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He grunts again turning his back, ignoring me. He picks up a long wooden spoon and starts stirring his sauce, turns down the heat to a simmer and takes off his apron.
“My office,” he motions for me to follow.
“Do you actually talk or just generally grunt, giving orders?”
He stops abruptly and stares intently at me. “You have waitressing experience?”
“Yes sir, paid my way through college.”
“You’re hired.”
“That’s it?”
He studies me, “You remind me of someone… you’ve got the same sass and grit she had. You’ll do well here. Your shift starts at five.”
“Oh, okay… then. So, who was the girl?”
“Here.” He shoves an apron with the Sassy Wench logo on it and practically shoos me out his office door without answering my question.
“That’s it? Don’t you need my name and address… and for me to fill out paperwork?”
“Nope. That’s it, Devon St. John.”
“H-how—?”
“I own the building that you're renting a unit in,” he answers cutting me off.
“Are you always this grumpy?”
“Grumpy? Hell, sugar, I’m having a good day.”
My eyebrows raise, “Well, okay then. I’ll see you at five, Meat.”
He grunts, “Roger. You can call me Roger. Only family calls me by my nickname.”
Swallowing my questions, I duck my head and grab a menu. I’ll need to look it over a few times to familiarize myself with all the dishes and types of beer they offer.
“Devon,” he says in a voice rough but soft, like velvet.
My head jerks up, and we lock eyes.
“We don’t have a uniform here. But daisy dukes or short shorts are the way to go if you wanna make decent tips.”
“Roger that,” I answer with a wink enjoying the moment his eyes leave my face and slide down my body.
He’s a damnsilver fox.
Hot as fuck.
He’s a man’s man: confident and gruff without apologizing for being rough around the edges. I need to get a grip. Falling for him would be a disaster.
I need to find a way to get close to him, just enough to get answers. Small towns like this don’t trust outsiders especially one determined to dig into the past. And I’ve waited my whole life to find the answers, and I’m not leaving without them. Even if some badass giant wearing an apron and who cooks like a celebrity chef tries to get in my way.