Page 43 of The Promise Of You

He looks at me like I have three heads.

“How much d’you pay for the food that was sent back?’

Now he’s looking at me like he’s ready to murder me.

“How much d’you pay for rent?”

I pray to god he doesn’t know about the rent situation.

“That’s what I thought.” I get closer to him, so close I can smell his armpits and cigarette breath, so close I can feel the anger radiating, so close I could count the number of sweat beads pearling off his forehead. So close I can whisper, so this is just between him and me. “You get that salmon done right now, and you get it done so frigging perfect the guest will write us a five-star review that will erase the memory of all the shitty reviews we’ve gotten because of your crappy work ethic. And from now on, you’re dropping the shitty attitude and you. Are. Focusing. On. Work.”

His nostrils flare and his jaw clenches, and I see it coming, so I cut it short before the thought forming in his lizard brain makes it to his mouth and he does something we’ll both regret. “And if you so much as think about quitting without giving me a proper two-week notice, swear to god, you will find no work in this state, no work in the northeast, no work on the East Coast, or the West Coast, or the Midwest, or the South, or Canada, or anywhere else in the frigging world because swear to god, I made a promise to my aunt and I. Always. Keep. My. Promises.”

He holds my gaze in a stare-down contest.

“I’m waiting for the salmon,” I say in clenched teeth.

“Salmon!” he barks, still in my face, still staring at me, but I manage not to blink.

“Salmon, coming up!” Corine answers from somewhere.

“Hands!” Samuel barks in my face.

I break into my sweetest, fakest smile. “Thank you, Chef.”

I deliver the salmon cooked to perfection by Corine, comp the whole table, and we send in desserts and after-dinner drinks. Three hours later, while I’m reconciling receipts in the office and the kitchen crew is cleaning the kitchen and the front of house has the chairs on the tables and the lights on super bright so Trevor and Ryan—my newest recruits—can actually see where they’re mopping, we get our five-star review.

The first in over a year.

I get to the cottage at two in the morning. Too wound up by the night, I open a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate.

There’s not much else to celebrate than the review. We’re more in the red tonight than ever, what with that big table entirely comped and all the extra stuff we sent them.

I can’t make that a habit.

Samuel is going to have to suck it up and learn how to cook salmon properly the first time around.

fourteen

Chloe

The rest of the week goes okay-ish. On Thursday I discover that when Samuel has arguments—he calls them meetings—with his staff, he conducts those in the cooler.

I ask Abby what’s up with that, and she informs me that everywhere she’s worked, chefs have held their heated conversations this way. Apparently, it’s a thing.

Corine confirms.

Corine, Abby, and I run into each other at Easy Monday more than once, and that’s where we’ve had our private conversations. Shoshana was there once or twice. In fact, all of Emerald Creek congregates at Millie’s café throughout the day.

It turns out that by a streak of marketing genius, Easy Monday also carries used books, including a large selection of romance. The genius part of it is that the local library is heavily financed by someone who forbids ‘dirty books.’ Millie saw the opportunity and seized it. By creating a romance exchange, she ensures a steady flow of mostly female readers who consume her coffees and cupcakes while there. As they sample the books, they stay around in the comfy couches. They order more food and drinks as they turn the pages. This in turn has the effect of attracting the other half of the population at a higher rate than coffee alone would.

“It’s kinda like Ladies Night all day long and every day,” Millie informs me. “Except I’m just out books that were actually donated or bought by the pound. And instead of giving them away, I loan them out. When it’s time for me to close, they leave with a book or two they have to come back to exchange or return.”

Abby lifts her eyes from the title she’s selected, Your Place or Mine, to inform me that not all men in Emerald Creek are assholes. All the women agree. Quite the opposite, they assure me.

I’ve just not been lucky, they say.

I would agree with that.

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