What You See (Sons of the Survivalist #3) - Cherise Sinclair Page 0,62

dishes she’d make for the first “Italian” night as well as seeing what to order as far as food, spices, and equipment.

Speaking of which, “Do you have the store receipt so I can reimburse you? Would you prefer a check or a direct deposit to where your paycheck goes?”

“Yes, thank you.” As she handed the receipt over, she bit her lower lip. “The price of everything was pretty high.”

“Welcome to Alaska.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “Not to worry. When I buy in bulk, the price goes down, and if this works, my Homer restaurant will have theme nights, too.”

“Your Homer restaurant.” Holding a big pot, she gazed over her shoulder at him. “You know, I heard you say restaurants—as in plural—before, but thought it was just a slip of the tongue. You own more than one?”

“One in Homer, this roadhouse, and a restaurant-brewery in Anchorage.”

Bending over, she pulled out a long casserole pan, saying in a grumpy tone, “At one time, I thought you were just a plain old bartender.”

He laughed.

They worked well together as he’d already discovered when they made breakfasts. She took over as chef, directing and putting everything together while he stepped in to do some of the prep work in between making notes.

She was cooking a complete menu to be added to a pared-down roadhouse menu. An antipasto platter, crostini appetizers, and soup. A caprese salad, garlic bread, and bread sticks. Then the three main courses—lasagna, an herbed fish dish, and a chicken parmesan variation. There would also be some side dishes like garlic-prosciutto Brussels sprouts that he couldn’t wait to sample. The dessert menu would have tiramisu and pistachio ice cream added on.

“What are you going to do about the Mexican night?” She was layering the lasagna noodles, ricotta, and meat sauce. “Do you have a chef for that?”

“I’ll handle that night. Cazador brings back recipes whenever he visits Mexico. We might add in a Russian theme night—or even an Asian one, since Hawk picked up some good recipes when he was stationed there.”

A noise caught his attention. Someone had tapped on the back door.

Frankie opened the door, then stepped outside to talk to whoever it was.

After a second, Bull recognized the voice—nineteen-year-old Amka, one of the restaurant waitstaff.

“I saw the cars and thought Wylie was here,” Amka was saying to Frankie. “I wanted to give him my resignation…you know, quietly. Can you take it and give it to the boss?”

“Sure,” Frankie said. “But why are you quitting? You said you really liked being a server and that the roadhouse was more fun to work at than fast food places.”

“I did. It is.”

At the unhappiness in her voice, Bull moved toward the door. Whatever was wrong, he’d fix it.

“Hmm.” Frankie said slowly, “You live with a longtime friend, your family is up in Barrow, no boyfriend. That makes me think the problem is here at work?”

Oh, hell. Bull stopped before reaching the open door.

Amka burst into tears. “He—he’s always making jokes that creep me out, and he won’t stop touching me, even though I asked him not to.”

For fuck’s sake. “He” was obviously someone here at the roadhouse. Who the hell was harassing the girl? Anger rose in Bull fast enough it felt as if his blood had turned to lava. But if he stepped outside, he’d only scare the youngster worse.

“Ah, I can see how that’d make you want to quit.” Frankie’s words were calm, full of empathy. “You know, if the stronzo is treating you that way, he’s probably harassing the other women, too. Tell me his name so I can protect them.”

Bull almost smiled. Sneaky New Yorker. For herself, Amka might not have given up the name, but to help the others? How could she not?

“It’s Harvey.” Amka said in a rush, “He’s not grabbing my boobs or anything, but he kind of slides his hand on my arm, or pats my butt, or puts his arm around my waist. I can’t get near him without him doing something like that.”

“Men.” Frankie’s mutter was loud enough that Bull heard.

He winced. Too many of his gender were assholes.

He wouldn’t have thought Harvey’d be one. Fuck, he hated firing people.

“Listen, I know giving up this job will put you back financially,” Frankie said. “Why don’t you let me talk with the boss—and maybe with Harvey? Sometimes guys don’t understand how offensive their behavior is, and I have a method I’ve used before to get through to them. Give me—and him—another week,