Teamwork is essential; it gives the enemy other people to shoot at. ~ Murphy’s Laws of Combat
The next evening at the roadhouse, Bull noticed that Frankie hadn’t come in early. In fact, she not only showed up exactly on time but persisted in avoiding him. All her drink orders were handed to the other bartender.
Amused, Raymond shot Bull a grin as she headed off with a full tray. “She hates you and loves me. I like this.”
He couldn’t punch an employee as he would’ve if it were Gabe poking at him. “Maybe she only likes short, ugly men.”
Raymond made a hissing sound in pseudo-annoyance. Far from ugly, he was beloved of the customers.
Bull started building a black and tan, his gaze half on Frankie. Aside from steering clear of him, she was an excellent server. Efficient, didn’t mix up orders, kept the tables bussed. She was cheerful and friendly without flirting…and dodged the occasional roving hand without making anything of it.
Not that she should have to put up with that kind of crap, dammit. Case in point, the four college-aged boys down from McNally’s Resort who sat at a center table. They had more money than sense, and even their few wits had disappeared with alcohol.
“You’re so pretty,” one said loudly. “Want to go do something after you get off work?”
Frankie shook her head, enough that the gold hoop earrings danced against her neck. “Sorry, but I don’t date customers. Would you like a refill on that beer?”
In a typical one-upmanship move, the guy’s friend said loudly, “Hey, no need to date. How about we get together, and you sit on my face.”
Even as Bull’s temper rose, Frankie gave a merry laugh. “Seriously? Is your nose that much bigger than your dick?”
When everyone within hearing roared with laughter, the young man turned red and sank down in his seat.
Bull nodded approval at how she’d taken the kid down with humor, not aggression. That was one guy who’d be more careful with his off-color remarks.
When she returned to the bar and handed her drink orders to Raymond, Bull walked over. “That could’ve been awkward. Nice job of handling the situation.”
Her face lit, then her expression turned cool. “Thank you,” she said politely.
Orders filled, she moved away.
Raymond glanced at Bull. “What’d you do, Boss, piss in her beer or something?”
“Damned if I know.” Admittedly, his size bothered some people, but she didn’t appear intimidated. Bull watched her, irritated that the smile she gave so freely to everyone else was never turned in his direction. She had a beautiful smile, warmer than a wood fire on a snowy day.
Raymond studied her. “She must be the only female in the world who doesn’t think you’re a sex god.”
Bull snorted and returned to bartending.
Still irritated.
It was such a human reaction that he had to laugh. He’d complained about women pushing themselves on him. And when one didn’t? He sulked like that college student.
The music in the bar was the soundtrack from the original Footloose movie. Smiling, Frankie did a little spin as she delivered drinks and headed for a newly filled table.
Would Bull sing tonight? Even when he wasn’t performing for the crowd, she’d noticed how he hummed or sang along with whatever was on the playlist. He had such a deep voice—a bass—the sound rumbled right to her bones.
What must he sound like in bed? “More, sugar.” The words were imaginary; the heat streaming through her veins sure wasn’t.
Bad Frankie.
She shook the sound of his voice away and put her attention where it belonged—on the people waiting to order. “What would—”
A shriek of pain came from the back of the roadhouse where the kitchen was. Someone shouted.
What in the world?
Abandoning the bar, Bull headed there, walking…but moving incredibly fast.
I hope whoever that was is all right. Needing to help, she took a step that direction and shook her head. They didn’t need her, but how odd it seemed not to be the one fixing everything.
“Let’s try this again.” She smiled at the older couple. “What can I get you to drink?”
After collecting a set of orders, she headed back to the bar.
“Frankie.” The chef Wylie hurried up to her, white hat still on his head, ruddy skin flushed from the kitchen. “You mentioned you did line cooking in the past. Any chance you could fill in for that position? It’s mostly grill and fry backup. Our regular got burned and needs to see the doc.”
Little scorches were common on the line, but the noise had implied more. “That bad?”
“That stupid.” Wylie’s mouth twisted. “He was swirling a pan of oil—and his phone rang.”
She knew the outcome, oh yeah. “Swirled the oil right over his hand?”
“Bingo. He’d already been warned twice that phones aren’t allowed in the kitchen. Guess he figured the rules didn’t apply to him.” The chef looked toward the kitchen. “I need to get back. Can you help?”
“But…my job here?” She gestured toward the bar.
“We’ll move one of the restaurant staff over to take your place. Aside from Bull, you’re the only one here who’s worked the line before. Can’t spare him—the bar’s crazy tonight.”
True enough. Raymond wouldn’t be able to keep up with mixing drinks by himself. “Sure, I’ll come play in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Frankie. We really appreciate this.” He motioned to a slender young man waiting by the hostess stand. “Give Easton your drink orders and come on back.”
Two hours later, Frankie heard Wylie announce the restaurant was closing and the cooks should finish the last orders, do their shut down and clean-up.
Madonna, thank you.
Wylie grinned at Frankie. “You did great. Want to switch jobs and join us here?”
She was overheated; her head itched under the cap, and oil had impregnated her skin. There was a painful red line on her arm—oven door—and stinging blisters on the back of her hand—duck meets hot oil.
Cooking wasn’t for wussies. Yet she’d had a good time. Feeding people made her happy.
So did serving, and she needed to be out where she could meet any Patriot Zealots. “I’ll stick to being a server. But for emergencies like this? I’m your girl.”
“Got it. We won’t abuse your good nature, but it’s good to know who to call in case of trouble. Thank you.”
“Sure.” She started shutting down the grill. “You know, I bet Italian food would be popular here, or even an Italian theme night.”
“Italian? God, I love lasagna.” He scratched his cheek. “I’m all for changing things up. You should talk to the boss about it.”
Wait, what? “Ah…no. It was just a thought.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You know, it took me a day or two to realize you weren’t the boss.”
“God forbid.” He guffawed. “I just help out with hiring until Bull gets off his ass and finds us a manager.”
“Ah, but you rule the kitchen. I think chefs are probably far above bosses.”
“I so agree.” Wylie’s grin was wicked.
Smiling, Frankie turned to get cleaning supplies and ran right into Bull. Her breasts, then her head bounced off his very solid body. “Oomph!”
She tottered back.
“Steady now.” His giant hands curled around her upper arms to hold her up. “Are you all right?” His deep voice rumbled in his chest.
He smelled of sandalwood and cedar, like dark carnal nights and heated kisses.
Oh, honestly.
How could she think of having sex with a man she didn’t even like?
“Um, I’m fine, thank you.” She pulled at his grip, and he released her instantly.
Even as she tried to rub away the tingles from his touch, he spoke to Wylie over her head. “We should hire a manager. I agree. But we need to talk about the hierarchy of chef above boss.” His low chuckle indicated he wasn’t threatened in the least by her comment.
The man had far too much self-confidence.
Look how he took up all the free space in the kitchen. The way his shirt stretched over the chiseled muscles of his chest was simply mesmerizing. She took another step back.
He gazed down at her. “I appreciate your helping out here in the kitchen. You have a choice now—you can call it a night or return to serving.”
“I’d be happy to finish my shift in the bar.” Maybe the PZs would be in.
“Good enough. Easton hoped he wouldn’t have to break his date.” Bull gave her a faint smile, not his usual big grin.
Come to think of it, after the first night, those were the only kind of smiles she received from him. Aside from the one compliment, he’d kept his distance. Had he picked up on her animosity and honored her wish to avoid him?
The realization was disturbing.
As Bull headed back to the bar, the chef frowned. “Problem between you two?”
She wouldn’t speak of Bull’s callous behavior toward his lover in the parking lot. Wylie obviously liked his boss.
“No. I’ve hardly spoken to him.” She shrugged. “I just prefer to steer clear of”—womanizers, asshole players—“hot guys.”
The chef barked a laugh. “He sure is that.” The frown returned. “But the big bull is more respectful toward women than…than hell, any of us.”
“Of course,” she said politely. To be fair, what she’d taken for flirting with female customers turned out to be Bull’s manner with everybody, no matter the gender, age, or appearance. He was simply extremely outgoing.
Frankie pulled off her apron and the chef beret they’d provided for her hair. Her scalp seemed to cheer at being released from the sweltering, heavy confinement. She picked up her server vest. “I’m going to clean up in the ladies’ room and get over to the bar.
And boss or not, she’d continue to avoid “the bull”. Because what she’d told Wylie was the absolute truth—she totally avoided man candy.
Chocolate was far better for a girl.