The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,12
the photo and try to make out which table it is. I’ve just caught sight of the customer’s lap when Paulie snatches my phone from me.
“Hey!” I growl, but he keeps it out of reach.
“Don’t do this to yourself. It won’t do any good to keep looking at it.”
I sigh and lower my head back down. He’s probably right. The customers have all gone, so I reach over the bar to grab the whiskey.
“Go easy on the sauce, alright?” Paulie warns as he slips my phone back into my pocket.
“I’m sure there’s a witty culinary sauce joke I could make, but I’m too fucking humiliated to try,” I moan as I pour myself a big glass. “Why don’t you check in with the kitchen, Paulie? Make sure things are clean. And take photos, too. If there’s really rat shit back there, I want to know about it.”
Paulie nods and pats me on the head before heading to the kitchen. I take a sip of my glass. Damn, that’s good. But not fast enough. I down the drink and grimace as it burns my throat.
Good.
I pour myself another and stare at the door, watching the last of the people give their regards to the hostess. Maybe I should just head home. Paulie’s got everything taken care of. I can slink away without attracting too much attention.
I down my glass and start to get up when I see Stephen standing before me.
“I know it’s a little late, but it looks like your shift’s over? How about that drink?”
Ten
Stephen
“Listen, you know that was just for the cameras, right?” I ask Cynthia. I inflect my voice with as much sincerity as I’ve got.
“That’s supposed to make it better?” she asks. She sounds exhausted.
Poor girl.
Sitting on a bar stool, she places her elbows on the bar and her head in her hands. I’ve seen that look from many a guest on my show. Hell, I’ve worn that look after a few rough nights at my own restaurants, back in the day. It’s the look of defeat.
“C’mon,” I say, “let’s have that glass of wine.”
“I’m sorry, what gives you the impression I want anything to do with you? You humiliated me for the sake of your show, and now you want us to be friends?”
There’s no good excuse I can make for myself on that score, so I don’t bother. Instead, I hop myself up on the bar and swing over to the other side. I scan the shelves of red wine. “I wasn’t the only one putting on an act, you know. What was that whole business pretending to be a waitress?”
“I didn’t ‘pretend’ to be a waitress, you assumed I was a waitress. Probably never crossed your mind a woman could be the chef-owner of a place like this, huh?”
“It was a clever bit,” I say as I find a nice bottle of Ripasso from an Italian winery I visited once. “I especially liked ‘I’ll have to check with management’.”
When I turn back to her, she’s actually got a hint of a smile on her face.
“Well,” she says, “I’m still not sure management is OK with me fraternizing with you.”
“Tell your boss she needs to be a little more trusting and a bit more forgiving.” I grab a wine key and start working the cork.
“My boss just had a rough night. I’m not sure ‘trusting’ and ‘forgiving’ are in her vocabulary right now.”
Pop! goes the cork. I place two glasses on the bar and pour us some deep drinks. “Let me talk to her. I’m quite charming.”
“Your TV people tell you that?”
At the mention of my team, I glance over her shoulder and realize everyone’s still hanging around. A few have their eyes trained on us, but most are actually seated at tables and eating. I guess someone brought them the food that had been cooked and never served. Bunch of vultures.
“Hey, gang?” I call out to them. “Go ahead and fuck off, huh? We’re wrapped.”
Chase and Kenny immediately start herding them out. The boom operator has the gall to ask Cynthia’s sous chef for a ‘doggie bag’, but Kenny grabs him by the collar and flings him out on to the street.
Cynthia gives a nod and a wave to the sous chef. He responds by suggestively wiggling his eyebrows at her. It’s kind of tacky, but the fact he’s on my side gives me some hope that Cynthia will come around.
“A smart sous chef can make or break a restaurant,” I comment as