Page 10 of Long Shot

“Try a chip, boss.” Jenn holds out a basket in one hand and a bowl of salsa in the other.

I stare at her, then give my head a shake and reach for a chip. I scoop up some salsa and pop it into my mouth. Flavors explode on my tongue, bright acid of tomato and lime, creamy avocado, peppery cilantro. “Damn.” I take another one. “That’s really good.”

She nods, eyes bright. “I can’t wait for customers to try it.”

“Well, they won’t get to, if our waitress is in here cooking.” Shit, here I go again. I sigh. “I’ll go talk to her.”

In the bar area I spot Reese at a table for four. The guys aren’t regulars, and judging from how they’re casually dressed are probably tourists. They’re giving Reese flirtatious smiles and hanging on her every word. This happens all the time. I rub my forehead.

When Reese approaches the bar, I wave her over.

Her face blank, she approaches me. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

She blinks.

“Sorry I spoke to you like that.” I let out a breath. “I shouldn’t have done that in front of everyone else.”

She freezes. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to bolt out the door. My insides cramp up at the expression on her face—pure panic. Her posture stiff, she swallows, and then lifts her chin a fraction of an inch. “Okay, thank you.” She draws in a breath that lifts her breasts. Not that I’m looking. “I once had a boss throw a beer bottle at me, so what you said wasn’t so bad.”

My jaw drops. “He threw a beer bottle at you?”

“Yeah. When I told him I was quitting.”

“Wow. We get frustrated with staff turnover, but you can rest assured that none of us will ever throw a beer bottle at you. Or anything, for that matter.”

Her posture relaxes minutely, but her eyes stay shadowed and serious. “I know.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what? Go in the kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

My mouth twitches.

“I just . . .” Clearly she’s conflicted about what to say, her eyes shifting around, her teeth sinking briefly into her plump bottom lip. “The food here could be so much better.” She pulls in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “And I know I shouldn’t be saying that to customers, just to you in private.”

“Touché.” I drum my fingers on the wooden top of the bar. “I can’t disagree with you. We’ve been trying to get Sid to try new things for a while now. And he has been.”

“I see that. But . . .” Again she hesitates. “Never mind. It’s not my place. Beck, I need four shots of Patron Reposado,” she calls.

He gives her a thumbs-up and moves to get the special tequila glasses.

“You obviously have strong opinions about it,” I say, eyeing her.

She lifts one shoulder, not looking at me, waiting for the drinks.

When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “What other ideas do you have?”

She slowly turns her head to eye me. “It doesn’t matter. You’re very correct. I’m not a cook.” She says the word with something that almost sounds like disdain.

I frown and shove a hand through my hair, pushing it back off my face. Something isn’t adding up here. But she’s placing the drinks onto her tray and then with a clearly fake smile she heads back to the table with the four dudes who are all apparently hitting on her.

“What’s going on?” Beck leans on the bar. “She looked pissed.” He eyes me. “So do you, actually.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “No . . . I thought we told you. Stay away from the staff.”

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