When I get back to the kitchen, I grab Vince’s salad. Before I make it out the door, Cherie calls, “Take Mateo’s, too.”
With an “oh” of surprise, I turn back. “I haven’t the last two weeks,” I point out.
She’s stirring with impressive focus, but her gaze flits to mine, wary. “His request.”
Frowning slightly, I ask, “Am I bringing him dinner, too?”
“Yep.”
That’s odd, but I don’t argue. While the women do the cooking and serving, the “married” women only serve their own husbands. At least, that’s how it’s been the last two weeks. The unmarried women deliver the food to the unattached men, usually Francesca since she’s quickest. While I’m obviously not married to Vince, for the past two weeks, I have been considered his spouse in that respect.
It probably doesn’t matter. Less work for Francesca if I pitch in—I thought that at the beginning anyway. I guess I get the logic of only serving one “master,” but… oh, who am I kidding? It’s stupid.
I give up the thought, sprinkling some croutons over a second plate and resuming my path to the dining room. Once I get there and see both men assembled at the table, flanking me, since I’m still in the same seat I sat in that first night, I wonder if order matters. I guess since Vince is mine he should get served first? But Mateo is the head of the family…. I need an informational pamphlet on the etiquette of this shit if they’re going to complicate things.
I go to Vince first, placing his salad down and dropping a little kiss on his cheek. He smiles up at me, until he sees the second plate. A little crease forms between his eyebrows as I step over to drop off Mateo’s.
“Thank you, Mia,” Mateo says.
“Yep.”
Before I can move away, he catches me by the wrist, just a light grasp to get my attention. “Can you bring out dried cranberries for mine?”
“Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry,” I say, off-handedly.
“It’s okay,” he says easily, dropping my wrist and picking up his fork. “Now you’ll know for next time.”
I blink, at a loss. I glance at Vince, seeing all the light has drained from his face. “She’s serving you now?”
“And you,” Mateo says, like it’s a favor.
“Good thing I have two hands,” I say lightly, not wanting this to be a whole thing.
Mateo smirks, but doesn’t comment.
Skittering back to the kitchen, I enter with a pronounced, “Ugh.” I have to locate the cranberries for Mateo’s salad, and I’m not looking forward to Vince being in a pissy mood.
Deciding to get confirmation, I say to Francesca, “It doesn’t matter that I’m serving both of them, right?”
Appearing not to know what I’m talking about, she murmurs, “Huh?”
“The stupid dinner thing,” I say, rolling my eyes. “They’ve only had me serve Vince before, but now Mateo’s requested I serve him, too. Vince seems annoyed, but it doesn’t matter, right?”
Looking tired, she sighs. “Mateo’s stirring the pot. Just stay focused on Vince. Quietly reassure him, you’ll be fine.”
I’d been hoping for simple agreement, so that’s annoying. “I mean, you serve half the table; what’s the difference?”
“The difference is I’m not spoken for.”
I roll my eyes, in this instance inconvenienced by their eccentricities. Cherie comes up beside me, handing me a little dish of dried cranberries.
“You forgot these for Mateo’s salad,” she informs me.
“I had no idea he wanted them,” I point out, taking the cranberries.
“Francesca took out the last batch, so you can take out your salad and have a seat now.”
When I make it back to the table, Vince still seems surly and Mateo, as usual, is utterly unconcerned. He does make a point to catch up with me, as he said he would, asking how I’m liking the bakery, if I get along with the other employees. I assure him everything is fine, but by the time the salads are finished, I realize Mateo and I have been talking to each other exclusively, and Vince has moved on from wine to something stronger. I was supposed to be the one getting his drink, and I realize I didn’t even notice he’d gotten up.
Shit.
Before I get up to clear our plates away, I offer Vince a private little smile and lightly squeeze his thigh.
He ignores me completely.
Unsettled, I stand and collect the plates from my place, Vince’s and Mateo’s, making a point not to actually interact with Mateo. I’m the first woman back in the kitchen, aside from Cherie, who doesn’t eat dinner with the family.
“Don’t make me go back out there,” I whine, turning on the faucet to rinse off the dishes before setting them in the sink.
“Vince mad?” she guesses.
I nod, rolling my eyes. “Like it’s worth getting mad over.”
Instead of agreeing with me, she shrugs. “Mateo doesn’t have a reputation for keeping his hands to himself.”