Page 4 of Long Shot

I have to admire her work ethic. I move over to help her.

She glances up at me, then stares at the white bar towels as she continues folding. “That was a nice celebration,” she comments. “Everyone seemed to be having fun.”

Is that a wistful note I hear in her voice? “Yeah. It was.”

“I’m surprised you and Beck and Marco actually took a night off and let someone else look after things.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

She lifts one narrow shoulder. “You guys spend a lot of time working here.”

“We own the place.”

“I know, but . . . you have a restaurant manager. You have capable staff. Well, mostly,” she adds under her breath.

My frown deepens. “Ultimately, we’re responsible for everything and everyone. For making sure the bartenders aren’t giving away free booze, or cash isn’t disappearing.”

“You have to trust the people who work for you.”

“We do.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your point? You think we should be off golfing?”

She snorts. “I can’t picture the three of you golfing. Aren’t you guys into skydiving and rock-climbing?”

I grin. “Sometimes.”

“I guess my point is, you’re either workinginyour business, or you’re workingonyour business. Owners should be workingontheir business—marketing, bigger-picture things.”

“We do that.”

“Okay,” she says again, clearly humoring me.

My molars grind together and my body tenses. “So you’re telling me how to run my business.”

“No.” She sets down the last towel on the pile and picks them all up. “If I were telling you how to run your business, I’d have a lot more to say.” She moves to set the towels on a shelf.

What the hell does she know, anyway? Heat flares inside me. “Say it, then. Tell us what we’re doing wrong.”

She gives me a long look and a pleasant but fake smile. “I’m just a waitress. What do I know? Good night, Cade.”

She heads back to the staff room, presumably to get her things.

I grip the edge of the bar tightly enough to splinter the wood. Jesus Christ. I’ve just about had enough of her snotty superiority. Who the hell does she think is, implying we aren’t running our business well? It’sourbusiness, andwe’rein charge, for fuck’s sake.

I start toward the break room, but hear the back door closing. She’s left.

I suck in a long breath, standing at the end of the bar, hands clenched into fists.Okay, calm the fuck down. This isn’t the time to be firing someone, at midnight on a Sunday night. Also, we can’t afford to lose a good waitress. Staff turnover is surprisingly high, given that we think we’re pretty damn good bosses and have a great place to work.

I’m a master of self-control, keeping my emotions firmly in check. Actually, I try not tohaveany emotions. That makes life a lot easier.

Fuck. Why doessheget to me like that?

I turn out lights, check the kitchen and then I, too, head out the back door where my SUV is parked. The motion-sensor light we installed a while back, when we were having trouble with vandalism, comes on. Reese is nowhere in sight.

I know her address from our personnel records, know it’s not that far from the bar, and I know that she often walks to and from work. Tonight for some reason it bugs me that she’s alone in the dark, even though she annoys the hell out of me.

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