“That stupid.” Wylie’s mouth twisted. “He was swirling a pan of oil—and his phone rang.”

She knew the outcome, oh yeah. “Swirled the oil right over his hand?”

“Bingo. He’d already been warned twice that phones aren’t allowed in the kitchen. Guess he figured the rules didn’t apply to him.” The chef looked toward the kitchen. “I need to get back. Can you help?”

“But…my job here?” She gestured toward the bar.

“We’ll move one of the restaurant staff over to take your place. Aside from Bull, you’re the only one here who’s worked the line before. Can’t spare him—the bar’s crazy tonight.”

True enough. Raymond wouldn’t be able to keep up with mixing drinks by himself. “Sure, I’ll come play in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Frankie. We really appreciate this.” He motioned to a slender young man waiting by the hostess stand. “Give Easton your drink orders and come on back.”

Two hours later, Frankie heard Wylie announce the restaurant was closing and the cooks should finish the last orders, do their shut down and clean-up.

Madonna, thank you.

Wylie grinned at Frankie. “You did great. Want to switch jobs and join us here?”

She was overheated; her head itched under the cap, and oil had impregnated her skin. There was a painful red line on her arm—oven door—and stinging blisters on the back of her hand—duck meets hot oil.

Cooking wasn’t for wussies. Yet she’d had a good time. Feeding people made her happy.

So did serving, and she needed to be out where she could meet any Patriot Zealots. “I’ll stick to being a server. But for emergencies like this? I’m your girl.”

“Got it. We won’t abuse your good nature, but it’s good to know who to call in case of trouble. Thank you.”

“Sure.” She started shutting down the grill. “You know, I bet Italian food would be popular here, or even an Italian theme night.”

“Italian? God, I love lasagna.” He scratched his cheek. “I’m all for changing things up. You should talk to the boss about it.”

Wait, what? “Ah…no. It was just a thought.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “You know, it took me a day or two to realize you weren’t the boss.”

“God forbid.” He guffawed. “I just help out with hiring until Bull gets off his ass and finds us a manager.”

“Ah, but you rule the kitchen. I think chefs are probably far above bosses.”

“I so agree.” Wylie’s grin was wicked.

Smiling, Frankie turned to get cleaning supplies and ran right into Bull. Her breasts, then her head bounced off his very solid body. “Oomph!”

She tottered back.

“Steady now.” His giant hands curled around her upper arms to hold her up. “Are you all right?” His deep voice rumbled in his chest.