Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I smile up at the girl. “I’m curious, do you have another dessert menu? I’m looking for a smaller bite today.”
Confusion crosses her face. Weird.
“Oh, you mean different from the back page?”
“That’s right.”
She twists her lips. “I think there’s some summer gelato and sorbets we haven’t put on there yet. They’re normally weekend specials, but I can ask if you’d like…”
I wait for more. Anything.
But she just looks at me like she’s mentally counting down the seconds until I throw my hands up in surrender or just ask for a drink.
Shit, do the staff know about the deliveries? They happen midday, so someone must.
Or what if they’ve been told to keep their mouths shut? And if so, why?
The van only stopped unloading twenty minutes ago.
If I’m quick, I might be able to sneak through the back and see what’s going on for myself.
“No problem,” I say, handing her the menu. “On second thought, I’ll just have a coffee, then. Cold brew, black.”
“Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
I drum my fingers on the table while she trots off.
My watch buzzes with another call, this time from Patton, but I ignore his annoying ass.
My worst suspicions were just validated.
The question now is what and how the hell do I prove it without getting caught?
My coffee arrives a minute later, iced and blissfully unsweetened.
I get a touch of brain freeze as I gulp it down quickly and leave a tip on the table, walking outside just as the afternoon traffic picks up in the restaurant.
It’s been half an hour since the delivery, and I half expect to find it gone, vanished into the ether.
But no, it’s still parked next to the loading dock when I round the back. The two boys are nowhere to be seen. Maybe the golf club is the dessert’s final destination after all, but that doesn’t explain anything.
I’ve only stopped for a minute when a truck pulls up with big red coolers inside. The two kids who picked up the desserts reappear from the back, helping the new crew carry them inside through an open door into a storeroom. That’s probably my way in, but it’s way too crowded.
I find a side door.
Locked.
Fuck, everything here is. I also can’t just sneak in through the restaurant with how busy it’s gotten.
The longer I hang around, the more suspicious I look.
A cook wearing white stands by another door, propped open by his foot. A cigarette dangles from his fingers and he turns his face up, exhaling a long plume of smoke.
From the way his shoulders slump, this looks like a well-needed break.
It also looks like my way inside.
Once he’s done smoking, he throws the heavy door open and heads through. I catch it just before it clicks shut.
There’s no window, so I can’t see what’s going on, but distant shouting and the scent of sizzling food wafts through the air.
I slip through, heading inside the kitchen, careful to stay out of view.
The noise instantly threatens to overwhelm me, but I plow through the narrow corridors, eyeing a storeroom.
To my left is the restaurant, judging by the staff that come and go.
Luckily for me, the cooks are too busy to worry about a stranger in a suit heading through.
Then I’m through the last door to the storeroom.
The delivery guys are shutting the large outside doors. I pat the wall until I feel a light switch. A dull buzz hums through the air as the lights flick on.
This place is enormous.
And there, on a table, stacked like an afterthought, are Junie’s pink boxes. A few are bent and crumpled like no one cares about the food inside.
There’s cream smeared against the outside on the front of one. Junie wouldn’t leave it like that.
She might be chaotic and overworked, but she’s not careless.
These guys are fucking animals.
More importantly, half of this stuff isn’t fit to serve anymore unless they want to risk a write-up from the health inspector.
As I approach, I see the branded stickers holding the boxes shut look torn, the frayed edges smoothed back down with a dirty thumb. Unhygienic as hell.
There’s a noise behind me.
I barely have time to duck into a corner when someone enters the room.
A dishwasher or kitchen boy, judging by the pimples on his chin. He grabs a box of sauces—ketchup and mayonnaise—and runs back to the kitchen.
I shouldn’t be here.
I’m risking the fucking farm.
If anyone catches me, the best-case scenario is Haute knows I’m up his ass snooping around. Either he pulls the plug on whatever he’s doing with Junie, or I get her into trouble. No matter what, the contract with Higher Ends will be toast.
Worst-case scenario, I wind up with trespassing charges on top of it.
This better pay off. I grit my teeth.
With one more glance at the door leading into the kitchen, I swipe the top box from the pile and run. It feels like cupcakes or muffins bouncing around inside.