Cocky Notes - Leesa Bow Page 0,1

all a shock to her, and she’s scared. Just give her time.”

Chapter One

MACY

“LOSERS.”

I utter the word to myself as I write it in capitals on the back of the menu above meaningless lines and scribbles with arrows drawn from point A to B.

This gibberish art means something to the guys who sat at this table minutes before I walked over to clean up the mess. A detailed gameplay. The new offence their coach ran over with them at an earlier training session. Three days a week they come in here for coffee and breakfast, then chat about the strategies discussed during the team meeting as they graffiti our menus. While waiting the tables at Lombardi’s, I hear their antics mocking each other in a mate’s code of friendship.

Shit, I’m not usually this grumpy.

Before I left this morning, even my dear father told me to cheer up as he hobbled across the kitchen on his crutch. He never complains or stresses about the never-ending bills rolling in.

Instead of smiling as my father would suggest, I underline a big fat zigzag beneath the word LOSERS. The emphasis puts a smile on my face. “Fuckers,” I murmur, now satisfied. Maybe this makes me as bad as them, tagging our perfectly good menu, but figure it’s ruined now. Doesn’t change the fact I have to pick up after these lazy shits. I mean how hard is it to place your half-eaten sourdough crust on your plate?

I toss the leftover food from the table onto the plates. These guys are elite AFL football players with superb hand-eye coordination. Even so, they can’t even keep their food on the crockery.

The door chimes alerting me to new customers.

An arm reaches across the table and snares the menu.

A sexy arm.

I straighten. Heat creeps up my neck as one of the football players looks pointedly at the menu then back at me.

The player who gives me spine tingles every time our eyes meet.

“Tell Oliver we’ll pay for new menus to be printed.” Mr Blue Eyes-Blond Surfy-Hair waves the menu in his hand flicking crumbs aside. “Gotta write down new team plays while it’s fresh in our mind after training. Maybe it’s the organic coffee, but everything makes sense when we’re here.” His lips curl up, and he’s looking at me as though he wants to say something else like every other time he is here and we stare at each other, tongue-tied for words. A few seconds of awkward silence pass before he turns and strides away.

“I bet it does,” I say to his back—broad and muscled—as the door whooshes closed behind him. Even his sexiness does nothing for my disgruntled mood. I can’t help the envy because what do these overpaid sports players have to stress about?

I head out back to dump the dishes in the sink. My gut is in knots. Next time I serve him will be even more mortifying. I pass the office window to see Oliver behind his desk, a mountain of paperwork in front of him, and cringe. He’ll be pissed if I’ve upset his customers.

Bloody terrific.

“We have fresh tiramisu and panna cotta for you to load in the small fridge.” Dominic, one of the head chefs, punctuates every word with a hand action. He waves his knife as he speaks to me. I step back—a work safety measure I learnt a long time ago.

“Do I get to taste test first?” I wink at him. “To ensure it’s up to scratch?”

“You don’t insult Dominic,” he says in thick English. “I make-a the best tiramisu in the southern hemisphere.”

“Now, you’re over-exaggerating. I’ve tasted better at a café down the Bay.”

“Macy.” Oliver leans on the doorframe. “Stop teasing my uncle.” The half-smirk tells me he’s enjoying my antics.

“Mamma mia,” Dominic says with both hands in the air, one still wielding a long knife. “She not understand the love I put into cooking.”

“I do… When are you going to understand I’ll never stop throwing you a baited line? Maybe you should make fish your specialty dinner?”

Dominic raises his eyebrows at Oliver. “You want me to cook fish?”

“Ignore her,” Oliver says and waves me into his office. “I want to discuss something with you.”

I follow him inside and sit behind his large cedar table. What if one of the football players mentioned my accusation? They attract trade, and if Lombardi’s loses customers, I might lose shifts or my job. Paper is spread from one side to the other. Since taking over the business from his father twelve