Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 49239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
“Did Tony leave early again?” I ask her.
Her shoulders drop in an unspoken confirmation. Our new cook has been cutting out early every day, leaving us short-staffed in the kitchen during our busiest time. It’s almost one thirty, so at least the worst of the rush is over.
“Yep, I’ve got the bar,” I say.
She passes me her order pad. “Thanks.”
Her brow already sweaty, Deb goes through the double doors to the kitchen, where she’ll end up even hotter. I’ve only had to help out in there a couple of times in the two years I’ve worked here, making pancakes both times, and it was hotter than my attic bedroom in the un-air-conditioned home on the south side of Chicago I grew up in.
Milder summers are an upside to living in Denver. Winters, though? They can get ridiculous. I’ve lived here for eight years and even though I’m beyond broke, I learned in the first year that good snow boots are nonnegotiable.
By the time I catch up on Deb’s orders while keeping up with my own, nearly an hour has passed, but it only felt like a few minutes to me. Deb makes me a bacon and grilled cheese sandwich and I’m in the kitchen scarfing it when she comes back to tell me someone’s asking for me.
“Did they say why?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “I assume it’s a customer who wants to ask you out. He looks about your age.”
I groan because I don’t date, and one of two things happens every time a man asks me out. Either he’s nice and accepts no quickly and walks away looking dejected, making me feel bad. Or he’s an asshole who won’t take no for an answer, making me feel like kicking him in the crotch.
After a quick check in the reflection of the stainless paper towel dispenser to make sure I don’t have food on my face or in my teeth, I walk through the double doors, doing a double take when I see the driver I stopped to help this morning.
“Hey,” I say, my suspicion evident in my tone.
How did he find me? And why?
“Hey.”
His clipped tone feeds my suspicion. If this asshole is about to accuse me of messing up his car, he picked the wrong woman to scam. I just raised the hood and didn’t touch anything in his engine.
“I don’t expect to get the money back, but I need my driver’s license.” His glare tells me he thinks I know what he’s talking about, but I have no idea.
“We didn’t exchange any money. I opened your hood and then we left.” I cross my arms and glare right back at him, making sure he knows I’m not intimidated.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m a hockey player, and I had to leave the arena on a game day just to come get my wallet. I’m flying out on a road trip tomorrow, and I have to have my driver’s license.”
A customer at the bar meets my gaze in a silent request, so I grab her cup, scowling over my shoulder at the Mustang driver as I refill her Pepsi. “Why would I have your driver’s license? I stopped to give you car advice.”
He shakes his head. “Cut the act. Your accomplice stole my wallet. When he ran into me.” He air-quotes the words. “You guys must be new to robbing people, though, because your apron told me where to find you.”
My lips part with surprise. Accomplice? Robbing? It’s all I can do to set down the customer’s drink before I grab Mustang’s arm and drag him outside.
“Listen, asshole,” I hiss. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life, so go scam someone else.”
He arches his brows. “Oh, so you’re throwing the kid under the bus?”
“That kid is my son, and he didn’t steal your wallet, either. Wasn’t the ’97 Caravan a tip-off about my net worth? I wouldn’t be driving a hunk of shit and working at a diner if I was some master thief, would I?”
Some of the venom drains from his expression and he sighs. “Okay. I assumed it was both of you, and that was wrong of me. But I had my wallet when I got into my car this morning. I took it out to give someone some cash and then I put it back. And when I got to the arena this morning—no wallet.”
Zane wouldn’t steal. I’ve raised him better than that. But now his comment this morning after we pulled over to help this guy is nagging in the back of my mind.
That guy’s shoes cost more than our rent. Zane has a thing for high-end tennis shoes, not that we can afford for him to own any. He’s not a car guy like my dad was. He’s a shoe guy. And his biting comment had an undercurrent.