Chapter Nine
The night of the oven malfunction,
everyone
went out for after-work drinks together. The crew had been through a lot. They had war stories to tell, tension to unwind, beers to quaff. A mood of weary solidarity prevailed among Gabriella’s people at the brewpub that night. The only one excluded from it was her.
Alone at an out-of-the-way table, she watched her staff crowd together, laughing, at a booth near the bar. Hypo pantomimed the antics he’d used to push out extra free garlic bread to Campania’s eager customers. Pinkie shared the tale of her latest brainstorm—offering shot-glass-size desserts gratis to the customers who waited longest for their pizzas. Scooter groused about having to wash all those “dinky glasses.” Bowser stood at the center of it all, the temporary hero of the night.
It had been his idea to call the owner of the bakery next door—which had been closed since 3 P.M. that afternoon—and beg for the use of their ovens. From there, it had been a matter of waiting for those ovens to heat to proper pizza-baking temps, then devising a way to deliver the pies hot from next door.
Unbelievably, the crew had pulled off a miracle.
Sure, Gabriella reflected as she morosely watched her friends, a few of their patrons had walked out, deciding not to wait any extra time. Portland was something of a pizza mecca. You could find a variety of pizzas within blocks, from coal-fired Neapolitan pies to unctuous Chicago deep-dish pies with extra mozzarella. In PDX, it wasn’t necessary to wait more than a few minutes to squash a pizza jones . . . although their regulars
had
waited. The tourists—crucial to her business—had not.
Eventually, one person separated from the group. Frosty. He lumbered toward her with a jovial smile, making Gabriella feel glad that she’d taken the time to bond with him a few days ago.
“Lucky break, huh?” Frosty cradled his IPA. “Bowser’s idea to use the bakery’s ovens was rad. We owe them big after this.”
Gabriella nodded. Seeing everyone together—except for her—made her feel doubly discouraged about the rebuilding job she’d taken on. Usually, everyone liked her. Usually, she could motivate a group. Usually, she could lead that group to victory. But now . . . Her leadership mojo seemed to have deserted her.
“Hey, you seem kind of down.” Wearing a concerned look, Frosty gestured toward a vacant chair. “Want some company?”
At his kindly voiced question, Gabriella nearly cried. She desperately wanted company. She also wanted to succeed. It meant so much to her that she save her family’s pizzerias. But everyone seemed to be betting against her. Even her own cousin.
Feeling her throat tighten up, Gabriella nodded. “Sure,” she croaked. Darn it. Those
were
tears in her eyes. She must really be nearing the end of her tether. The oven breakdown must have stressed her out more than she’d known. “Have a seat.”
Obligingly, Frosty pulled out a chair. Like the macho former college linebacker he was, he turned it around, then straddled it. Propping his forearms on the chair’s back, he smiled at her like an overgrown, tongue-lolling, tail-wagging puppy. No matter what, Frosty was exactly who he seemed to be.
Unlike her. Right now, she felt like an outcast. Being in charge was one thing. Being ostracized was another. It hurt.
Worse, Gabriella had no idea what to do about it.
“Man, everybody really pulled together today, didn’t they?” Frosty shook his head in wonderment. “It was
so
cool.”
They
had
pulled together. Gabriella wished she’d done more.
She spied Shane across the brewpub. He smiled at her.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so stupidly sexed up when the emergency had struck, she’d have reacted better, she mused. Maybe if she hadn’t felt so boneless and satisfied, she’d have excelled today, the way she expected herself to excel.
She
would have been the one who’d called the bakery, the one who’d rushed out garlic bread, the one who’d proffered free mini desserts.
On the other hand . . . she’d gotten away with her liaison with Shane. Nobody had found out about it. No one suspected a thing.
That was going to make it doubly hard to resist next time.
Unless the oven malfunction had been some sort of punishment for her loss of control. It was tempting to think so....
“I didn’t think Emeril would be able to pull so many pizzas off the make line and get them next door so fast,” Frosty was saying, casting her an amiable look. “It was
awesome
.”
Gabriella looked at him. She couldn’t help liking him.
“You did a good job, too,” she said. “Without your quick thinking, turning that proofing rack into a wheeled transport between Campania and the bakery, we would have fallen even more behind tonight. Thanks for working so hard, Frosty.”
Shyly, he ducked his head. “You’re welcome, boss.”
“I swear, if another disaster strikes, I don’t know how I’m going to get through it.” Gabriella gulped down some Black Butte Porter, watching Shane circulate among her crew. He slapped Hypo on the back in congratulations. He laughed at one of Scooter’s jokes. She returned her attention to Frosty, feeling grateful for his support. “I’m skating on pretty thin ice here.”
“Nah. You look strong enough to handle it.”
“I dunno. Even strong people have their breaking points.”
Commiseratingly, Frosty smiled at her. “Not you, I bet. I mean, look at all you’ve done! You’ve kept Campania going with a totally in-and-out crew. You’ve maintained a menu that Portlanders of all ages love.” He grinned. “You’ve even avoided ‘accidentally’ stabbing Jeremy with Buster.”
Wanly, Gabriella smiled. Buster was her chef’s knife. Most restaurant workers maintained their own gear. They schlepped their knife kits from job to job like the essentials they were.
“Blood is
very
tough to get out of fifty-five-year-old linoleum,” Gabriella joked. “Besides, Jeremy’s not so bad.”
Her most recently hired server had to have some good qualities, she reasoned. He’d come very highly recommended.
He still didn’t like
her
, though. Even now, Jeremy gave her an arched look from his place at the bar—then deliberately snubbed her by turning his back to her. His inexplicable meanness hurt.
Jeremy hadn’t been bruised by her leaving for Astoria.
“Are you kidding me?” Frosty asked. “Jeremy is pushy, judgmental, and totally addicted to gambling. Yesterday, he bet Jen that he could refill salt and pepper shakers faster than her.”
Jen
. Judging by that fond pet name, Frosty’s fling with Jennifer was still going strong. That was nice for them.
“Did Jennifer take the bet?”
Smugly, Frosty nodded. “My girl’s got mad setup skills. She won ten bucks from that twerp. Like taking candy from a baby.”
Gabriella couldn’t help smiling. “You don’t like him?”
“Hey, I like everybody.” Magnanimously, Frosty spread his arms to the sides. “Until they give me a reason not to.”
“What did Jeremy do to you?”
“It’s what he did to
you
that bugs me. He’s a complete jackass to you, when all you’re trying to do is get a job done.”
His loyalty touched her. Gabriella was glad she’d run into Frosty after-hours that night at Campania. It seemed she’d made herself a lifelong ally when she’d taken the time to encourage him.
“Thanks, Frosty.” She touched his arm. “But you don’t have to hold a grudge against Jeremy because of me. I want everyone to get along. I’m not
that
fragile. I’m okay.”
For now
.
He looked closely at her. “Are you sure? Because those look like tears in your eyes. Maybe it’s the bad light in here—”
“It’s
totally
the bad light in here.” Caught, Gabriella sniffled. She laughed. Frosty’s kindness was bringing out the vulnerability in her. That was the last thing she wanted. “I might be bent by a temporary mishap like the oven malfunction, but I’m not broken. It’ll take a
lot
more than that to stop me.”
For a long moment, Frosty only looked at her. Then, “Wow. That’s impressive. Looking at you, anyone would think you’d be ready to quit by now. You’re no bigger than a june bug—”
Gabriella burst into laughter. “Is that a Southern twang in your voice? I could swear I detect a Kentucky-fried accent.”
“—and you’ve been through a lot already,” Frosty continued, now sounding conspicuously
not
like someone out of
The Dukes of Hazzard
. “Nobody would blame you for throwing in the towel.”
She must have imagined that soft Southern lilt to his voice, because she’d never noticed it before now. It was pretty loud in the brewpub, too. “I might not be six feet tall with bulging muscles—” Here, Gabriella couldn’t help glancing over at Shane again. Now he was talking with Pinkie. “—but I have an iron will. I never quit. That’s why I’m still standing.”
Frosty nodded, seeming impressed. But from behind him . . .
“You’re still standing,” Shane said, “because you have a lot of help to keep you from falling down.” He came into view, lit by one of the brewpub’s golden-tinged spotlights like a star coming onto a stage, wearing a button-down shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. “Come on. It’s about time you said so.”
Shane held out his hand, giving her a “come on” gesture.
Unfortunately, to Gabriella, that gesture was now forever associated with getting naked, getting together, and getting hot—preferably (but not mandatorily) someplace comfortable and private. On Shane’s dining table. On his rug. In his bed. In his shower. In her office. Maybe other places to come. Didn’t Shane know what kind of sexy associations she’d built with him?
Probably not, it occurred to her. It had only been four days. At the rate they were going, they’d be married by May.
“Said what?” she asked, forcing herself back to the matter at hand. The brewpub’s patrons mobbed around her, laughing and drinking. Across the table, Frosty glanced at her curiously.
Shane gave Frosty an agreeable nod, then returned to Gabriella. “Said how much you appreciate your crew. Said how you couldn’t have gotten along without them today. Said
thank you
.”
“I don’t have to say thank you.”
Especially when it might call attention to how I dropped the ball today
. “I’m their boss.”
“Everyone likes to hear thank you.”
“I already said thank you,” Gabriella insisted. She downed more porter. “During service. I was expeditor. I said thank you.”
“As pies were being served, sure.” Patiently, Shane waited for her. His beard stubble had grown out over the course of the day. He looked like a delectable mop-wielding lumberjack, out for a fun night of forced appreciation. “But not afterward.”
Exasperated, Gabriella glanced behind Shane. At their booth and at the bar, her crew stared straight back at her. As one, they caught her looking. They all jolted, startled, then busily went back to . . . looking busy. Huh? What was going on here?
“The only person who’s even come over to my table tonight is Frosty.” With dignity, Gabriella nodded at him. “Everybody else stayed away. They didn’t even invite me to come here for after-work drinks! I pushed my way in, the same way I’ve been doing all week. At least
I’m
trying to be friendly.”
“No, you’re not.
You’re
infiltrating,” Shane told her. “It’s not the same thing. Just come and say thank you.”
As he said it, Shane seemed peculiarly . . . self-conscious. But that impression faded quickly, burst apart by Gabriella’s rising indignation. “No. I won’t. Whose side are you on, anyway?”
Because I thought it was mine
, Gabriella wanted to say. She stopped herself just in time, but Shane caught her meaningful look anyway—and it seemed to force him to recall all the
very
intimate,
very
personal things they’d shared only hours ago in her office. Uneasily, he shifted. He glanced over his shoulder.
It became suddenly obvious to Gabriella that Shane didn’t want anyone to know they were involved. That’s why he’d stayed away from her tonight. That’s why he hadn’t touched her again.
The realization hurt. Maybe Shane didn’t want to be linked with her, now that she was becoming a stressed-out screwup at work.
No, that was silly, Gabriella told herself. She was going to be
fine
. Just as soon as she figured this out. On her own.
God knew nobody wanted to help her. She gulped more porter.
“I’m on your side,” Shane said patiently, frowning as she drank. “
And
I’m on Campania’s side. If we’re going to succeed—”
“Oh, so now we’re a ‘we’?”
“—we’re going to need a lot less stubborn defensiveness.”
It was, practically to a word, what Pinkie had said to her.
“I’m not stubborn.” Gabriella crossed her arms. “I’m not defensive, either! I’m persistent and passionate.”
“That’s right!” Frosty broke in. “Screw those losers!”
He held out his IPA in one beefy hand, augmenting his earnest defense of her with a toast. Gamely raising her bottle of porter, Gabriella felt herself on the brink of . . . something.
Her friends weren’t losers. She couldn’t do this.
“Sorry, Frosty.” She lowered her bottle. “That’s sweet of you, but Shane is right. I have my pride, but this time it’s holding me back. I need to try harder. There’s a lot at stake.”
“You’re
already
trying harder! You just said—”
“That I’m at my breaking point. I know.” Acknowledging that, Gabriella nodded. She glanced at Shane, feeling a wave of heartfelt (if silent and secret) approval course from him to her. “But if this is
that
important to me that I’d drive myself to the brink of exhaustion for it, shouldn’t I try everything?”