Stephanie Bond – Baby, Don't Go (страница 8)
He pursed his mouth. “The bad service aside, the food still isn’t good enough. We’re expecting another inspection any day now, and a big crowd Homecoming weekend. Something has to change.”
She snorted. “If you think you can do a better job running this place, Mr. Marine MBA, be my guest.”
His mouth quirked. “You know the town charter specifies a woman in key positions, and the manager of the community-owned restaurant is one of those positions.”
She gave him a little smile. “Yes, it does. And believe me, no other woman around here can do this job.”
Exasperation with her and every other woman in town seized him. The fact that this restaurant could jeopardize all his plans made him see red. He’d faced down armed enemies on foreign territory, yet he had to come home and do battle in his own backyard? He lifted a shaking finger and didn’t bother to lower his voice. “I can take the next woman who walks through that door and teach her how to run this place better than you!”
The door opened and they turned to see a dark-haired woman standing there holding the help-wanted sign from the window.
Marcus’s mouth went dry—it was the woman from the creek.
“This will be fun to watch,” Molly said, then untied her camouflage apron and handed it to him. “Good luck.”
6
Alicia stepped to the side to dodge the bulldog of a woman who charged her way, gave her a smirk, then marched out the door. Alicia glanced around the nearly empty diner and was drawn to a tall, broad-shouldered man standing behind the counter looking in her direction.
That blue-eyed gaze was unmistakable. It was Marcus Armstrong, in the flesh.
As she walked forward, her mind scrolled through the information from the background report she’d ordered.
Marcus Alton Armstrong, thirty-eight, joined the U.S. Marine Corps while still attending high school, had made the military a career, served in Bosnia and Iraq with distinction. In between stints overseas, he’d earned an International Business degree and an MBA. A hero, a scholar, and a straight arrow. Never married, no children.
And insanely handsome in person. Everything about him reflected this rugged setting. His hair was sun-streaked, his skin deeply bronzed. His dramatic eyes were set in a rocky face, with a jutting nose and a square jaw. He was as tall as an evergreen with biceps like boulders. His drab-colored pants and cargo shirt said he was happy to blend into the background, but his sheer physical presence made that impossible. He looked formidable…the kind of man who was always in control.
From the way he was staring at her, Alicia was sure she must look a fright—her hair was still damp around her face where she’d splashed herself in the creek, her makeup was long gone, and she was seriously regretting pulling her hair into pigtails.
Why had she come to this town? Oh, right…
To expose this man for the extreme chauvinist he was.
“Hi,” she said, offering a smile and holding up the help-wanted sign. “Who can I talk to about a job?” When she’d seen the sign in the window, it had seemed like a natural fit—she’d worked dozens of restaurant jobs while going to school.
Although admittedly, she’d been fired from every one of them. Firing in her case had been literal—she’d been a decent cook and a popular waitress, but she’d shown an unfortunate propensity for
Instead of answering, he glanced around the diner as if he were looking to palm her off onto someone else. Two men at a nearby table she recognized from the website photo as his brothers looked at him with raised eyebrows, but made no move to relieve him. Finally, he turned back to her.
“I guess that would be me. I’m Marcus Armstrong.”
He had an amazing voice, as deep as a bottle of scotch, with a nice husky finish. But his backbone was rigid, and his mouth was unsmiling.
“Are you the owner?” she asked.
“Closest thing to it,” he bit out.
“What’s the job?”
He took his time answering, scowling at her T-shirt—Candace’s T-shirt, actually. A hot flush climbed Alicia’s neck at the “I’m a peach” slogan that implied she was a juicy mouthful.
“A little of everything,” he hedged, as if he were doubtful she could fill the bill.
“Hey,” a man seated at the counter called, “can I get some service?”
Alicia made a split-second decision and sprang into action. She walked over to the guy, pulling a notebook from her bag along the way. “Yes, sir, what can I get for you?”
She wrote down the man’s order as he read it from the menu—T-bone steak, medium-well, fries and a fountain drink—then assured him she’d get right on it.
She turned back to Marcus and smiled. “I’ve got this.”
He was still scowling—the man must be having a bad day. Instead of waiting for him to respond, she fished a drinking glass from under the counter, scooped in ice from the adjacent ice maker, and filled it from a fountain drink hose. She plopped in a straw, then set it in front of the man, who smiled in appreciation. She turned on the stainless steel grill, then retreated to the kitchen, stepped around a mound of broken dishes in the floor and stowed her purse on a counter. After washing her hands in one of the deep sinks, she draped a white hand towel over her shoulder. Because the contents of the commercial refrigerator and freezer were labeled with compulsive precision, she had no trouble finding a bag of French fries, a T-bone steak and garnishes.
Juggling the food, she made her way back to the grill and placed the steak on the clean, hot surface, then emptied the fries into a wire basket and lowered it into a vat of hot grease. Throughout, she was conscious of Marcus Armstrong’s gaze upon her. When everything was happily sizzling, she seasoned the steak with salt and pepper and retrieved a plate from the clean stack sitting outside the enormous conveyor dishwasher. She removed a pair of tongs from a hanging rack and flipped the steak. When the fries turned a nice golden color, she used a mitt to carefully lift the basket to a hook for it to drain.
When the steak was done, she plated it and the steaming fries, added garnishes, then set it down in front of the customer. “How’s that?”
He cut off a piece of the steak and put it in his mouth, then nodded. “It’s perfect.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m good for now,” the man assured her.
She backed up to lean on the counter next to the grill, crossed her arms, then turned a triumphant smile toward Marcus Armstrong. “You were telling me about the job?”
He worked his mouth from side to side. “I need a manager…and someone to help cook until I can fill that position, as well.”
“Then I’m your woman.”
His jaw hardened—he obviously didn’t appreciate her attempt at humor. “I take it you have restaurant experience?”
“That’s right—cooking, waitressing, hostessing, managing.”
He didn’t seem particularly happy to hear she was qualified. “It’s going to be a lot of work to get this place up to speed. I have to warn you, I’m not the easiest person to work for.”
Alicia’s pulse jumped. When she’d seen the help-wanted sign, she’d thought working at the diner would be a great way to meet and establish a rapport with some of the women who’d answered the ad. Spending time with the man himself would be a bonus for the blog.
“I can take whatever you dish out,” she said, lifting her chin.
He narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you interested in how much the job pays?”
She caught herself—she had to act authentically. “Of course. How much?”
“Minimum wage and a room in our boardinghouse.”
She couldn’t care less about the money, but it was nice to know she wouldn’t have to arrange for a place to stay while she was here. “That sounds fair.”
“What’s your name?”
His suspicious look unnerved her, but she offered the alias she’d previously given in the hair salon. “Alicia Waters.”
“Waters?” he repeated, as if he knew she was lying.
She nodded and maintained eye contact, although it was difficult because his gaze was so intense.
“Where are you from?” he asked. She had the feeling he wasn’t just making conversation, but rather, wanted to know everything about people who intended to live or work in the town…
She shrugged. “All around, but mostly the Northeast.”
“What brings you to Sweetness?”
She would have to be careful around this one. “I came to Atlanta for the weather, then I read about your covered bridge in the newspaper and thought Sweetness sounded like a pretty place to live.” She gave him what she hoped was a flirtatious smile. “And I understand there are lots of single men here?”
He stopped just short of an eye-roll. “That’s right.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said cheerfully. “Is there anything else I should know about this town?”
He considered her for a few seconds. “Because we’re new, we have more rules than most places.”
She made a face, but said, “I guess I can abide by a few rules.”
He hesitated, then with an expression akin to pain, he stepped forward to extend his large hand. “Okay… you’re hired.”
She placed her hand in his, and it was instantly swallowed. The contact was electric, conducting pulses up her arm.