Chris's stomach clenched as tight as the rag twisted in his grip while he washed dishes over the restaurant's industrial-size sink. An ocean breeze rolled in through the open back door. Not that it did much good sweeping out the fish stink. Heat popped salty sweat down his face, into his shirt.
Great for the acne. Not.
If zits were his only worry.
Chris glanced over his shoulder, checked, found the kitchen empty. He resumed dragging dishes under the spraying water to rinse away fried seafood and hush puppies before stacking each plate in the dishwasher.
Hell no, he wasn't a wuss. He could work out his problems. Face them like a man. He might not look like his dad, but he would be like him when it counted. He would finish up his shift at the restaurant. No big deal. And under no circumstances would he make any more deliveries.
He just wished he'd never answered the ad in the base paper about this job. But his mom and dad were always fighting about money. He'd taken the job to help out as much as to get away from the arguing.
The double doors from the dining area swished open. Sweat iced, then itched along his back. He snapped around to find … the busboy who'd recommended he take this lame job. The fellow military brat dropped off his tub of plates and left.
At least it wasn't her. But the swinging door still offered sporadic glimpses of her anyway. The hostess, Miranda Casale, smiling her million-dollar smile for the final departing customers. Miranda sure knew how to flash that smile along with a view down her silk shirts to get guys to do anything she wanted.
Even now he went dry-mouthed at the thought of her honey-golden skin with a charm necklace between two perfect breasts.
He tried to swallow. Failed.
Damn, damn, damn! He loved Shelby, so why was he drooling over someone he didn't even like? Teenage hormones so sucked.
One look down Miranda's dress two weeks ago and before he knew it, he'd been on his way out the door to run an errand for her. Just a food delivery for a special client—even though they didn't normally deliver squat.
Sucker.
He didn't know why Miranda had sent along so much money with the food delivery, but the fluky look he'd gotten at a stack of hundreds left him with zero doubts.
The reason couldn't be good.
He'd reported it to his boss, only to be told he must have misunderstood. Or maybe it was all innocent, but thanks anyhow, kid, and he would definitely talk to her. And, oh by the way, if rumors started, damaging business, Chris and his family would be sued and he sure would hate for that to happen and were they on the same page here now, pal?
God. Chris chunked another plate into the dishwasher. He'd clammed up faster than his father that day.
His parents would totally wig out if they knew. His dad was rigid on the honesty thing, and Mom went ballistic if he got so much as a detention for being tardy twice in a semester. Geez. Sometimes he wondered if it might be easier to forget about meeting their expectations.
But his mom was pregnant. And his dad was a freaking zombie since Rubistan.
So he would hang tough. Not be a wuss. And try like crazy to tell himself his mom's hit-and-run accident in his car was totally a coincidence.
Chris stacked the last of the dishes and flung aside the rag. Only a few more minutes and then home free for one more day. Maybe Miranda would transfer to another college and take her flashing boobs and smile somewhere else.
At least he knew better than to let himself be sucked in by her again. Jesus, like a nineteen-year-old hot chick would really be interested in him anyhow. But those raging hormones zapped IQ points.
The doors swished again. No Miranda—thank God. No busboy, either. This time his boss raced in, loosening his tie, a laid-back dude in his thirties with only two employee mottos: Don't make waves, and treat his wife and little girl like royalty.
The boss man, Kurt Haugen, definitely always sided with the chicks. "I have to leave now before I'm any later getting home. Don't forget to lock up behind you."
"I won't, Mr. Haugen."
"Thanks, kid, and make sure Miranda and the other waitresses get in their cars safe and sound. Okay? Wouldn't want anything to happen to them."
Chris stood taller. Okay, so the guy pampered women. Bet he wouldn't get a baby-sitter Bo to stay overnight when a guy was already sixteen. "Sure. No problem, Mr. Haugen."
Of course, now he had to wait around for Miranda, but he could just sit in the car and watch until she left. Yeah. That would work. Doors locked. Eyes on her face, which was more respectful anyhow. Not to mention safer.
"I really need to haul ass, pal. I missed my daughter's gymnastics competition this afternoon. Engine went out on the shrimp trawler, which had me on the phone all day tracking down repair parts. And damn but I hated missing the little princess turn her back flips. Wife's probably pissed, too. Hey, how about pass me one of those chocolate pecan pies. Maybe if I walk into the room leading with that, it'll soften her up. And a candy bar for the princess. What do you think, pal?"
Swinging open the refrigerator, Chris stretched to get the pie off the top rack. "I think chicks dig chocolate."