“Nice to meet you, Colby.”
“My man.” Bobby Quallis, all of six feet four inches, towered over Cruz and gave him a hearty slap on the back. “You being a Cubs fan earns you bonus points. You see that exhibition game last night? Vicious.”
“I might have caught an inning or two.” Cruz did his best not to wince in pain. He could already feel a bruise forming between his shoulder blades even as his mind circled through the larger man’s history.
Quallis had played football once upon a time, before serving two years for auto theft. The fact he was caught because he’d pulled over to help an elderly woman cross through a nasty intersection of traffic had earned the two-time offender a sentencing break along with the hearty reputation as a behemoth with a heart of tarnished gold.
Tatum introduced him to the others, the bartenders and wait staff, the dish room crew and busboys, most of whom were young women working their way through college or culinary school. He quickly put faces to names but couldn’t get much more without looking at their employee files. Cruz was waiting for the right moment to ask for those.
“Cruz is going to be working with you tonight, Sam,” Tatum said. “I want him acclimated to how we work before we throw him in the deep end as my sous. That work for you?”
“Pizza duty’s the best in the kitchen.” Sam raised his fist in a mock bump. “You good with your hands?”
“I do okay.” Cruz swore he could feel Tatum’s face heating up from here. “Do you throw or stretch?”
“Combo, my friend,” Sam said with a wide smile. “I’ll teach you what you don’t know.”
“I’m up for anything.”
Tatum cleared her throat and, as Cruz suspected, when he glanced at her he found her cheeks had turned an amusing shade of pink. “On that note, I will leave you in their capable hands. Thanks, guys. See you in a few.”
Cruz turned to stash his bag in his locker once she’d left, not surprised to find the locker room had gone oddly quiet. “Something I can help you all with?” He glanced behind him in the mirror on the interior of his locker door.
“So, you, um, known Tatum for long?” Colby asked, then yelped when a tall, thin, almost anemic-looking young redheaded man elbowed her in the ribs. “Ow! Geez, Chester. I was just asking.”
“Snooping for gossip, you mean. Ty Collins.” The third of Tatum’s former parolees stepped forward. The almost-fifty-year-old looked as if he’d seen a lot more life than most, with his haunted gray eyes and sad smile. A look at his file had told Cruz the man hadn’t caught many breaks over the years. “I work mainly pastries and desserts. And I think what Colby meant to say was however you got this job, welcome aboard. Looking forward to working with you.”
However he got the... Cruz covered before he blinked in shock. They seemed to be under the impression he and Tatum were...involved. “Ah, thanks. I guess.” He cleared his throat and earned a knowing laugh from his new coworkers. It took him a few seconds to realize he’d made the exact same sound Tatum had before she’d left the room. “Look, it’s nothing like—I mean, Tatum and me—”
“Don’t sweat it.” Quallis loomed over him, slapped a hand on Cruz’s shoulder and nearly made his knees buckle. “Just know if you hurt her we know how to get rid of your body.” His smile was quick, surprisingly friendly, and came with a warning glare that, as a protective big brother himself, Cruz completely understood. “But keep it out of the kitchen,” Quallis added with a wink. “In there, it’s all about the food. No drama. No personal crap. It stays outside.”
“Truer words were never spoken.” Sam stood and straightened his jacket, finished the last of his coffee. “The kitchen gets hot enough. Leave whatever it is you’ve got simmering with her outside.”
“But there’s nothing...” Cruz trailed off, gaping at the knowing, amused expressions on the faces that trailed out and headed to work. It wasn’t until he was alone that he realized that by hiring him the way she had, by being as bad a liar as she was, Tatum had inadvertently given him an added layer of protection. If her employees were focused on his supposed relationship with Tatum, they’d never even consider he was anything more than that.
He shrugged out of his zip-front hoodie, hung it in the locker and pulled out the white chef’s jacket Tatum had instructed him to pick up at a local uniform store. He’d also grabbed a few pairs of the relaxed pants and a good pair of solid work shoes. His backup cell and wallet—filled with new IDs that matched his current working identity at True—were in his pack, along with a few innocuous items a man might keep with him on a long workday that included a loaded-to-the-gills e-reader and a fresh pair of clothes.
His detective badge and real ID were locked away in the safe back home in his bedroom, but he had his gun secured in the bottom of his bag. From the time he stepped foot outside his house, for the foreseeable future, he was Cruz Mendoza, sous-chef and devoted son of two elderly, ill parents.
The back of his neck prickled. Now that the break room was empty except for him, he had the strangest feeling he was being watched. He glanced around the ceiling edge. He didn’t see any cameras, nor had Tatum mentioned any, and she would have, wouldn’t she? Until he was sure, he’d postpone his search of his fellow employee’s lockers. Maybe convince Tatum to let him come in after hours so he could take a more thorough look around.
The warrant he’d got was already burning a hole in his pocket. It covered the restaurant and everything inside it for the next seven days. That was the judge’s call, having severely narrowed Cruz’s requested three-month window. He had a short time to find the evidence he needed to expand the warrant and that time was already running out.
Buttoning up and tugging his jacket into place, he rotated his shoulders, trying to get used to the added fabric. He’d be sweating in no time, and he could only imagine how restricted his movements were going to be. How did she—how did any of them—wear this day in and day out, night after night? He slid a finger under the collar, rotated his neck. One thing was for sure.
He had the distinct feeling this was going to be a very, very long day.
* * *
Tatum took an extra half hour over the night’s special menu, going over it more times than usual. She told herself she was being cautious. That she just wanted the perfect choices possible from her trip to the farmers and fish market earlier that day.
But that wasn’t it.
Being down in that locker room with her staff, she’d felt almost sick at the idea of what was really going on. Cruz was here because he believed someone was running drugs out of her restaurant. And there she’d stood, talking about baseball and blushing to high heaven because of a throwaway comment by someone she considered a friend.
For the first time since she’d opened her restaurant, True didn’t feel like a haven or an escape. It felt like a trap where every single one of them had been caught.
The only way, the absolute only way to get through this with her business still intact, was to make sure the case was never brought to anyone’s attention. She’d prove Cruz wrong. Easy as that.
And if he’s right? That irritating little subconscious of hers would not stop pestering her with that question. “If he’s right, I’ll find a way through it.” But he wasn’t right. There were no drugs in True.
She’d bet her life on it.
Who was she kidding? She was betting her life on it.
Forget butterflies, she had a swarm of murder hornets buzzing around in her stomach. And that buzzing grew more intense as she headed down to the kitchen to begin preservice prep.
She stopped outside the swinging door, pressed a hand to her stomach. She hadn’t been this nervous in the kitchen since she’d landed her first sous job. Nerves. Jitters. Uncertainty. And it was all because of Detective Cruz Medina.
“Mendoza,” she muttered. “Mendoza, not Medina.”
“You all right there,
Chef?” Quallis came up behind her.
“Fine, thanks.” She turned around and pushed her butt into the door to open it. Clipboard in hand, she called her team of chefs and servers together to run through the night’s menu. She watched them gather, felt a swelling of pride lift her confidence even as she caught Cruz’s gaze. She could do this. Tatum took a deep breath. She could do it.
“Okay, so tonight we’re going Mediterranean. Italian and Greek. We’re doing branzino with early spring vegetables and a lemon rice pilaf as our main special. Colby, that’ll be you on fish with Chester on backup. We’ve been slow on vegan lately, so I don’t want you getting overwhelmed, Colby, and you two work well together,” she added when she saw the young woman’s brows pinch together. “Sam, you and Cruz are handling the pizza. I added the pear and gorgonzola back to the menu for tonight as an appetizer. Let’s see how it does now that we’ve got the reduced balsamic glaze.”
“We’ve got it,” Sam called.
“Great.” She recited the rest of the menu items, made note of the few changes she’d made to some of their mainstays. “We’re going with chocolate lava cakes with a caramel ice cream as our recommended dessert. Ty, you’ve already gotten started on the baklava, right?”
“On it,” Ty confirmed. “I was also going to recommend a honey gelato as an option for the future. We got a bottle of lavender honey with our market delivery today.”
“Oh, that sounds good.” She made a note. “Yeah, we’ll work that in this week. As usual, I’m open to menu suggestions. I want to keep things fresh. For tonight, let’s just focus on being fast and being good. I want every plate that leaves this kitchen to be pristine.” She glanced at her watch. “We open in three hours. Soup’s on for us in ninety minutes. Any questions?”
The nerves had mostly vanished by the time everyone went back to their stations. Soon the familiar, comforting sounds of True began ringing through her ears. It was going to be okay, she told herself even as she shifted her gaze through the kitchen and found Cruz in the back corner by the imported stone pizza oven. She watched as Sam showed him how to load the wood, shoving it through the flames into the back to maintain the constant fifteen-hundred-degree heat. It made for quick pizzas, especially given how thin their crusts were.
She took a step back, her lips curving as Cruz and Sam worked as a team; it was a good match. One she’d purposely made. Sam knew everything that went on at True whether people wanted him to or not. It was a good connection for Cruz to make. A good friend. She needed the detective to see that the people who worked for her were more than employees, more than names in a file or people with records. They were real people with real lives and she didn’t doubt for one minute that they were loyal to her.
Still. She cringed. She really hoped this wouldn’t blow back in her face.
Cruz took a step back, planted his hands on his narrow hips and turned his head. His gaze found hers, and for a moment, just like the other night in the bar, the world seemed to move into silence. His smile, when he offered it, scraped against her heart. As beautiful as he was, as effortlessly as he seemed to fit, he didn’t belong here. Her own smile faded.
He didn’t love this place like she did. To him, it was just another element to his case. Another circumstance he could brush off and move beyond, while to her it was the air she needed to breathe.
“Chef?” Colby waved at her. “I think we might have a problem with the branzino.”
Just like that her trance was broken. “Coming,” she called, and got to work.
CHAPTER 7
It took less than the full shift for Cruz to gain a new respect not only for chefs, but for restaurant staff in general. Sure, he’d seen his share of TV docuseries spotlighting the “real world” behind the swinging doors, but that was nothing compared to being in on the action. The nonstop, hot, sweaty, ear-splittingly frenetic activity. The rolling with the punches that could be anything from a food allergy to a food critic.
Despite his crash course at Tatum’s condo, there had been no way to properly prepare for this new job. Words and videos, warnings and advice might have helped, but this was being in the trenches, and he felt like a gangly cadet pushing through his first radio car shift.
If he’d expected to have a “getting to know you” conversation with Sam, that idea flew out the pizza door oven from almost the moment service started. There wasn’t time to talk. And if he thought he’d slip into this without any difficulty, the overcooked pizzas that had piled up before he finally got the timing right was a definite ego check. They’d made good snacks for one of his breaks, though. On his other break he’d taken what he hoped was a new guy exploratory walk around the storage area, loading bay and alley behind the restaurant. He’d spotted the cameras he expected, but not in the most convenient of places, and not all of them seemed to be working. Interesting.
“Good job, everyone!” Susan Ford, True’s hostess, gave them a quick round of applause as they ended the evening at just after eleven. “We had a full house that sent many kudos back to all of you.”
Cruz watched Susan walk over to Tatum and speak to her for a while before they both headed out. Before Sam could comment on Cruz’s distraction, Cruz refocused his attention and followed the cleanup routine Sam had down to military precision. Once the pizza station was sparkling, they shifted their way down the line, helping the various sous-chefs with their own cleanup, loading the dishes, pots, pans and everything else that had touched a morsel of food into the far back.
“You guys are the definition of a well-oiled machine,” Cruz said and earned appreciative smiles from the two dedicated dishwashers currently elbow-deep in suds. “We didn’t get introduced earlier. I’m Cruz Mendoza.”
“Bernadette Chavez.” Dark, frizzy curls sprang up around her sweat-dotted, freckled face. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Jeremy Pike.” The other dishwasher jerked his chin up in greeting. “Welcome to True.” He continued loading one of the three industrial-strength rapid dishwashers while the dirty plates piled up.
“Thanks, Jeremy.”
“Just Pike is fine. Only my mother calls me Jeremy.” He was tall, only an inch shorter than Cruz, and leaned toward the lanky side. Beneath the collar of his T-shirt Cruz could see the edges of tattoo work, including a distinct symbol from the armed forces.
“You serve?” Cruz asked.
“Nah.” Pike shrugged. “My dad. Marines. He was KIA when I was a kid.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Yeah. That’s how life goes.” Pike turned his attention back to the dishes while others filed in and out, resupplying the kitchen with the just washed and warm plates.
“It usually takes us about an hour after closing to get everything ready for the next night.” Ty took a stack of plates from Cruz and set them in their open metal cabinet. “You did real well for your first night here. You ready to do it all again tomorrow?”
“I am, actually.” Although he winced as he said it and earned a laugh of sympathy not only from Sam but from some of his other coworkers. Given that he was supposed to be used to working in a restaurant, he couldn’t exactly complain, but man. The gym had nothing on this place when it came to physical exertion.
“Most of us are heading over to O’Shannahan’s across the street for an afterwork beer,” Sam told him as they returned to the washing room for another load. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“Unless you’re ready to go home and collapse,” Quallis teased.
He was, but that would be admitting defeat. Besides, a beer with the crew was the perfect way to open up new avenues of information for him. “I’m more than ready for a beer.” He was also hungry. How was that even possible after he’d scarfed down that amazing minestrone, fresh-baked bread and more than a fair share of scorched pizza?
“Great. We’ll see you there.” Sam, Quallis, Chester and Colby all grinned far too wi
dely before they filed out, leaving Cruz surrounded by the remaining mountain of dishes. He groaned. He’d be lucky to be out of here by dawn.
“Let me guess,” he said to Ty Collins, who appeared to have taken pity on him and was grabbing an armful of serving utensils. “Dishes are True’s version of hazing?”
“You survived trial by fire,” Ty told him, looking far more energetic than Cruz despite his added twenty years. “Better than Sam did his first night. He set off the fire alarm twice and ruined so many pies Tatum had to make a fresh batch of dough. Come on. I’ll help you finish up.”
By the time the kitchen was clean and the last of the kitchen staff was on their way home, Cruz completely understood why the locker room included shower facilities. And also why Tatum had suggested bringing a change of clothes with him. He gave brief thought to drowning himself under the hot water as it melted some of the soreness away, and felt some regret that the night was not over. One job was done. Now his real work began.
“You coming for a beer?” Cruz asked Ty back in the locker room as the older man tugged on a jacket over a fresh T-shirt and jeans.
“Not tonight.” Ty offered an apologetic smile. “Not that I don’t want to celebrate your inauguration into the trenches, but I have somewhere I need to be.”
Cruz moved his cell onto the top shelf of his locker before he closed the door and spun the combination lock. “No worries. Have a good night.”
“Yeah,” Ty said with a nod. “You, too.”
* * *
After-closing was Tatum’s favorite part of the day. Not because it boosted her pride to see the receipts for the night, although that did give her a shot of satisfaction. And not because she could retire to her office after delegating the busy work she’d spent years doing in other people’s restaurants. Tatum loved this part of her day because there was something special about retreating to her office and looking down at the empty, silent, dimly lit creation she’d brought to life.
Harlequin Romantic Suspense March 2021 Page 7
