Baby, Don't Go

9

Alicia watched as Marcus shepherded the waitresses toward the door. “Thanks for cleaning up. We’ll reopen Monday morning. Don’t forget to spread the word about the cook’s position.” He closed the door behind them and turned the dead bolt.

The clicking noise sent a little thrill through her chest—being locked in with Marcus Armstrong would be a great opportunity to pick his chauvinistic brain.

As far as feeling a little light-headed, she attributed it to not having had anything to eat. The smell of all the fried food on top of an empty stomach was making her queasy.

With his back to her, Marcus put his hands on his hips and heaved a huge sigh. Alicia frowned. It wasn’t as if the man had people lining up to cook for him—he should be grateful she’d work in his dinky little diner!

He finally turned to look at her, then pulled his hand down his face.

She glared. “If you’re going to fire me, then do it.”

He settled his blue-eyed gaze on her and walked closer. “I can’t—” He stopped. “I mean, I’m not going to fire you. It’s my fault for expecting you to just walk in and know what you’re doing.”

Alicia crossed her arms. “Is that supposed to be some kind of back-handed apology?”

He straightened. “No.” Then pain flashed across his face and he gasped, putting his hand to his back.

Contrite for setting off the events that led to his fall, she hurried toward him. “Are you okay?”

He held up his hand, as if she were a contagion. “Just a pulled muscle. I’ll live.”

She winced. “Sorry.”

He didn’t look to be in a forgiving mood. “Forget it. Let’s just go over some things so Monday we can get through a full day of business with no mishaps. The Department of Energy rep will be here any day for another inspection, and the diner needs to be ready.” His brows furrowed. “In other words, not burned to the ground.”

A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it, reminding herself to act as if she wanted this job. So she simply inclined her head in concession, although the gesture sent her blood pressure skyrocketing.

“Chances are,” he continued, “my brothers or I will be with the inspector, but in case he stops by on his own, you should know what to expect.”

“What will the representative be looking for?”

“Mostly, how we’re composting our leftover food and handling the recycling of our grease.”

She made a face. “Okay.”

“Follow me.” He lifted a stainless steel bucket of grease from the side of the grill by its handle, then with his other hand, rolled a large trash container marked “Food Only—No Meat” toward the rear door.

“I can get one of those,” she offered, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her.

She pursed her mouth. If the man with the gimpy back wanted to go all Southern macho on her, then she’d let him. She smirked as he wrestled with the door while trying to manage the two containers. From his jerky body language, it seemed as if his mood was rapidly eroding. She followed him outside, at a distance.

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