Page 12 of Sin Bin

“No time,” he grunts as he drops his armful onto the entryway table and shoves his feet into a pair of non-slip kitchen shoes. “The GM just called. My chef quit, took half the wait-staff with him, the bastard, and we’ve got a full housetonight.”

I decide to let the language thing slide for the sake of not starting anargument.

My gaze flicks to the menus. “So, you’re calling in thereinforcements?”

“Iamthe reinforcement.” With that, he snaps to attention and puffs out his chest, and it would have been somewhat adorable-dad cute, except that he ruins the Ideal-Fatherhood image by cursing like a sailor when the menus slip from the table and scatter all over thefloor.

Still in my stilettos, I dip low and gather whatIcan.

“What are you doing home so early?” he demands roughly on my waybackup.

“Early day.” Still no word from Andre. I’m starting to think that I was right—he’s totally sabotaging me. I plan to spend the night with a glass of wine, a heaping of chocolate, and my day planner. He can avoid me for one day; he can’t avoid me forthirty.

By tomorrow, I’ll have my plan sorted to get his butt toeing the line of respectabilityagain.

“Come to the restaurantwithme.”

At Dad’s random outburst, my jaw slackens. “What? Idon’tcook.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not asking you to cook. Remember when you spent a summer or two being a server at therestaurant?”

I remember hating my life when I dropped a hot plate of steaming mussels and clams all over the mayor of Boston. Seafood went flying, smacking the mayor’s wife in the breasts and landing in themayor’slap.

The mussels were hot, the wine-infused sauce evenhotter.

Dad promptly banned me from entering his restaurant, Vittoria, until just a fewyearsago.

You can see why I’m not too thrilled about the prospect ofreturning.

For the sake of Boston’s citizens, it’s best if I don’t touch anything that threatens with a steaminggoodtime.

Slowly, I say, “I don’t think that’s agoodidea.”

Dad doesn’t get the hint. “Think of it as father-daughtertime.”

Ooh, low blow. I suck in a breath. “We can have father-daughter time after you come home tonight. You know, with a movie orsomething.”

“Please.”

For the record, Fred Mackenzie does not say “please.” The last time I heard him do so, Shelby was giving birth to Tia as he paced the hospital’s hallways, alternatively cursing God and also praying for avasectomy.

No more kiddies for Fred, notafterTia.

Taking a deep breath, I stare at my father resolutely. He may call it father-daughter time, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind. He wants help and he wantshelpnow.

And I’m the only one around that he can push into doing hisbidding.

Two hours later,I’m decked out in Vittoria’s server uniform. Black pants mold to my legs and a crisp white button-down is fitted over my torso. I’ve rolled the sleeves up to my elbows, and my dark hair is pulled back in a highponytail.

I don’t know how I’ve managed to get myself into this situation, but I can promise you it’s as bad as Iremember.

“Do you know the menu?” Manny, the restaurant’s general manager, demands when he catches sight of me hiding in the beverage station. I’m seated on a blue rack that’s meant to be used to store pint glasses, and not, you know, my butt. Admittedly, it’s not the most comfortable, but beggars can’t bechoosers.

I flip the menu over on my knee, so that Vittoria’s logo of the Sicilian countryside stares upatme.

“Zoe?” Manny’s polished leather shoes clip across the tiled floor. “How much of the menu doyouknow?”

My fingers tap anxiously over Sicily. “The specialty cocktails.” I sneak a quick peek at the black typography. “If I fake it, I can probably get through theappetizers.”

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