Page 76 of A Thin Line

Somehow someone thinking I worked for the entire Whittier family made it seem far worse. “I only work for Sinclair Whittier.” I wanted to tell them it had felt like a lifetime but I instead told them the truth. “And I’ve been working here for about a month.”

“It seems like a cool gig.”

Oh, it was not. Not by a long shot. I even almost said that…but then I remembered that damned contract. There were a couple of clauses that could bite me in the butt—the one about “verbal complaining,” which I found hilarious, because what other type of complaining could I really be effective in? That was probably why I’d remembered it. But there was another clause about not slandering the Whittier family—and if I told them my job sucked, I could see how my words could be twisted so that I could be accused of breaking either of those two clauses.

So I simply said, “It’s okay.”

“All right,” Chef Theodore’s voice cut through the kitchen, “break time’s over. Let’s go check on the guests and start clearing their plates.”

The older woman raised her eyebrows. “Dessert awaits.”

It wasn’t long before we’d refilled glasses and removed plates of people who’d finished their food—and this was the first course where there was food left on a few dishes, particularly the women’s, as if they didn’t want their dates knowing they had appetites.

Soon, we were delivering dessert, something else I’d heard of but never seen before: crème brûlée. It had been interesting watching the chef using a mini blowtorch on the top of each dish, and Rodrigo told me it was to give the top a crust. The sous chef placed a few berries on top before putting each ceramic bowl on a small plate.

After managing to avoid the guy for most of the meal, I had to deliver dessert to the man who’d taken a strange interest in me. “There’s my girl Lisa,” he said, placing his hand on my lower back and sliding it down as I put his dessert on the table. His chair was pushed away from the table some so that he was able to get closer to me than the other guests—and I could smell alcohol on his breath, making me wonder if he’d knocked back more than a glass or two of wine.

Before I could get away, he grabbed my arm and pulled me close. “How’d you like to make a few extra bucks later?”

Not only was this guy creepy, even if he did have all-American boy-next-door looks, but he was going to get me in deep trouble. As it was, when I stood and he finally let go of my arm, Sinclair was looking right at me and his expression told me everything I needed to know.

He was pissed. And I already knew I was going to be lectured later—and possibly punished again. But I would just tell Sinclair the truth—the guy had, for some reason, glommed onto me, and I had neither encouraged nor wanted his attention.

For the moment, though, I was happy to get out of there.

When we got back to the kitchen, I wanted to talk to Edna about what had happened, but I realized I hadn’t seen her for a while. “Where’s Edna?”

The chef said, “She’s making the after-dinner drinks at the bar.”

The beverage nook. I could have snuck over there but I didn’t want to distract her—and I definitely didn’t want to get in trouble for abandoning my post. So I decided to confide in my coworkers. In the past, I’d known I could only have one friend at a time, usually someone at the bottom of the social hierarchy like I was, because the few times I’d try to have more than one friend, they’d eventually either gang up on me or abandon me.

But this wasn’t Winchester and these people didn’t know or care about my past.

While we stood near the door waiting for our next command, I said, “Um…I don’t know if any of you noticed, but there’s a guy in there getting kind of handsy with me.”

The older woman said, “Every year there’s always one. I’m sure it’s because of what you’re wearing.” Like I’d had a choice.

The younger woman said, “Stop victim blaming. I saw how he grabbed you. He’s being a disgusting pig.” To me, she said, “He asked me my name too. I told him it was Beyoncé.”

Rodrigo asked, “What’d I miss?”

“There’s a guy in there—the one with the beard. He’s being rude and gross.”

“Gross? Like how?”

“He asked me if I wanted to make a little extra money.”

“Oh, shit!”

Chef Theodore snapped. “Remember where you are. Trashy mouths belong in the alley at break.”

Rodrigo’s eyes grew wide and his voice dropped several notches. “Yes, chef.”

“Check on the guests.”

On our way out of the kitchen, Rodrigo said, “Me ‘n Amy can take that side of the table. Don’t go near him.”

“Thanks.”

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