Page 8 of Sizzle

“Hello, Ms. Munroe,” says a male voice. A deep, smooth male voice. “My name is Elliot James. I own a restaurant called Duckbill downtown. Maybe you’ve seen it?”

He keeps talking and I’ve already lost the thread wondering if he does voice acting, or maybe even phone sex work. If he doesn’t, he should.

And there’s a clue I don’t get out enough. Jesus.

“Anyway, if you’re interested, I could really use your input. I understand your time is valuable. We’re happy to offer you compensation,” he’s saying and names a figure that sends my eyebrows climbing. “Will that work for you?”

I rack my recent memory for what the hell he must be talking about. Something about needing ideas for a new, healthier menu.

Hell yes.

Totally my wheelhouse. Not to brag, but it’s kind of what I do.

“That’s fine,” I say, too excited by the prospect of an imminent paycheck to dicker on the price. “When do you want me?” I swallow hard. “There, I mean. When do you want me there?”

Mr. Sex Voice sounds like he’s smiling. “I’m free any time before 4pm the next couple of days.”

“Tomorrow morning works for me,” I say. This might be a bad idea. There’s no way any man could live up to promise of Sex Voice. But I need a job—fast. “10am?”

“Perfect,” says the Sex Voice. “I look forward to meeting you.”

I say something, no idea what, and hang up the phone. I stare at it for a long minute.

“You off the phone, Jo? Who was it?”

I head back to the living room, handing the phone back to my father. I check the time and make sure he’s got his evening pills lined up right. He rarely misses one, but I always double-check.

I mean, that’s my job.

“That was Elliot James, the owner of Duckbill, a restaurant downtown.”

“Never heard of it,” says Dad.

“It’s only been open a little while,” I say, downplaying so he doesn’t feel bad. Dad hasn’t left the house much the last few years, except for doctors’ appointments. Even therapy sessions happen here at the house. He hates looking weak in front of anybody and that goes double for being in public, so he avoids the public altogether.

That leaves me as his primary companion. These days, I’m not his favorite either.

“They got your application, did they? That’s good, gives you somewhere to start.”

I applied for a waitstaff position at Duckbill two months ago. Safe to say this interview or meeting or whatever it is, it’s definitely not about hiring me to wait tables.

“I think it’s actually for a different position,” I say vaguely. “I’ll find out more at the interview.”

“Well hot damn,” says Dad. His smile is so bright, so free of the resentment and bitterness I tell myself I’m used to, it brings tears to my eyes. “Good for you, Jo.”

I flash a smile without meeting his eyes and start tidying up the coffee table so he can’t see my face.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll likely only be gone a couple of hours tomorrow,” I say. When he coughs, I look up.

“Wait, tomorrow? But those rat bastards will be here all morning,” he says, looking cross.

“I’m supposed to be there at ten,” I say, summoning patience. “And I’m getting paid for it. You can handle Jim and Jessica without me for a couple of hours.”

I can tell he wants to bar me from leaving him here alone with his physical therapy team tomorrow but Dad knows we need the money.

“I guess,” he says.

“We’ve talked about this, Dad,” I say, organizing the bookshelf. Better to stay busy. “Restaurant work means longer shifts.”

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