She tossed him a smile and moved down the bar. They were good guys. A little rowdy and immature, but their bar bill was always high, and they were harmless. Each weekend the group recruited another male to pick her up, and failed. The good news was each of them came back the next weekend because My Place was the best damn bar in Harrington.
Sweeping a glance over the crowded pub, she headed back to the kitchen, clicking down her mental list of to-do items. She really needed a full-time assistant, but Raven liked to work alone, and she’d always been known for her temper. No need to start yelling at strangers when she could be happily neurotic all by her lonesome. She dealt well with employees but not partners. Still, she’d managed to grow her profits in the past year and had actual money in the bank. The lesson was simple and proved correct every single time.
Don’t count on anyone but yourself.
Leaning on other people was not only dangerous. It was also stupid.
She quickly made her rounds to check on her chef, Al, who was one of the nicest guys she knew. He’d graduated from the Culinary Institute of America near Poughkeepsie, snagged a fancy chef job, and moved in with his girlfriend.
Unfortunately, soon after, his girlfriend left him and hooked up with a guy who liked to slap her around. When she called Al in a panic, he made it his job to show the guy what it felt like to be beaten up.
His second unfortunate circumstance was discovering the asshole was the son of a top prosecutor, and Al soon found himself plea-bargaining and serving three years in prison for assault and battery. His girlfriend lied and swore Al had stalked her in a jealous rage.
When Al turned up on Raven’s doorstep asking for a job, sharing his past in clear, emotionless detail, she immediately knew he was a gift. A real CIA chef, and one who wanted to protect the woman he loved. It was a win-win, and she hired him on the spot.
Besides being a talented chef and a hard worker, he always looked after her servers, who were young, single girls who made too many mistakes.
God knows, she’d been one of those. Too bad he hadn’t been around back then to save her ass.
Choking heat poured from the stove, and the fryer snapped and sizzled. Her servers hurried back and forth, barking out orders, shuffling trays, and not taking any shit from customers. Raven had learned early to hire experienced waitstaff, pay them well, and back them up when there was a customer problem. They wore a standard uniform of comfortable jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. Who the hell could work in heels and short, tight skirts? They were loyal, worked their asses off, and were a key ingredient in My Place’s success. Turnover of staff was a deadly threat to restaurants, and Raven had no time to deal with such drama.
Even though she frickin’ loved watching Vanderpump Rules on Bravo.
Al turned, his white uniform already splattered with grease. His shaven head gleamed with sweat. “We’re busier than usual tonight,” he commented. Meaty biceps flexed with each turn of the spatula. Raven loved to watch him command the kitchen. He reminded her of a dancer with every motion coordinated, multiple burners pumping, a row of tickets in front of him, and a calm, focused energy that was rarely rattled.
“You good?”
He waved a hand in the air, showing off a panel of tats scrolled on his arm. “Course. But I need a cig break soon.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared. “You told me you were getting the patch.”
“Next week. I promise.”
She blew out a breath. “Al, I don’t want to lose my best cook to lung cancer. You can quit smoking. Don’t be a pussy.”
Black brows lowered in a fierce frown. He looked like the Rock ready to punch someone, but Raven knew he was a marshmallow underneath. “Who you callin’ a pussy? Just because you take some boxing classes, don’t think you’re some badass who can threaten me. It’s my life. If I wanna die, it’s my choice.”
“What are you—running for Congress? Screw that. I will kick your ass if I don’t see the patch on your arm. You’re too old for this crap.”
Amanda, one of her servers, bounced over and clipped another ticket to the row. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was consistently hit on and regularly got high tips. Raven loved her because she always dumped half of her tips in the jar for Al, even though she was paying her way through college. “Yeah, Al, we need you around here. Why don’t you try to vape? At least it’ll get you off the tobacco.”
“I’m not old! Leave me the hell alone so I can cook.” He jabbed his finger at Amanda. “Did you study for your damn astronomy test? If you flunk, your GPA will be in the toilet.”
Amanda sighed. “Yeah, but I still get the stupid stars mixed up. Raven tried to help, but she knows too much. I just want to pass the test, but she gets all excited, and an hour later, she’s still lecturing on Orion and Cantis Min something. I think she’s a closet scientist.”
“Canis Minor,” Raven said patiently. “Just trying to help you appreciate the world above, sweets.”
Al rolled his eyes. “She just needs to pass the test. Amanda, meet me outside on break and I’ll quiz you.”
Her smile lit up the room. “Thanks, Al.”