Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“To each other?” I tried to conjure them into memory, but I was bad with faces. And names. Fine, I actually had no fucking clue who Heather and Donny were. I just knew I needed them to open service tonight.
Rhy chuckled. “Shit, Row, do you care about anything other than work?”
“Baseball, during seasons the Mets don’t suck.” I glanced around, throwing blood-chilling looks at my staff to make sure they weren’t slacking. “How was I supposed to know they were bumping uglies?”
“Through the power of sight and deduction. They were all over each other like a genital rash after spring break.” Rhyland threw charming smiles at servers who smoothed tablecloths and arranged utensils around us. The man could flirt with a fucking Stanley cup and win it over. “You kicked them out of the meat fridge the other day, remember? Told Donny next time you saw his meat in that fridge, you’d make dumpling stuffing out of his intestines.”
That did sound like something I’d say.
Besides being my restaurant manager, Rhyland Coltridge was also my best friend. He’d been my wingman since I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu and called him up to supervise my restaurant in Paris. Rhyland was a boyfriend-for-hire by trade—a PC title for what really was de facto a male escort—but I’d convinced him to work with me through a fat paycheck, good food, and a limitless amount of pussy. That last selling point was his favorite. He’d yet to find a hole he didn’t want to shove his dick into.
Descartes was our last hurrah together, though. Rhy wanted to be a full-time pretend boyfriend in the Big Apple, after blazing through most of the willing women in Western Europe. The money was excellent, the hours measly in comparison to running a Michelin-starred restaurant, and one of his filthy-rich clients had bought him a condo in Manhattan as a birthday gift. Therefore, three weeks ago, he’d informed me he was done with the customer service field.
The only customers I want to service are millionaire women who pay me hourly for longingly staring at their eyes during family functions and telling their relatives and jealous ex-husbands how much I love them had been his exact words.
“You really don’t pay attention to anyone other than yourself and your kitchen, huh?” Rhy’s green eyes narrowed.
That wasn’t completely true. I did notice one person. She had blue-tipped, Rachel Green hair, wore overalls unironically, and possessed the ability to be klutzy without looking like a complete moron.
And I wanted to stay as far away from her as humanly possible. This wouldn’t be a problem, though. I had the uncanny ability to cut people off, and Calla Litvin had been plucked from my life five years ago, straight from the root. She was squarely on my shit list.
“Let’s get to the solution portion of this conversation.” I tapped my cigarette pack on my thigh, eager for a smoke. “How are we solving our staff problem?”
It was going to be a bitch to hire and train two new employees if I could even find them in this godforsaken town. The citizens of Staindrop weren’t exactly fans of mine, and Descartes was booked to the max until its closing date, the day before Christmas.
January first couldn’t come soon enough. That was when my one-way ticket to London was scheduled.
New restaurant. New adventure. Zero baggage.
“Become a tolerable, relatable human being and stop scaring off everyone around you.” Rhyland sauntered over to the bar, crouched down to throw the fridge open, and popped open a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 by banging the cap against the edge of the bar.
“Thanks for the tip.” My nostrils flared. “Any other ideas that fit our time constraint?”
“You wanted something immediate?” He took a pull of his drink. “Then your best bet is your sister and your mother.”
“The former is on bed rest, and the latter is recovering from the flu. Think harder. That brain of yours is good for more than taking directions from lonely rich women.”
“I’m too hot to use my brain. Only average people have to saddle themselves with an actual personality.”
“You have a personality,” I informed him dryly. “A shitty one, but it’s in existence nonetheless.”
He pointed at me with the bottle, not even a little offended. “What’s your idea, Einstein?”
“Find me Donny and Heather, drag them here by the hair, and make them give us the two weeks’ notice they owe us.”
“Donny’s bald.” Rhyland took another greedy sip.
“He’ll be limbless too, once I’m done with him.”
Rhy swished the beer in his mouth, mulling over my words. “Even if I did want to spend my night at the police station awaiting bail for assault and harassment, they’ve probably already boarded the plane.”
Fuck.
Descartes attracted people from all over the East Coast, mainly out-of-towners. The price point and fine-dining aspect of the menu didn’t appeal to Staindrop’s usual palate, which favored anything that was breaded, deep-fried, oversalted, and swimming in ketchup.