He stares at me for a few seconds as though he expects me to grovel or shake with fear. Instead, I meet his gaze, refusing to even feign respect for such an unworthy man. Eventually, he stomps away to yell at another cook for plating the chicken wrong, but I feel his eyes on me the rest of the service.
“You’ve made an enemy,” Jake says when the waiters finally take the food away to serve.
He nods. “If you get fired, they’ll drop you off wherever we make port in Europe, and you’ll have to find your own way home. I’ve seen it happen before.”
“I’ll be fine.” I have no intention of making it all the way to Europe, but Jake doesn’t know that.
He hums, unconvinced. “You should come to poker again tonight. It would give me a little competition. I swept last night without you.”
It seems the o
