Changing Scenes (Changing Teams #2), page 3
“For the bride having a twenty-person rehearsal dinner here in February,” he explained. “Turns out she and her fiancé have a thing for seafood tapas.”
I refrained from pointing out that tapas was tapas, regardless of the protein involved. “The bride, she the one with the light hair?”
“Yeah, the white chick. The other one’s the maid of honor.” Gabe looked me up and down and demanded, “What, can’t you do it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I’m just getting their oysters ready. Did she say what kind of seafood she liked?”
“Nah, seems she likes all of it.”
I grinned as I finished arranging the oysters on a bed of crushed ice. I was bringing them out with a white wine butter sauce on the side, and a few wedges of lemon. “This is gonna be fun.”
***
By their own accounts the girls, and Christa, loved my tapas. In addition to the oysters, I sent out a charcuterie plate, clams with linguica and tomato, mussels with three sauces, marinated olives, and shrimp sautéed in garlic oil. The bride, now she was a real sweetheart, going so far as to thank me for everything I brought out. Whoever she was marrying was a lucky man.
Her friend, though, I didn’t know about her. Oh, she expressed her appreciation, but she was…reserved. Like she didn’t want to get too close, like she was hiding something. Why I was wondering why a random customer didn’t want to get close to me was a question in and of itself.
After I delivered my latest creation, asparagus wrapped in jamon serrano and grilled to perfection, she finally looked me in the eye. Her eyes were bright green, greener than anything had a right to be during November in Connecticut, and she had perfectly straight hair like a fall of melted chocolate, and café au lait skin…
And I have been in the kitchen way too long if I could only describe her in terms of food. It came down to this—she was hot, her name was Astrid, and I needed to know if she was bringing a date to this wedding. Oh, and, try to scam an invite for myself. I wasn’t a betting man, but I’d wager that Astrid dressed up was a fine sight, indeed.
They had just finished the asparagus when I brought out the main course.
“And here we are,” I said with a flourish, setting the pan of paella on the trivet in the center of the table as Gabe set plates before the ladies. “If you’d like to continue the seafood theme throughout the meal, I can offer paella as a main course.”
“Are you kidding me?” Britt said as I scooped a helping onto her plate. “You just made this? And I want some mussels.”
“Donnie makes paella often,” Christa said, indicating with her eyes she’d like some lobster. A smart chef always feeds the owner well. “Our saffron bill is outrageous.”
I smiled, then I glanced at Astrid. “Would you like some lobster, or sausage maybe?”
“Sausage, please,” she replied.
“For the lady,” I said, scooping a portion onto her plate.
Astrid looked at the heap of rice and sausage, and smiled. “Looks good, Mr. Chef.”
I grinned, widely and stupidly if Astrid’s raised eyebrow was any indication. I cleared my throat, and asked, “You don’t like seafood?”
“I do,” she said, “I just like sausage as well.”
“I’m glad you like my sausage,” my mouth said, before my brain caught up with it.
Astrid’s eyes widened, then she laughed. “Is that the best line you have? I’m from New York. We eat boys like you for breakfast.”
“Do you,” I said. “Stay for a drink, maybe get a nibble.”
“Wow,” Astrid said. “That sausage line really was your best.”
“Stay, and teach me new lines.”
Astrid gave me a look that made all the little hairs on my neck stand on end. “You couldn’t handle my lines.”
“Guys.”
I glanced at Christa and Britt, both of them wide-eyed and staring at us. “Paella’s getting cold,” Britt said.
I nodded and retreated to my kitchen, rummaging around the pantry while I thought about what just happened. What was wrong with me, flirting with a customer like that? In the five years I’d worked at Thirty-Nine and Twelve, I’d never hit on a single customer, no matter how hot they were. And those sausage comments? Lame, just lame.
A few late lunch customers trickled in, and I busied myself with their orders while Diane, the pastry chef, discussed what kind of dessert Britt would like for the rehearsal. It seemed that the bride’s stepfather was paying for the dinner, and since the dude was loaded, they were sparing no expense. After they spent an hour discussing the finer points of chocolate, Diane reentered the kitchen and high-fived me.
“What’s that for?” I asked. “Score a date with Gabe?”
“Scored making the Sullivan-MacKellar wedding cake,” she replied. “Dark chocolate with a raspberry filling. Can you believe it?”
“Of course I can, your cakes rock,” I mumbled, wheels turning in my mind. “Hey, the wedding is on a Saturday?”
“Yeah, first Saturday of February. Why?”
The universe loved me; I only worked every other weekend, and I had that one off. “Need a helper for the big day? If so, I’m your man.”
“Really? Thank you, Donnie!” Diane gave me a quick hug, then she bounded off to her corner of the kitchen. As for me, I grinned as I went over my weekly purchase order. My invitation to the wedding had been secured.
***
Another half hour went by before Christa called me back out to the dining room. The bride had settled on a menu—oysters and Prosecco to start with, followed by a green salad, mussels, and crostini, and last but not least, my paella.
“No soup?” I asked, then I remembered that I hadn’t sent out any soup for them to try. “I could do a seafood bisque, or French onion. Maybe a caldo verde.”
“Mmm. Soup.” Britt tapped her chin thoughtfully, then she looked at Christa. “Christa was just going to show me the banquet room. Astrid, can you work out the soup dilemma with Donnie?”
And they were off, my boss and the bride-to-be with their arms linked together and whispering furiously. I glanced at Astrid, and asked, “Want to talk at the bar? I’ll make you a drink.”
“Sure.” She chose a corner stool, and since the regular bartender didn’t arrive until the dinner rush, I stepped behind the bar. “You’re the head chef and the bartender?”
“Never tended bar a day in my life, but I read labels just fine,” I replied. “What’s your poison?”
“Depends,” she said, giving me this look that could melt ice. “What do you have?”
“Anything,” I said. “Everything.”
She flipped open the condiment tray, and speared an olive with a toothpick. “Make me something, then.”
She sucked on that olive while I moved around the bar, those green eyes watching my every move. I picked up one bottle after another, wondering what this way-too-cool for me woman even liked to drink. In the end I grabbed a couple of flutes and filled them with Champagne.
“For the lady,” I said, setting the glass in front of her.
“Original.” Astrid smirked, twirling her glass by the stem.
“Classic,” I countered. We clinked glasses and drank.
“Should you really be drinking while you’re on the clock?” Astrid asked.
“Technically, I work the lunch rush, and then dinner to close,” I replied, glancing at the clock. “Being that it’s currently four-thirty, I’m free as a bird.”
“Are you?” Astrid sipped her Champagne. “Interesting.”
“So, about this wedding,” I began. “Best man gonna be your date?”
Astrid laughed, and for a second I saw the real Astrid, the woman behind the mask. Damn, she was hot. “The best man is my cousin,” she replied. “And he’s gay.”
“So a double no then,” I said. “Need a date?”
“You asking?”
“Think I just did.”
Astrid ducked her head, but her eyes were dancing. “I don’t know, I have to be on maid of honor duty the whole day,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“Tell you what,” I said, “give me your phone, I’ll put my number in. That way, if you have a menu-related emergency, you can call me.”
She narrowed her eyes, then she whipped out her phone and handed it over. I punched in my number and sent myself a text, my own phone vibrating when it went through. “You can call me for non-food related emergencies too,” I said, sliding the phone back across the bar.
“Now why would I do that?” she asked. Before I could offer up another lame reply, Christa and Britt returned.
“Astrid, the banquet room is gorgeous,” Britt gushed, then she saw our glasses. “Champagne? I thought you were having soup.”
“We worked out the soup,” I said as I grabbed glasses for Britt and Christa. “The Champagne is to celebrate a perfect menu.”
Christa eyed me. “And what will the soup be?”
“French onion,” I replied, while Astrid said, “Gumbo.”
We glanced at each other, then I said, “I’ll offer a choice.”
The corner of Christa’s mouth curled up. “A choice, huh?”
“Well, I love it,” Britt said, “and I love Champagne.” Her phone beeped; she checked the screen, and her gaze went soft. “Aww, I miss Sam.”
“Did he send you another love note?” Astrid asked.
“Maybe,” Britt hedged. She set her glass on the bar and turned toward Christa. “Thank you so much for meeting with me today. What do I owe you?”
“I’ll add it to the dinner’s invoice,” Christa replied. “Thank you for choosing my restaurant. And congratulations.”
Astrid and Britt left a few minutes later, and I cleaned up behind the bar. When I glanced toward the parking lot, I saw my green-eyed beauty getting in the passenger seat of a black sports car. She saw me watching so I smiled; when she smiled back my heart almost beat through my chest.
“Liar,” Christa said, snapping me back to reality.
“What am I lying about?” I asked.
“You didn’t work out the soup,” she said. “You sat here sipping Champagne with Astrid. Get her number?”
“What makes you think that?” I countered, tipping more Champagne into Christa’s glass.
“You’ve never offered a choice on a fixed menu,” she replied. “It’s always been set in stone, unless someone had an allergy. Even then you don’t like substitutions.”
I smiled around my glass; my boss, she knew me well. “Think I got a chance with her?”
“I have no idea,” Christa replied. “But Britt thinks you do.”
***
Donato: You busy?
Astrid: Chef Donnie?
Donato: The one and only.
Donato: So, busy?
Astrid: Getting ready for work.
Donato: What do you do?
Astrid: Nosy ;)
Donato: Hey, you know what I do.
Astrid: True.
Astrid: I’m a model.
Donato: Should have known :)
Donato: What kind of a model are you?
Astrid: You want to know if I do nudes.
Donato: Maybe ;)
Astrid: I met Britt at a nude shoot.
Astrid: Donnie? You still there?
Donato: I think my heart just exploded.
Donato: You like modeling?
Astrid: Pays the bills.
Astrid: You like cooking?
Donato: I love it. Been cooking all my life, since I could reach the stove.
Astrid: Really?
Donato: Oh yeah. I remember once—you know what, that story’s too long for text. Can I call?
Astrid: Call away :)
Donato: Why’d you say gumbo?
Astrid: Why’d I say what about gumbo?
Donato: The soup for the dinner. You said we picked gumbo.
Astrid: LOL
Astrid: And?
Donato: You from the south?
Astrid: I’m from Queens. Christa said you specialize in Mediterranean seafood.
Donato: Babe, gumbo is from Louisiana!
Astrid: …um, oops.
Astrid: and, babe?
Donato: Sue me, you’re a babe.
Astrid: :)
Astrid: So when are you going to cook me something?
Donnie: I made you a five course meal at the restaurant.
Astrid: That was for Britt, not me.
Donato: You want some gumbo?
Astrid: Maybe. I like spicy.
Donato: Calling.
Chapter Five
Astrid
For no good reason, I’d fallen asleep on my couch. Also for no good reason, my phone was vibrating beneath me at seven in the morning. I checked the display and swore, since nothing was as irritating or as intrusive as family.
I accepted the call and growled, “This had better be good.”
“Don’t I always have good news?” Michael replied. “Hell, just hearing my voice is a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“It’s a ray of something, all right.”
Michael laughed shortly. “Listen, sugar, I got you a job. One that will get you cash money each and every shift.”
“Really?” I sat up, suddenly wide awake and not at all irritated. Okay, maybe there was a little leftover irritation. “Where? As a makeup artist?”
“No, cocktail waitress.”
“What?”
“Listen,” Michael hissed, “you wanted a cash job on the up and up as much as possible. I found this. You want it?”
“Do I have to be topless?”
“I’m going to pretend that you did not just ask me that.”
I groaned. “Fine, I’ll try it out. Where is it?”
Michael rattled off an address with the strict instruction that I was to meet him there at nine. I dressed myself in jeans and a plain green sweater, thinking that this wasn’t the sort of place where one wanted to be too cute.
I walked up to the place at 8:55 on the nose; not only had my money situation made it so I couldn’t afford cab fare, what with not being mired in traffic I was suddenly punctual. Michael was lounging beside the door, looking like the world’s most disinterested bouncer.
“This is it?” I asked. The currently unlit sign over the door proclaimed it Al’s Place.
“Sure is,” Michael replied, then he handed me an old style flip phone.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Your plan downgrade you to last century?”
“It’s a prepay phone,” he explained. “Al’s a good guy, but you don’t want to let these sorts of people too into your real life, know what I mean? So I gave him this phone’s number and my studio’s address as your contact info. Oh, and I told him your last name’s DuFresne.”
A smart girl would have demanded to know what exactly made Al the sort of man you gave fake contact info to. A smart yet poor girl shrugs and sticks the phone in her bag, while hoping for the best. “Thanks, Michael. I really appreciate all of this.”
“Come on in, I’ll introduce you to the man in charge.”
I followed Michael inside, and saw a middle aged man behind the bar. He was polishing the old wood to a mirror sheen, which made me feel better about this situation. A jerk boss wouldn’t care if his bar was shiny, right?
“Al,” Michael boomed, “here’s my cousin, Astrid.”
Al gave me a once over. “She’ll do,” he replied. “When can you work?”
“Me? Um.” I searched my memory; I had something booked for late Friday afternoon, and Thursday was Thanksgiving. No way was I giving up turkey day for some bar job. “Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays?”
“Excellent.” Al reached under the bar and tossed me an apron. “We open at ten. You want to work today? You get tips only, no checks. I don’t like paperwork.”
That was fine with me, since I didn’t want any records of me working here. “Sure. You want a resumé or anything?”
“Michael assures me you’re quality. I trust his opinion.”
I looked up at my cousin and beamed; not only had he gotten me a cash job, it was kind of, sort of safe. In a totally not safe way. “Yeah, I wouldn’t put too much stock in Michael’s opinions if I were you. He’s a wild card.”
Michael grunted as Al and I laughed. Yeah, this job wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
Chapter Six
Astrid
Donato: You awake, babe?
Astrid: Yes.
Donato: Got work early tomorrow?
Astrid: Off all day.
Donato: Awesome. I’ll pick u up.
Astrid: Pick me up for what?
Donato: Adventure ;)
Donato: Address?
And those text messages were why I was standing outside my building at half past midnight on Thanksgiving—well, by then it was technically the day after Thanksgiving—freezing my butt off and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Yeah, Donnie was cute and all, but was anyone cute enough to risk hypothermia?
He pulled up a few minutes later, driving a white van with Thirty-Nine and Twelve’s logo on the side. Donnie came around to my side and opened the passenger door for me. “Hop in,” he said. “I brought coffee too.”
“Bless you,” I muttered. Once I was in, he delved into the back of the van, emerging a moment later with a thermos and two travel mugs.
“You want milk?” he asked. “Sugar?”
“Black is fine,” I said. He filled one, screwed on the top, and handed it to me. I gripped it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “So, what’s this adventure all about?”
I refrained from pointing out that tapas was tapas, regardless of the protein involved. “The bride, she the one with the light hair?”
“Yeah, the white chick. The other one’s the maid of honor.” Gabe looked me up and down and demanded, “What, can’t you do it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I’m just getting their oysters ready. Did she say what kind of seafood she liked?”
“Nah, seems she likes all of it.”
I grinned as I finished arranging the oysters on a bed of crushed ice. I was bringing them out with a white wine butter sauce on the side, and a few wedges of lemon. “This is gonna be fun.”
***
By their own accounts the girls, and Christa, loved my tapas. In addition to the oysters, I sent out a charcuterie plate, clams with linguica and tomato, mussels with three sauces, marinated olives, and shrimp sautéed in garlic oil. The bride, now she was a real sweetheart, going so far as to thank me for everything I brought out. Whoever she was marrying was a lucky man.
Her friend, though, I didn’t know about her. Oh, she expressed her appreciation, but she was…reserved. Like she didn’t want to get too close, like she was hiding something. Why I was wondering why a random customer didn’t want to get close to me was a question in and of itself.
After I delivered my latest creation, asparagus wrapped in jamon serrano and grilled to perfection, she finally looked me in the eye. Her eyes were bright green, greener than anything had a right to be during November in Connecticut, and she had perfectly straight hair like a fall of melted chocolate, and café au lait skin…
And I have been in the kitchen way too long if I could only describe her in terms of food. It came down to this—she was hot, her name was Astrid, and I needed to know if she was bringing a date to this wedding. Oh, and, try to scam an invite for myself. I wasn’t a betting man, but I’d wager that Astrid dressed up was a fine sight, indeed.
They had just finished the asparagus when I brought out the main course.
“And here we are,” I said with a flourish, setting the pan of paella on the trivet in the center of the table as Gabe set plates before the ladies. “If you’d like to continue the seafood theme throughout the meal, I can offer paella as a main course.”
“Are you kidding me?” Britt said as I scooped a helping onto her plate. “You just made this? And I want some mussels.”
“Donnie makes paella often,” Christa said, indicating with her eyes she’d like some lobster. A smart chef always feeds the owner well. “Our saffron bill is outrageous.”
I smiled, then I glanced at Astrid. “Would you like some lobster, or sausage maybe?”
“Sausage, please,” she replied.
“For the lady,” I said, scooping a portion onto her plate.
Astrid looked at the heap of rice and sausage, and smiled. “Looks good, Mr. Chef.”
I grinned, widely and stupidly if Astrid’s raised eyebrow was any indication. I cleared my throat, and asked, “You don’t like seafood?”
“I do,” she said, “I just like sausage as well.”
“I’m glad you like my sausage,” my mouth said, before my brain caught up with it.
Astrid’s eyes widened, then she laughed. “Is that the best line you have? I’m from New York. We eat boys like you for breakfast.”
“Do you,” I said. “Stay for a drink, maybe get a nibble.”
“Wow,” Astrid said. “That sausage line really was your best.”
“Stay, and teach me new lines.”
Astrid gave me a look that made all the little hairs on my neck stand on end. “You couldn’t handle my lines.”
“Guys.”
I glanced at Christa and Britt, both of them wide-eyed and staring at us. “Paella’s getting cold,” Britt said.
I nodded and retreated to my kitchen, rummaging around the pantry while I thought about what just happened. What was wrong with me, flirting with a customer like that? In the five years I’d worked at Thirty-Nine and Twelve, I’d never hit on a single customer, no matter how hot they were. And those sausage comments? Lame, just lame.
A few late lunch customers trickled in, and I busied myself with their orders while Diane, the pastry chef, discussed what kind of dessert Britt would like for the rehearsal. It seemed that the bride’s stepfather was paying for the dinner, and since the dude was loaded, they were sparing no expense. After they spent an hour discussing the finer points of chocolate, Diane reentered the kitchen and high-fived me.
“What’s that for?” I asked. “Score a date with Gabe?”
“Scored making the Sullivan-MacKellar wedding cake,” she replied. “Dark chocolate with a raspberry filling. Can you believe it?”
“Of course I can, your cakes rock,” I mumbled, wheels turning in my mind. “Hey, the wedding is on a Saturday?”
“Yeah, first Saturday of February. Why?”
The universe loved me; I only worked every other weekend, and I had that one off. “Need a helper for the big day? If so, I’m your man.”
“Really? Thank you, Donnie!” Diane gave me a quick hug, then she bounded off to her corner of the kitchen. As for me, I grinned as I went over my weekly purchase order. My invitation to the wedding had been secured.
***
Another half hour went by before Christa called me back out to the dining room. The bride had settled on a menu—oysters and Prosecco to start with, followed by a green salad, mussels, and crostini, and last but not least, my paella.
“No soup?” I asked, then I remembered that I hadn’t sent out any soup for them to try. “I could do a seafood bisque, or French onion. Maybe a caldo verde.”
“Mmm. Soup.” Britt tapped her chin thoughtfully, then she looked at Christa. “Christa was just going to show me the banquet room. Astrid, can you work out the soup dilemma with Donnie?”
And they were off, my boss and the bride-to-be with their arms linked together and whispering furiously. I glanced at Astrid, and asked, “Want to talk at the bar? I’ll make you a drink.”
“Sure.” She chose a corner stool, and since the regular bartender didn’t arrive until the dinner rush, I stepped behind the bar. “You’re the head chef and the bartender?”
“Never tended bar a day in my life, but I read labels just fine,” I replied. “What’s your poison?”
“Depends,” she said, giving me this look that could melt ice. “What do you have?”
“Anything,” I said. “Everything.”
She flipped open the condiment tray, and speared an olive with a toothpick. “Make me something, then.”
She sucked on that olive while I moved around the bar, those green eyes watching my every move. I picked up one bottle after another, wondering what this way-too-cool for me woman even liked to drink. In the end I grabbed a couple of flutes and filled them with Champagne.
“For the lady,” I said, setting the glass in front of her.
“Original.” Astrid smirked, twirling her glass by the stem.
“Classic,” I countered. We clinked glasses and drank.
“Should you really be drinking while you’re on the clock?” Astrid asked.
“Technically, I work the lunch rush, and then dinner to close,” I replied, glancing at the clock. “Being that it’s currently four-thirty, I’m free as a bird.”
“Are you?” Astrid sipped her Champagne. “Interesting.”
“So, about this wedding,” I began. “Best man gonna be your date?”
Astrid laughed, and for a second I saw the real Astrid, the woman behind the mask. Damn, she was hot. “The best man is my cousin,” she replied. “And he’s gay.”
“So a double no then,” I said. “Need a date?”
“You asking?”
“Think I just did.”
Astrid ducked her head, but her eyes were dancing. “I don’t know, I have to be on maid of honor duty the whole day,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
“Tell you what,” I said, “give me your phone, I’ll put my number in. That way, if you have a menu-related emergency, you can call me.”
She narrowed her eyes, then she whipped out her phone and handed it over. I punched in my number and sent myself a text, my own phone vibrating when it went through. “You can call me for non-food related emergencies too,” I said, sliding the phone back across the bar.
“Now why would I do that?” she asked. Before I could offer up another lame reply, Christa and Britt returned.
“Astrid, the banquet room is gorgeous,” Britt gushed, then she saw our glasses. “Champagne? I thought you were having soup.”
“We worked out the soup,” I said as I grabbed glasses for Britt and Christa. “The Champagne is to celebrate a perfect menu.”
Christa eyed me. “And what will the soup be?”
“French onion,” I replied, while Astrid said, “Gumbo.”
We glanced at each other, then I said, “I’ll offer a choice.”
The corner of Christa’s mouth curled up. “A choice, huh?”
“Well, I love it,” Britt said, “and I love Champagne.” Her phone beeped; she checked the screen, and her gaze went soft. “Aww, I miss Sam.”
“Did he send you another love note?” Astrid asked.
“Maybe,” Britt hedged. She set her glass on the bar and turned toward Christa. “Thank you so much for meeting with me today. What do I owe you?”
“I’ll add it to the dinner’s invoice,” Christa replied. “Thank you for choosing my restaurant. And congratulations.”
Astrid and Britt left a few minutes later, and I cleaned up behind the bar. When I glanced toward the parking lot, I saw my green-eyed beauty getting in the passenger seat of a black sports car. She saw me watching so I smiled; when she smiled back my heart almost beat through my chest.
“Liar,” Christa said, snapping me back to reality.
“What am I lying about?” I asked.
“You didn’t work out the soup,” she said. “You sat here sipping Champagne with Astrid. Get her number?”
“What makes you think that?” I countered, tipping more Champagne into Christa’s glass.
“You’ve never offered a choice on a fixed menu,” she replied. “It’s always been set in stone, unless someone had an allergy. Even then you don’t like substitutions.”
I smiled around my glass; my boss, she knew me well. “Think I got a chance with her?”
“I have no idea,” Christa replied. “But Britt thinks you do.”
***
Donato: You busy?
Astrid: Chef Donnie?
Donato: The one and only.
Donato: So, busy?
Astrid: Getting ready for work.
Donato: What do you do?
Astrid: Nosy ;)
Donato: Hey, you know what I do.
Astrid: True.
Astrid: I’m a model.
Donato: Should have known :)
Donato: What kind of a model are you?
Astrid: You want to know if I do nudes.
Donato: Maybe ;)
Astrid: I met Britt at a nude shoot.
Astrid: Donnie? You still there?
Donato: I think my heart just exploded.
Donato: You like modeling?
Astrid: Pays the bills.
Astrid: You like cooking?
Donato: I love it. Been cooking all my life, since I could reach the stove.
Astrid: Really?
Donato: Oh yeah. I remember once—you know what, that story’s too long for text. Can I call?
Astrid: Call away :)
Donato: Why’d you say gumbo?
Astrid: Why’d I say what about gumbo?
Donato: The soup for the dinner. You said we picked gumbo.
Astrid: LOL
Astrid: And?
Donato: You from the south?
Astrid: I’m from Queens. Christa said you specialize in Mediterranean seafood.
Donato: Babe, gumbo is from Louisiana!
Astrid: …um, oops.
Astrid: and, babe?
Donato: Sue me, you’re a babe.
Astrid: :)
Astrid: So when are you going to cook me something?
Donnie: I made you a five course meal at the restaurant.
Astrid: That was for Britt, not me.
Donato: You want some gumbo?
Astrid: Maybe. I like spicy.
Donato: Calling.
Chapter Five
Astrid
For no good reason, I’d fallen asleep on my couch. Also for no good reason, my phone was vibrating beneath me at seven in the morning. I checked the display and swore, since nothing was as irritating or as intrusive as family.
I accepted the call and growled, “This had better be good.”
“Don’t I always have good news?” Michael replied. “Hell, just hearing my voice is a ray of fucking sunshine.”
“It’s a ray of something, all right.”
Michael laughed shortly. “Listen, sugar, I got you a job. One that will get you cash money each and every shift.”
“Really?” I sat up, suddenly wide awake and not at all irritated. Okay, maybe there was a little leftover irritation. “Where? As a makeup artist?”
“No, cocktail waitress.”
“What?”
“Listen,” Michael hissed, “you wanted a cash job on the up and up as much as possible. I found this. You want it?”
“Do I have to be topless?”
“I’m going to pretend that you did not just ask me that.”
I groaned. “Fine, I’ll try it out. Where is it?”
Michael rattled off an address with the strict instruction that I was to meet him there at nine. I dressed myself in jeans and a plain green sweater, thinking that this wasn’t the sort of place where one wanted to be too cute.
I walked up to the place at 8:55 on the nose; not only had my money situation made it so I couldn’t afford cab fare, what with not being mired in traffic I was suddenly punctual. Michael was lounging beside the door, looking like the world’s most disinterested bouncer.
“This is it?” I asked. The currently unlit sign over the door proclaimed it Al’s Place.
“Sure is,” Michael replied, then he handed me an old style flip phone.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Your plan downgrade you to last century?”
“It’s a prepay phone,” he explained. “Al’s a good guy, but you don’t want to let these sorts of people too into your real life, know what I mean? So I gave him this phone’s number and my studio’s address as your contact info. Oh, and I told him your last name’s DuFresne.”
A smart girl would have demanded to know what exactly made Al the sort of man you gave fake contact info to. A smart yet poor girl shrugs and sticks the phone in her bag, while hoping for the best. “Thanks, Michael. I really appreciate all of this.”
“Come on in, I’ll introduce you to the man in charge.”
I followed Michael inside, and saw a middle aged man behind the bar. He was polishing the old wood to a mirror sheen, which made me feel better about this situation. A jerk boss wouldn’t care if his bar was shiny, right?
“Al,” Michael boomed, “here’s my cousin, Astrid.”
Al gave me a once over. “She’ll do,” he replied. “When can you work?”
“Me? Um.” I searched my memory; I had something booked for late Friday afternoon, and Thursday was Thanksgiving. No way was I giving up turkey day for some bar job. “Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays?”
“Excellent.” Al reached under the bar and tossed me an apron. “We open at ten. You want to work today? You get tips only, no checks. I don’t like paperwork.”
That was fine with me, since I didn’t want any records of me working here. “Sure. You want a resumé or anything?”
“Michael assures me you’re quality. I trust his opinion.”
I looked up at my cousin and beamed; not only had he gotten me a cash job, it was kind of, sort of safe. In a totally not safe way. “Yeah, I wouldn’t put too much stock in Michael’s opinions if I were you. He’s a wild card.”
Michael grunted as Al and I laughed. Yeah, this job wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
Chapter Six
Astrid
Donato: You awake, babe?
Astrid: Yes.
Donato: Got work early tomorrow?
Astrid: Off all day.
Donato: Awesome. I’ll pick u up.
Astrid: Pick me up for what?
Donato: Adventure ;)
Donato: Address?
And those text messages were why I was standing outside my building at half past midnight on Thanksgiving—well, by then it was technically the day after Thanksgiving—freezing my butt off and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Yeah, Donnie was cute and all, but was anyone cute enough to risk hypothermia?
He pulled up a few minutes later, driving a white van with Thirty-Nine and Twelve’s logo on the side. Donnie came around to my side and opened the passenger door for me. “Hop in,” he said. “I brought coffee too.”
“Bless you,” I muttered. Once I was in, he delved into the back of the van, emerging a moment later with a thermos and two travel mugs.
“You want milk?” he asked. “Sugar?”
“Black is fine,” I said. He filled one, screwed on the top, and handed it to me. I gripped it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “So, what’s this adventure all about?”
