Nineteen
Before retiring, I dug deep and pushed away my guilt at the subpar performance and set to redeem myself. I rewrote the entire menu for the next day. No, not rewrote, replanned. We were still going to serve the same dishes—a warm pasta with confit and vegetables, but I would make it more distinguished, better. While I sat in the crew lounge, reworking the menu, Seb passed through.
He did a double take when he saw me. “Marce, what are you doing up? The Boyds are in bed already.”
I didn’t look up. “Dinner was nearly a failure. I need to rewrite some plans before bed.”
Seb took a thorough look around and, seeing no one except Roy at the sink, slid into the booth next to me, pressing his side against mine.
I compared my inventory notes. Did I have enough parsley to tweak the tarta
