“Becky? Your extremely able assistant?”
I shook my head. “Sign up someone else for the guinea pig roll in your horrific experiments,” I said with a smile.
Kitchen work seemed a much better way to spend my evening rather than center stage before a bunch of drunk idiots who were all glad it was me up there making a fool of myself and not them.
Gill’s smile wilted, but she’d bounce back in seconds; she always did.
“Why not go on stage yourself?” I suggested, crossing my arms and putting on my own very devious grin. “I’m sure you’d get the crowd’s support, girl.”
“I really can’t. Not when I’m the master of ceremonies.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I thought we had a local radio personality, Chuck Armstrong, doing that job, which guaranteed good publicity.
Gill took a deep breath, and I practically saw her brain whirring. “I don’t want to say this evening is doomed, Kay, but the MC canceled at the last minute. I can’t blame him. He had an accident on the way in here, so I’m lucky we got a call to warn us. But I put so much effort into this evening; I can step in and carry it off.”
That was Gill’s barrel loads of confidence speaking.
She continued, “And the female contestant hasn’t arrived. She should have been here thirty minutes ago. But any lady who takes part is guaranteed a date with one hot guy. So she had nothing to lose.”
Except her dignity?
Funny how Gill and I saw things in completely different ways sometimes.
At that moment, Gill’s face brightened as she stared at a crowd of people entering the bar. “Oh, thank God, she finally showed up.”
The main contestant of the day had arrived. And she was easy to pick out.
“Cinderella, you will go to the ball,” I mumbled under my breath.
Our winner was dressed somewhat oddly. I guess her place in the show made her think she needed to dress up, if that’s what you’d call it. She appeared to be wearing a prom dress rather than whatever a twenty-something should wear to a bar when she hopes to score a date.
With one last pat on Gill’s shoulder, I turned, ready to head back toward the kitchen.
Hello, there.
I didn’t take a step. I stood still and looked.
Five of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen in real life sat huddled in one of the circular booths near the door to my personal workspace and sanctuary. They should have been on TV or in the pages of a magazine, not sitting next to my kitchen, hidden out of the way.
I had to walk past them to get to the safety of my quiet private space. And it would take all my self-control to ignore the delicious eye candy.
“Kayla?”
I vaguely heard my name in the noise, but I didn’t register it at first.
I stared at the five men.
They probably had women approaching them all the time, and I wouldn’t have to wait for long to watch that happen.
Approaching men like that wasn’t in my skill set. Not me. Not frumpy Kayla, ready for a long night in the kitchen. Approaching four men wasn’t something I would do. Furthermore, men who each individually looked like bodybuilding competition finalists.
“Kayla, girl, are you there?”
A hand waved in front of my face, and I snapped out of my reverie. My father almost yelled to get my attention.
Looking at him after them brought on metaphorical whiplash. Not to say my father was some hideous beast, but he was a fiftyish, portly man with gray hair. And my father.
Whereas they were gods.
“Uh, what’s up, Dad?”
“We’ve gotten the first food orders in, so you don’t want to stand there daydreaming all night.”
“On it, Dad.” I sighed. I loved my dad, but I didn’t like him hanging around my place of work–even though he owned the Duck, he didn’t actually have a job there.
Back to work. And while he made it sound like a big deal, it really wasn’t. I’d done the pub kitchen gig for a thousand years, and I could do it with my eyes shut. And everything was prepped, ready to cook. But still, I took care not to mess up any orders. We didn’t want complaints due to sloppy complacency.
Evening drinkers had proved to love our onion rings, which were served at the three bars my dad owned. Made with the secret family batter recipe, they’d become a bit of a legend throughout Arlington, and it thrilled me to see such appreciation for the food I cooked. The onion rings even gained a mention in a newspaper review of our speed dating nights.
I hurried back into the kitchen, avoiding making eye contact with the fab five on the way. In my kitchen, I threw on my apron and prepared to get cooking.
I didn’t need to spend any longer than necessary in the front of house, where loved-up couples reminded me of all that I missed. At the age of twenty-six, I’d almost resigned to becoming a cat lady due to the lack of man-action in my life.