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1152 Words
“Just need to explain a few things to . . .” he trailed off, waiting for someone to fill him in on her name.
“Oh, um, this is Ágata,” Ernest said.
“Ágata?” That name suited her.
“Ágata Brown.”
Ágata Brown? Seriously? She didn’t look like a Ágata. Something set off a small warning in his head, but he ignored it.
“Right. Well, Ágata, come with me. You need to learn the rules if you’re going to be our private server.” He started pulling her toward the door again.
She resisted. Maybe she was having second thoughts about agreeing to be their server.
Good. Finally.
He stared down at her, waiting for her to tell him that she’d changed her mind. But instead, she sighed, staring back at where she’d been standing.
“But my sandwich,” she said mournfully.
What? Her sandwich? That was what she was concerned about?
Screw the sandwich. She should be far more concerned about what he was going to do to her than with her damn missed meal.
Except . . . when he looked at her, he saw how small she was. Was she eating properly? What if she was really hungry? Was that the reason she’d left her post? Starvation?
Fuck.
Was he really going to deny her something to eat?
He might be a monster, but there was no reason she should have to starve.
“Fine. Get your damn sandwich.”
“What?”
“I said get the damn sandwich.”
She skipped back to the counter and picked up the white bread sandwich.
“Is that your dinner?” he grumbled.
He was well aware that everyone around them had stopped to stare. He had to get her out of there. Otherwise no one in the restaurant was going to get their food tonight.
“Yeah. Why?”
“What’s even in it?” As far as he could tell, it was just two pieces of bread.
“Butter.”
“And?”
“And nothing. It’s bread and butter. It’s my favorite.”
Bread and butter.
That was her dinner?
“Don’t you get a meal when you’re working?”
“Uh, no.” She gave him a confused look. “I thought you were the big boss. Don’t you know what your employees get?”
He just grunted. Nicole’s was one of many businesses. And not important enough for him to take any interest in the day-to-day management.
And he wasn’t interested now.
Without replying, he tugged her out of the kitchen and into the corridor. He headed back down the hallway and into a storeroom. Then he turned on her. He waited for a sign of fear.
But she just took a bite of her sandwich.
No, you couldn’t even call it a sandwich. It was bread and freaking butter.
Okay, he didn’t know why that was making him so angry.
It. Just. Was.
“Well?” Ágata asked.
“Well?” he repeated, dumbfounded.
That’s what she had to say? Well?
“What do you want?”
Oh, this brat needed a damn good spanking.
“Excuse me? What did you just say to me?” He put plenty of menace into his voice. He stepped forward and she moved back. Gratification filled him at the small sign that she was intimidated.
Then she took another bite of her bread and butter.
Fuck. She wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?
That needed to change. She had to learn when someone was more dangerous and powerful than she was. And how to show them proper deference.
“I said, what did you want?” she asked around another mouthful.
“Don’t talk while you’re eating.”
Shit. That really wasn’t what he was supposed to say. Irritation filled him. There was something about this girl that just set him off.
She raised her eyebrows, giving him an amused look. “Sorry, Dad.”
That’s Papa to you.
Fuck. He had to get out of her presence. Only that would be a sign of weakness. And Hernán De Almería didn’t have weaknesses. It was how he had survived this long.
“That’s what you dragged me into this supply closet to tell me?” she asked before finishing the bread.
“No, of course it’s not. What did you think you were doing in the kitchen?”
She chewed with exaggerated movements of her jaw. He stood there, watching her. What the f**k?
She held up a finger as she kept chewing.
Oh, this was because he’d told her not to speak before swallowing?
Pequeña mocosa. What a little brat.
“You seem to be having problems swallowing,” he whispered to her. “Maybe I can help with that.”
She frowned slightly, looking confused. For a moment, doubts stirred. How old was she?
Christ, if Ernest had put an underaged kid in the back room with a bunch of cold-hearted murders and criminals . . . he was going to f*****g kill him.
She swallowed.
“Finished?” he asked in an overly-patient voice. He could be a patient man. Not often, but sometimes.
Now was not one of those times.
He wanted to take this girl over his knee and teach her a hard and fast lesson about putting herself at risk.
“Yep. Oh, and to answer your question, I work here.”
“Not anymore.” He smiled at her. He was doing her a favor. This wasn’t the place for her.
“What . . . what do you mean?” For the first time, she looked unsure.
“I mean, you’re fired. Go gather your things up and leave.”
“I . . . you can’t fire me!”
“Sure I can. I own this place.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“This isn’t the place for you, kid. You need to go home to your mommy and daddy. I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.”
She sucked in a breath. “How old do you think I am?”
That’s what was worrying him.
“Old enough to know better than to work somewhere like this. And young enough that your daddy ought to paddle your behind for trying to act older than you are.”
“I’m twenty-two!”
Okay. That was better than he’d thought.
“Are you?”
“Yes. You can check with Ernest.”
“Don’t think that I won’t, Pequeña,” he murmured.
“I am not a little girl.” There. That was an accent. He’d thought he’d caught it before. It seemed to grow stronger when she was upset. Or was she trying to disguise it, and she’d slipped up when she got mad?
Because Ágata Brown didn’t sound like she would have an accent.
- Writer
