oh, so casually stretched out a foot just as Jeremy passed his table.

Her employee stumbled over it and went down like a felled tree. The bus tub in his hands bounced on the floor before tipping onto its side and spilling half its load of crockery out onto the floor with a resounding clatter.

Like field crickets at a predator’s approach, all the kids went stone silent. Davis laughed.

Incensed, Tasha reached for her Ping-Pong ball gun under the counter. Bringing it up, she fired off a shot. The ball bounced off Davis’s temple and stopped that annoying guffawing.

He spun to face her. “What the hell?”

She came out from behind the counter and strode over to his table. Planting her knuckles on the tabletop, she leaned down until she was nearly nose to nose with him. “Nobody messes with my people in my restaurant,” she said flatly. “You wanna be a lowlife, kid, go home and trip your dog.”

“Not the dog!” one of the girls from a nearby table protested. “Go home and trip yourself,” she suggested alternatively and her friend nodded in earnest agreement.

Tasha stooped to scoop up a pizza pan whose lazy elliptical spin on the floor was rapidly losing steam. She put it back in the tub. “You okay?” she asked Jeremy in a low voice.

Muscles jumped in his jaw, and his pale blue eyes burned with outraged pride. She thought he was going to come up swinging, thus starting a bare-knuckles brawl with Davis—and wondered what it said about her that she intended to let him get a shot in before she intervened.

But Jeremy merely nodded in answer to her question and pushed back to sit on his heels. Silently, he helped her gather the other plates and glasses that had escaped.

She couldn’t help but be impressed. Not many eighteen-year-old males would have reined themselves in the way he was doing.

A sudden idea made her pause mid-stretch for the plastic soda glass she’d intended to nab before it rolled out of reach. Letting it go, she sat back on her heels and contemplated him for several heartbeats while she silently debated the merit of her brainstorm.

Then leaving him to deal with the tub, she rose and turned her attention to Davis. “As the sign on the wall clearly states, I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. I’m exercising that right. If you want to come back and play nice another time, you’re welcome to do so. But you’ve lost your pizza privileges today.”

“Big deal,” he said, shoving back his chair and standing. “Your pizza’s only so-so.”

Jeremy surged to his feet as if that, of all things, was the final straw.

But before he could say anything, a football player named Sage from a few tables down demanded, “Have you and me been eating the same pizza, Cokely? ’Cause Bella T’s makes the best damn slices in the county.” He gave Tasha a guilty look and held up his hands. “Sorry, Miz Riordan—don’t shoot. Best darn slices, I meant to say.”

She merely grinned, and red crept up Davis’s neck at the reprimand from one of his teammates. Ignoring everyone else in the restaurant, however, he gave Peyton an imperious jerk of his chin. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t budge from her chair. “You go ahead,” she said coolly, making Tasha wonder if she ought to reevaluate her original impression of the girl. “I’m going to stay. I like the pizza here.”

He swore under his breath and stomped over to the door. A moment later it slammed closed behind him.

“We’ve got a number of orders stacking up, boss,” Tiffany called, and Tash nodded.

“You might want to take the meat lover’s slice off mine,” Peyton said in her I’m-much-too-cool-to-ever-get-rattled way.

“Will do,” Tiffany said, then grimaced apologetically. “I’m afraid you’re stuck paying the tab for the two pops.”

With a haughty lack of concern, Peyton hitched a slender shoulder. “Not a problem.”

“Then I guess I’d better get back to the kitchen so no one has to wait too long for their pizza,” Tasha said and turned toward the kitchen.

Only to find herself looking straight at Luc’s amused face.

Her heart gave a hard thump. Oh, perfect. He’d been in here at least once a day every day this week to grab himself something to eat. Sometimes he tried to talk to her, and other times he didn’t. But always, she caught him watching, watching, watching her. He’d already been in earlier for a cup of coffee to go, so she’d mistakenly thought she could relax for the rest of the day.

More fool she, clearly, for here he was once again, this time lounging bonelessly at one of the tables, his long jeans-encased legs stretched out and one elbow hooked over his chair back—watching her once more. She’d chew her tongue off before admitting this out loud...but his constant scrutiny was disconcerting.

When their gazes met, he gave her a one-sided smile and a thumbs-up—the latter presumably for her handling of the tripping altercation. Without acknowledging either, she looked away and turned back to Jeremy. And acknowledged the decision she’d come to several minutes ago as a really good idea. “Bring the tub to the kitchen,” she said a bit more brusquely than she’d meant to. “I’d like a word with you.”

* * *

JEREMY FOLLOWED SO CLOSELY behind Tasha he came within centimeters of tromping on her heels. Crap. He should have known the past few weeks were too good to be true. Now she was probably going to fire his ass for losing her Richie Rich’s business. He wasn’t stupid; he knew the after-school crowd was a big part of her low-season profits—and growing bigger all the time, from what he’d heard Tiffany say.

He liked working here. It was...cheerful. Except for Cedar Village in a lesser way, that wasn’t an environment he’d had much experience with. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize it when he was surrounded by it. People tended to laugh and smile in Bella T’s. It made for some nice working conditions.

Even nicer was the way Tasha had stood up for him just now. My people, she’d said, as if she considered him a part of her team. But not only wasn’t he a Razor Bay native, he was from the Village, which probably already put a black mark next to his name. Tasha ran a tight ship around here. She didn’t tolerate even mild swearing in Bella T’s, though he had heard her swear like a sailor—but never when clients were in the restaurant. Even after having been here only a short while, he could point out several kids who’d testify to her lack of tolerance, having seen them run afoul of Tasha’s Ping-Pong ball gun the same way Cokely had. He was surprised she’d let the football player get away with saying damn, even if it had been in defense of her kick-ass pizza.

If he lost this job, he didn’t know what he would do. Right now he still had a roof over his head, but he was graduating the Village’s program on the thirtieth, so he knew he was on borrowed time being able to live there. He sure as hell didn’t want to go back to his White Center neighborhood on the southern outskirts of Seattle. Not when he couldn’t say with any certainty—even given all the coping skills he’d learned from his counselors—that he wouldn’t go back to his old bad habits. If he took up again with his old friends—and face it, they were the only people he knew outside of the few friends he’d made at the Village—it was pretty much guaranteed that he’d fall back into the same old pattern.

A pattern that spelled L-O-S-E-R.

He was so engrossed in the What Ifs that he didn’t realize Tasha had stopped until he bumped up against her back. Rattled, knowing he was probably gonna get it for not watching where he was going, he jumped back. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Then, clearing his throat, he added, “I’m sorry about out there, too. I didn’t—”

“Don’t you apologize for something that was not your fault,” Tasha said fiercely. “You have zip to be sorry about in the Cokely incident—that one is all on Davis. Actually, watching the mature way you handled yourself when I’m sure you would’ve preferred smacking him silly made me want to talk to you about something else.”

He wasn’t in trouble? His counselor Jim had said he had to stop blaming himself for everything that went wrong in people’s lives, but when you grew up the way he had, it was a hard habit to break. But he took a breath, crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a jerky nod. “Okay.”

She pulled the orders from the wheel Tiffany had clipped them to and went over to the industrial-sized fridge to get out two round dough balls and several triangular ones. Swiftly, she began rolling out the full pizza crusts atop pizza stones. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You want a Coke?”

He nodded. His throat was drier than Mr. Mitchell’s math class back at his old school.

“Go pour yourself a nice tall one, then, and come back here. I have a proposition for you.”

He didn’t have a clue what that might be, but it sounded a helluva lot more positive than, oh, say, being fired. He strode out into the restaurant, loaded up a tall cup with ice at the machine, then filled it with Mountain Dew from the fountain. He drank down half of it in one long gulp, then topped it off again. After a brief hesitation, he filled another one with a different beverage. He took both back to the kitchen and offered Tasha the second cup. “I’ve noticed you sometimes like a Diet Dr Pepper in the afternoon.”

She took it, gulped down a large sip, then grinned at him as she lowered the container. “You see, this is exactly what I like about you. You’re a hard worker and you pay attention to the details.” She studied him for a moment. “You’re graduating at the end of the month with a high school diploma, right?”

He nodded.

“Do you have plans to go to college?”

He wished. But he merely shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. Yet he found himself answering honestly. “I’d like to go, but I can’t afford it. I’m not even sure where I’m gonna live after graduation.”

“Do you plan to stay in Razor Bay or are you chomping at the bit to go home?”

“I’d totally like to stay. I like it here.”

He’d noticed before that she possessed the same kind of genuine interest in people that Harper Summerville did when she interacted with him and the other guys at the Village. Except for during his interview, however, Tasha had never focused it on him quite the way she did now. Her gray-blue eyes seemed to bore straight into his mind. “What, exactly, do you like about it?”

“It’s so...clean here. And quieter than anywhere I’ve ever been. Every time I look at the mountains and water, they just—I don’t know—give me this...still feeling. Like they’re smoothing my insides all out or something.”

She simply stared at him for a moment, and he wanted to kick himself. Where had that crap come from? Now she was going to think he was a complete ass.

“Oh,” she finally said, and he was shocked to see tears rise in her eyes. She dashed them away. “Good answer.”

His heart lightened, and a rare smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. Drink,” she said, nodding to the mostly untouched cup in his hand. She took a sip of her own soda. “Is there a particular thing you’d take in college if you could?”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “I don’t really have a clue what I wanna do with my life—but I’d like to get my AA while I’m figuring it out. No one in my family has ever gone to college. It’d be beyond dope to be the first.” His mom wouldn’t give a shit, but his dad would sure be proud.

“Okay.” She set aside her drink and, with quick, efficient movements, used her fingers on the triangular dough to shape the slices. “This is my proposition. You know I tried to hire a cook.” Grimacing, she waved a flour-covered hand before saying dryly, “Forget I asked that—it’s a stupid question, considering he tried to blame you for all that house wine he knocked back. Of course you remember.”

“Yeah, kind of hard to forget that.” He’d thought for sure his ass would have been out the door that day, too, but Tasha had looked the hammered cook in the eye, said that he was a stone liar in the hardest voice Jeremy had ever heard out of her and told the man to get the hell out of her restaurant. Then she’d turned to him and apologized that the lying sack of slime had dragged Jeremy into his lies. As if that were somehow her fault.

He would have done anything for her that day.

But he gave himself a mental shake now and tried to concentrate on this conversation, not the one almost a week ago. “What does a drunk cook have to do with your mystery proposition?”

“I’d like to make you my new cook.”

He froze. “Huh?” His hand made a totally spastic movement, and he shoved his fingers into his back pocket to keep from looking like an oversized puppet being jerked around by a three-year-old. “I mean, I heard you, I just...” He shook his head. “Why me?”

“Because you’re smart, you’re levelheaded and, as I said before, you pay attention to details. I have a feeling you’d be good at it. I admire the way you’re not easily shaken—admire more that even when you are, you control your temper. That’s a rare quality in anyone of any age. In an eighteen-year-old guy it’s downright golden.”

He no doubt looked as stunned as he felt because she stepped closer and gave his forearm a comforting there-there pat as if she were an old Italian auntie.

“I’m not asking you to commit to it as your life’s work,” she said softly, as if maybe she was worried he felt trapped or something. “But it could be a bridge to get you through the next few years. I can help you find a place to live and pay you a livable wage.” Her lips developed an ironic slant. “Well, livable by Razor Bay standards, anyhow. And Jenny and I—and I bet Mary-Margaret, as well—can help you find funding for a community college to get your AA. Jenny, in particular, is brilliant at finding tuition money. She put herself through school without help from anyone and got her bachelor’s in hotel management in large part by hunting down a number of scholarships that were offered by Rotaries, clubs and other organizations. None of them tend to be huge, but if you put the work into getting enough of them, they can really add up.

“Which is all a long way of saying I can work around a school schedule if you’re up for both working and studying.” She tipped her head to thoroughly inspect his expression. “Are you interested? Don’t be afraid to say no if you’re not. It won’t affect your current job, and I know cooking isn’t for everyone.”

He finally shook off his shock and regained his power of speech. “No. Are you kidding me? That would be great.” He laughed out loud and didn’t even notice when most of the teen girls on the other side of the service counter turned to stare. “You wanna pay me to play with knives and fire.” He looked at the red wood-fired pizza oven with its brick-arched opening, at the gleaming stainless-steel and butcher-block work spaces, industrial appliances and the black-and-white tiled floor.

Then he looked at Tasha again. “I get to learn the secret of making the best pizza in the county—and maybe even the world,” he said in amazement, then smiled at her and shook his head. “Man. I can’t believe it. It doesn’t get much better than that.”