Page 4 of Arrogant Rucking Player

Our chef had a French twang I wasn’t sure he didn’t put on for Brady’s benefit and spoiled him rotten. A good thing too, as I often couldn’t get a babysitter in time for extra shifts, especially on weeknights. Brady populated the kitchen when he shouldn’t but Chaz and the kitchen staff didn’t mind, feeding Brady’s endless appetite and playing up to the kid with an infinite amount of energy.

And I was beyond grateful for their efforts.

“You’re being good back there, right? You’re not annoying the boys?”

“He is doing fine. We made you dinner, Nyla.” Chaz, his voice stilted in an accent I was almost certain he hadn’t been born with, presented me with two plates. One held chicken tenders and steamed vegetables drowned in mushroom sauce. The other contained a serving of chocolate brownie swimming in a pool of chocolate gooeyness.

I looked at both of them. “Is this what you’ve been doing?” I said sternly, fighting a smile.Thank you,I mouthed to Chaz over Brady’s head as my son crash tackled me again at above waist height.

All the breath left me at once. Apparently those lessons were paying off.

“You are having a growth spurt, mister.” I kissed the top of Brady’s head. “Is it cake for me and veggies for you?”

“Ugh,mummm,” he protested, wrangling the cake from me under no small amount of duress.

Hey, I wasn’t giving up cake for no good reason, and certainly not without a fight when it came with chocolate sauce that looked that moreish.

Chaz smiled broadly and pulled a second serving of steaming chocolate brownie out of who knew where. I took the offering with gratitude, bowing to his finesse and placed it on the shelf behind me along with my dinner that I knew would be lukewarm at best before I got to it.

“Okay, why don’t you boys head back to the kitchen and don’t demolish all the cake before the customers get to it!” I called to their retreating backs.

The couple who had entered through the swinging saloon doors, one that hung not so artistically off its hinges and was just plain broken but thankfully didn’t look that way, laughed.

“Sorry, I’m attempting to feed my child. Do you have a reservation?” I asked.

The rest of my night passed in a blur. I saw Brady a few more times and managed to eat my vegetables and tenders though by the time I made it to my brownie it was a congealed, soggy, semi brick—the conundrums of chocolate kind—in chocolate soup.

I sighed and poked at it as I settled the til and came up short.

Well short.

Frowning, I set my barely touched brownie aside, if it was still worthy to be called such a thing, and recounted.Nope, still short.By a good two hundred flat.

That’s too round a number to be a missed table.

And that happened. Hell, human error happened. As well as walking tables. But a round figure? That felt… Wrong. My gut knew that, and it wasn’t the missing, congealed brownie at my side.

The broken saloon doors that looked nothing like anything had ever appeared in Australia’s history, swung inward.

“We’re closed,” I muttered, my head still down as I recounted in no small amount of desperation for the third time.

Please be wrong. Please be wrong. Please, please, please.

But I wasn’t. The money still counted out as short.

Which meant someone was skimming and I knew that, before I started. Had known for a while. What I didn’t know waswho.

Which meant one of my staff had stolen from me.

My singular bite of brown swooped in my belly.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

“That’s not very professional.”

My head jerked up to meet eyes I never expected to see in the restaurant so late. Or in the restaurant much at all.

“Stuart.” My voice flattened out at the sight of my ex. “What are you doing here?” I gripped the cash in my hand.

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