“Don’t drip into the sauce, Alejandro.” Marina dabbed a towel over her face and sighed.
In Pastry, Rick’s face shone like a deformed beet on steroids, ready to split and explode. He cleared his throat and hopped from side to side. “Stop dancing, Rick,” she snapped. “Or have you something to tell us?”
The pastry chef glared at her and set down the water bottle. “I need to take a walk.” Guffaws and laughter sent him sprinting.
“Don’t forget to wash your ha-ands,” a girly voice offered.
“Back to work, gang.”
“When is the air-conditioning repair coming?” The busboy slinked into the kitchen. “You think this is hot, try the restaurant. Customers’ brains must be parboiled— they’re skipping dessert.” He smirked at Rick’s return.
“And ours are barbecued. Two more hours troops. Chop, chop,” Marina scolded benignly.Rick tossed his hat.
“Don’t you dare…”
“Kiss my a**.”
“Sure thing, sugar.”
~ * ~