I head out back to dump the dishes in the sink. My gut is in knots. Next time I serve him will be even more mortifying. I pass the office window to see Oliver behind his desk, a mountain of paperwork in front of him, and cringe. He’ll be pissed if I’ve upset his customers.
Bloody terrific.
“We have fresh tiramisu and panna cotta for you to load in the small fridge.” Dominic, one of the head chefs, punctuates every word with a hand action. He waves his knife as he speaks to me. I step back—a work safety measure I learnt a long time ago.
“Do I get to taste test first?” I wink at him. “To ensure it’s up to scratch?”
“You don’t insult Dominic,” he says in thick English. “I make-a the best tiramisu in the southern hemisphere.”
“Now, you’re over-exaggerating. I’ve tasted better at a café down the Bay.”
“Macy.” Oliver leans on the doorframe. “Stop teasing my uncle.” The half-smirk tells me he’s enjoying my antics.
“Mamma mia,” Dominic says with both hands in the air, one still wielding a long knife. “She not understand the love I put into cooking.”
“I do… When are you going to understand I’ll never stop throwing you a baited line? Maybe you should make fish your specialty dinner?”
Dominic raises his eyebrows at Oliver. “You want me to cook fish?”
“Ignore her,” Oliver says and waves me into his office. “I want to discuss something with you.”
I follow him inside and sit behind his large cedar table. What if one of the football players mentioned my accusation? They attract trade, and if Lombardi’s loses customers, I might lose shifts or my job. Paper is spread from one side to the other. Since taking over the business from his father twelve months ago, and at only twenty years of age, Oliver is juggling managing the business along with completing his university degree. The first project he took on was aiming to be paperless in the office. By the bags under his eyes, I assume he’s getting little sleep and spending most hours at the computer
“I need to alter my friend Ava’s shifts.”
“Okay.” I don’t object as I know how close the two are, especially since he visited her on the East Coast and convinced her to return to Adelaide along with her then two-year-old son.
“I realise you need to work mainly during the day, so it’s easier to help your father, but Ava also needs to work during the day. At the moment, I try to share the weekend load between you. One weekend on, one-off alternating. How do you feel about having one weekend off a month?”
I want to say no for I’d also like a social life but almost laugh in my own face. Who am I kidding? When I manage to go out, it’s to forget my worries. A night out on the booze with my friend, partying to the late hours is my therapy. Early morning starts at Lombardi’s impedes on a social life. “Sure.” Another fake smile. Truth is I like Ava. Besides, the weekend penalties could be the answer to my woes.
“Great. I’ll pencil you in for this Saturday and Sunday. If you’re cool with it, then take tomorrow and Monday off.”
I scroll through my phone, checking Dad’s upcoming medical appointments.
“No need to pencil me in. I can work both days.”
Before dropping my phone back in my pocket, I sneak a text to my friend.
So keen for tomorrow night. I’ll be at yours by six.
Chapter Two
MACY
“Don’t rush home, love. I’ll be fine.”
Dad plonks himself on the lounge, unclips his prosthesis from his thigh stump, and tosses it aside. He moans as he lies back in the chair—a sound of relief and pain. I doubt the pain ever truly eases. He sets a lap table over his thigh and waits for me to place a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of him.
One hand reaches for the armrest patting the length of the brown velour cushion.
“Here.” I snare the remote from the table and place it in front of him. Anything in his periphery gets lost in his line of sight with his failing eyesight. “I think Greg is the name of the caregiver rostered for tonight.” He ignores me as he digs into his pasta.
Swallowing a mouthful, he adds, “Greg, Joe Blow… they’re all the same. As long as they like soccer, it’s all that matters.”
“So, we’re hiring someone to have a few beers with you and watch the game on television?”
“I told you I don’t need anyone. I’m fine. What I do need is for you to go out and enjoy yourself. Hang with your friends like other normal twenty-four-year-olds.”
“I am normal,” I emphasise.
He laughs without looking up.
“As long as Greg helps you to bed and has your crutches nearby, I’ll be happy.”
“They always do.”
He’s forgotten about the time he and the caregiver drank too much beer, and the caregiver left at the time he was paid to finish work, leaving my father in the chair without his crutches nearby. So when my dad needed the toilet, he clambered out of his recliner chair, and after a few drunken hops, fell. He was lucky to come away with a black eye and sprained wrist. It took me a while to leave him again. Being with him as much as I can after six o’clock is the best reassurance he’ll get to his bed safely.
The doorbell rings. I open the door and introduce myself to Greg.
“Don’t be fooled by his friendliness to get slack on the job,” I tell him. “And please do not leave until Dad is in bed with his crutches at arm’s length. And encourage him to use the loo before.”
“Got it.” He looks down the hall to where the soccer game is playing at full volume.
“Come and meet Dad. By the way, there is nothing wrong with his hearing. The neighbours don’t need to hear the game, so feel free to turn the volume down.”
“How long until you turn into a pumpkin?”
I squint as I read the time on my phone. “An hour.”
“Then down this.” Georgia hands me a tequila shot. “It’s been a while between drinks.”
It’s literally only been minutes. She means getting laid, and although I have no intention of getting laid tonight, I down the shot.
The bartender lines up salt and a slice of lemon. “Why do I do this?” I mumble and shove the lemon in my mouth and suck.
“Because it’s the best way to get wasted.” She hands me another round.
“I’m done,” I tell her, wiping my mouth and embracing the shiver running along my spine.
A chuckle sounds to my left. “I find this is the best chaser,” says a guy with a voice as smooth as the Bailey’s I’m looking at on the shelf.
I turn to meet the most amazing blue eyes. I’m caught in a haze of blue, the alcohol controlling my delayed reaction time.
“This…” he says again and holds up a glass of beer to avert my gaze, “… works best for me.”
I take the glass from his hand and take a few mouthfuls without question. The burp passing my lips turns heads two bodies deep at the bar.
Georgia’s head falls back in laughter.
“Was that me?”
“Honey, own it. Not even I could match that one.” He smiles, and I want to listen to the way he talks. Sure, he’s hot. Copper brown hair. Chiselled chin. And man, those dimples—I’m struggling to look away. But it’s more than his good looks. There’s something about him. He has energy surrounding him, and it’s drawing me closer because I’m in need of happy vibes.