Her mouth tightened. Mama’s lecture last week was akin to one she’d delivered when Frankie was little and had skipped dance class to get ice cream with a friend. How she’d hated dance classes. Mama said dance taught the posture and grace needed for modeling, something else Frankie hadn’t wanted. Even as a child, she’d considered it to be a boring job.

Her mother hadn’t listened until two bullies messed up Frankie’s face. What with Mama’s horror of scars and her father’s intervention, she’d been allowed to take martial arts instead of dance.

What would it take to convince her mother to listen to her?

Pushing the unhappy thoughts away, Frankie smiled at the next table of tourists. “How was your meal today?”

This might be her favorite part of the job. Or maybe it was figuring out the scheduling software and talking to the staff, so everyone was 90% satisfied with their time on and off. One hundred percent wasn’t achievable—life happened—but from the happy smiles when people saw the schedules, she’d done better than Bull. It helped that everyone was willing to talk to her and make requests. No matter how friendly and reasonable, Bull really was intimidating, even without adding in that he was the owner.

Since she had control of the schedule, she’d assigned herself the hours she wanted to work in the bar—her best chance to talk to the Patriot Zealots. It’d almost been two weeks since their lockdown started. Surely their training exercises were done.

In between her quality assurance visits with the customers, she arbitrated a dispute over cooking responsibilities on the line, arranged to get Wylie a cabled cooking probe, and indulged herself by ordering candle holders that would be amazing for the romantic theme nights. Whether Bull realized it or not, Italian night was going to be the time townspeople brought their special someones here for romantic dinners.

By the time the restaurant started to close, her feet hurt—and she was still happy. Pulling off her name badge—the one that said MANAGER—she stopped beside Wylie who was shutting equipment down. “I’m off to work in the bar for a while.”

He frowned. “Bouncing back and forth between jobs isn’t healthy. Bull shouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“He didn’t.” Frankie smiled at the wave of sound coming from the bar section. “I like working in the bar.”

“Jesus, girl, you’re as crazy as he is. First, the owner wants to be a bartender, now, the manager wants to serve drinks?”

“My dear chef, I’ve decided all you Alaskans are crazy—and since I live here now, I’m embracing that mindset.”

The rest of the kitchen staff burst out laughing.