Page 1 of DadBod

ELIZABETH

“Goddamn it, Elizabeth––”

Oh boy. Here we go again.

I swivel on my feet until I’m face-to-face, well, face-to-chest with my boss. “Don’t think for a fucking second, Elizabeth––”

For some odd reason, he likes to say my name like that. You know, emphasized.

I hate it.

“––that I didn’t see what you just did back there.” He points to my tables. I’ve got six tonight thanks to Monica calling in sick.

Again.

Sick, my ass. Hungover is more like. The girl parties like it’s, well, she parties a lot. And on our busiest night of the week to boot. Saturday night is always a madhouse.

I nod. Because there’s no point in arguing because the man is in a mood tonight. And the sooner he gets this off his chest, the sooner I can get back to my tables. Who am I kidding? He’s usually in a mood, but that’s a discussion for a different day. At times like these, it’s best to just say, “Sorry, Rome,” and hope he goes for it. I do just that. “Sorry, Rome.”

“Do you even know what I’m fucking talking about, Elizabeth?”

Damn. Didn’t work.

I do know what he’s talking about, which means I need to fess up. “You’re angry because I’m not selling the special.”

That’s usually what gets Rome James in a tizzy. That and not pairing the special with the wine he’s selected. Except, wine is not the issue right now. Standing in my spot, I watch as Rome, owner of the Italian restaurant When in Rome, slowly bends at the waist until his face is an inch from mine.

I should be terrified, especially since his angry eyes are glaring at me. I don’t pay much attention to the angry part because I’m distracted. When you get this close to him, you see his eyes aren’t black. They’re dark, yes, but at this distance you see they’re a rich coffee color. Or dark chocolate. Yum.

Admittedly, the man is intimidating as all get-out. Except, he smells delicious. Like a little bit of musky cologne combined with basil and oregano. Don’t laugh. It’s a very nice smell. I inhale slowly, discreetly, and wait for the hammer to drop. Or is it the shoe? Whatever it is, I don’t have to wait long.

“I saw you make that face.” He pauses. “Elizabeth.”

Ugh. I really hate the way he says my name. And he says the whole thing even though everyone else calls me Beth. And as for the “that face”? He means the scrunched-up one you make when you think something sounds disgusting. “Rome––”

“Don’t ‘Rome’ me.” He’s still an inch from me, but he’s not whispering. Nope. Anyone within a ten-foot radius of this conversation is listening. That includes my tables.

“I––”

“You need to sell the goddamn special, Elizabeth.”

“But––” The fact is, I have a hard time selling veal.

It’s baby cow.

Same goes for lamb. Whenever he has lamb on special, I make the same face to my customers.

“The goddamn cow is already dead, Elizabeth. Sell the special.”

No matter how angry he gets, I just can’t seem to make myself sell veal. Whenever I recite that special or any of them with veal, I scrunch up my face and do a very subtle headshake. It works. A little headshake and a tiny, itsy-bitsy face scrunching is all it takes for customers to move on from that option to something on the regular menu.

Unfortunately, the face scrunching wasn’t itsy-bitsy enough, because Rome caught me.

Again.

He smirks. “Don’t let the damn animal die in vain, Elizabeth.”

And that right there? That’s how Rome gets his way. He sounds reasonable. He makes sense.

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