Page 20 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Pepper smiled. “I bought them with the tip I got last night from Mr. Boudreaux. The heels, too.”
And the rest of the outfit, most likely. Judging by the looks of things, she probably had enough left over from that hundred bucks to buy another ensemble of the same quality, with money to spare.
“How nice for you,” I said. “Now tell me why you’re in the kitchen and not up front at the desk.”
“Oh yeah! That’s what I came to tell you. It’s about Mr. Boudreaux.”
I stared at her with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What about him?”
Pepper beamed. “He’s here. And he wants to talk to you.”
I groaned. Dear Lord, not today. Not him, today. “Tell him I’m busy. I can’t get away now.” Besides, I hate his stuck-up guts.
Pepper blinked. Her brows pulled together. “Um. He sort of . . . you know. Demanded to see you. Like he does.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Today you don’t seem quite as inclined to shove a bucket of crawdads where the sun doesn’t shine like you did yesterday, Pepper.”
She admitted sheepishly, “He might have given me another tip.”
Funny how some people’s opinions can be changed with a simple thing like money. At least she had the decency to look embarrassed about it.
“What does he want?”
Pepper shrugged. “All he said was, and I’m quoting, ‘Bring the owner to me. Now.’”
The owner. I bet that bastard didn’t even remember my name, even though it was right over the damn front door! And he expected me to drop everything and come running when he called like I was some kind of servant? Like I was a dog?
Steam began to pour from my ears. I shouted, “That man could give the baby Jesus hemorrhoids!”
Eeny cackled. Pepper took a step back. Shaking his head, Hoyt let out another whistle. Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at me.
Flustered, I smoothed a hand over my hair and tried to compose myself. In a lower voice, I told Pepper, “You go tell Mr. Boudreaux that the owner is as busy as a one-legged cat in a sandbox. I won’t be coming out to see him, now or ever. If he’s got something to say to me, he can have his blasted lawyer write me a letter.”
Pepper didn’t look convinced. “Um . . . I don’t think that’ll go over, Bianca.”
“Good, let him be the one to lose sleep for a change,” I muttered, battering the jambalaya with a wooden spoon. If I kept this up, I’d be serving a finely blended soup instead of the chunky seafood-and-sausage stew, so I forced myself to breathe and slow down.
“All right.” Pepper sighed, turning to go. “But I don’t think he’s gonna like it.”
I grunted. God forbid Prince A-hole doesn’t get his way!
I went back to work, as did everyone else. For a full sixty seconds, at least, until Jackson Boudreaux crashed through the swinging kitchen doors like a gale-force wind.
Hurrying in behind him, Pepper looked at me, her hands held up in surrender. “I tried to tell you!”
But I was having none of Jackson’s nonsense today. I propped my hands on my hips and leveled him with The Look.
The Look was a Southern female specialty, handed down over generations. Every family of women had their own particular version. Some said The Look could even go through walls and be heard over the phone. It was an art form among genteel womenfolk, and its effect was always the same.
Jackson took one more step into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted me.
“You,” I said, attitude set to bitch level ten, “are not welcome in my kitchen. Now turn your uppity butt around and get out.”
And what did that ornery bastard do in response?
He smiled.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I didn’t see it for myself, but there it was, a cocky little smirk that lifted the corners of his lips just enough to let me know he found me amusing.
