Page 16 of Inception

There was only one reasonable thing to do here: lie and get the heck out. And I was just about to do that when—

“Jemma Blackburn, I presume?”

I looked up to see a tall, polished man approaching us. He had a full head of dark wavy hair and a pair of striking blue eyes that I immediately recognized. Trace’s father, no doubt.

“I’ve been expecting you.” His smile had the same appealing shape as Trace’s, minus the dimples. “Your uncle Karl’s told me so much about you,” he informed and then held out his hand to me. “Peter Macarthur. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“What is this?” asked Trace, ticking his chin at me as he crossed his arms over his husky chest.

Peter smiled at him as he placed his hand on the back of his neck—a gesture that Trace promptly shook off. There was definitely something clambering beneath the surface between the two of them. Some sort of unspoken divide. “Meet our new waitress.”

I shifted uncomfortably.

Trace’s eyes bounced from his father to me and then back again. “You hiredher?” he asked incredulously.

“I did.”

“She’s not working here.” A darkness washed through Trace’s eyes—something akin to fury.

Okay. Wow. That was rude.

“Well, no, not yet,” smiled Peter, unfazed. “But she will be.” Before Trace could object again, Peter quickly cut him off. “This isn’t your call to make, son. It’s done.”

An angry choke rumbled from Trace’s throat as he chucked the rag onto the table and took off in the other direction, leaving a gust of wind in his absence, and a bitter taste in my mouth.

What a freaking jerk! I thought as I fought off the urge to run after him and slap him in the back of the head.

“Please excuse him,” said Peter apologetically. “It’s been a difficult year for him. For all of us. We haven’t been the same since the death of his sister.”

The death of his—“Oh.”Wow.“I didn’t realize…” A familiar, leaden feeling washed over me, diluting the anger I had built up for him into a pool of nothingness. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He nodded curtly.

Another one of those awkward silences passed between us.

“Well,” he forced a smile, eager to redirect the conversation back to business. “This is All Saints: good food, good drinks, good music.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He wore his pride like a fine Italian suit. “Have you been here before?”

“Just once. Last night actually.”

“And did you enjoy yourself?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. I had anamazingtime,” I said, lying through my teeth. I mean, really? What else was I supposed to say? He was my future boss, and my uncle’s friend. And besides, I had grown far too good at telling people what they wanted to hear to stop now.

After a few more minutes of idle chit-chat, Mr. Macarthur took me on a tour of the place, starting with theemployees onlyarea on the other side of the black double doors.

“This is where all the magic happens,” he smiled, extending his arm around the pristine silver kitchen. “That’s Sawyer, our head cook,” he continued, motioning to a man with brown eyes and matching long brown hair secured under a bandana.

I waved awkwardly at him. He smiled back.

“The kitchen’s open from Noon until nine p.m., seven days a week,” he explained. “After that, we only serve sides.”

He followed up with a brief introduction into the comings and goings of the kitchen, like how to give an order in and where to pick it up once it was ready.

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