Silas scans me closer. “Are you sure? You haven’t been auditioning in town lately?”
Thankfully, Tanya’s booming laughter saves me from coming up with an answer. “She’s no actress, Silas. Trust me. We’re still trying to see if she can hack it as a waitress.”
How the hell Tanya feels like she knows me well enough to make that statement, I have no idea, but I’m ready to hug her for it.
To firmly close out this line of questioning, I add, “I’m just one of those people with a familiar face. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m happy to take your order when you’ve made a lunch selection.”
Tanya’s laughter fades to a pointed look. She’s probably pissed that I’m stepping on her toes by offering to take his order, but I’ll risk her anger to kill this conversation.
“Salmon Caesar salad, no cheese, no croutons, dressing on the side. Basically, boring as fuck, but that’s the price of playing a superhero, I guess. A bottle of still water as well, please.”
“I can’t wait to see the movie,” Tanya says, regaining control of the encounter. “We’ll have your lunch out to you in a moment, and I’ll let Matteo know that you’ll be using your regular room when you finish eating.”
Silas’s attention still splits between us. “Thanks, ladies. Nice to meet you, Drew.”
As we walk away from the table, Tanya makes a beeline for the kitchen, not stopping until we slip inside the doors. She turns her icy blue eyes on me as her fingers latch onto my wrist like a cuff. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop. This is one of the only places in this city where Silas can escape from the fawning fans, not another place where he has to beon.”
Everything in me wants to protest that I don’t give a fuck about Silas Bohannon, but that would only invite more questions.
“Understood?”
Tanya’s gaze is sharp enough to wound as her nails dig into my skin. And I know it’s now or never, if I want to be treated with even a modicum of respect by this woman.
“I don’t know what the hell your problem is with me, Tanya, but I’m here to work. Nothing else. Now I’m asking you respectfully to remove your hand from my person before I make you.” My stone-cold tone leaves absolutely no question about how serious I am.
With a huff and gritted teeth, Tanya drops my wrist. “You’re here because you want something this place can offer. That’s why they all try to get jobs here. Easy access to rich men to pay for your life in exchange for a little suck and fuck in return. Or maybe you’re out to try to get Cannon’s attention. Well, guess what? He’s off-limits. Won’t fucking touch you, even if you laid out naked on the bar and spread your legs for him. Got it?”
Squaring my shoulders, I stare her down with the colored contacts turning my eyes from aquamarine to brown, and lie my ass off. “I’m here for a steady job and paycheck. That’s it. End of story.”
Tanya’s eyes narrow until her glare is piercing enough to impale. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe, but here’s one thing you can take to the bank—I don’t want your boss in my bed. There’s no need to piss on your territory to scare me off. Now, if you’re done lifting your leg, let’s get back to work.” I straighten my shirt cuffs and lift my chin high, all under Tanya’s continued glare.
“I don’t like you, and that means you won’t last. Now go place Silas’s order with the chef and don’t fuck it up. Actually, do. Because I’d love to have a reason to fire you on your first day.”
When she stomps out of the kitchen, all I can think isWell, hell. I probably should have handled that better.
* * *
Thankfully,training with Matteo, an older Cuban man with an inky black widow’s peak and gray frosting his temples, who I learn is Letty’s uncle, takes me away from Tanya’s rancid attitude for the next three hours. Inside the large glassed-in room, he assesses my knowledge of cigars, which he deems adequate, and I have my father to thank for that.
Dad always indulged himself with a smoke on the back deck at night after dinner. That’s when he lit a fire in me about becoming an investigative reporter, and taught me the things he didn’t think young journalists knew well enough when they got started in his world.
How to be objective. How to look for the right perspective. How to be unbiased and always focus on finding the truth, not only looking for evidence that supported the conclusion you thought would be right. Keeping an open mind when your investigation took a different turn than you expected, because there was nothing worse than twisting the facts into something other than what they were.
Then he’d tap the ashes in the ceramic dish he hid from Mother and press one finger to his lips to remind me that this was all our secret. As if I’d ever tattle on my old man. No, I soaked up every word out of his mouth like a sponge. There was never a chance of any other career for me. I wanted to grow up to be just like Dad.
“Before we wrap things up, we must talk about the most difficult and yet simple part of your job.”
Dragging myself back to the present and away from those cherished memories, I lift my gaze from the lid of a box of Cohibas to meet Matteo’s ruddy-cheeked expression.
“What’s that?”
“The art of the upsell.” He waves his hand at the left side of the room, where glass-fronted humidors contain box after box of cigars on angled shelves that allow for maximum visibility. “That is where we keep our most expensive inventory, each cigar more precious than the last. Make no mistake, if the fire alarm were ever to sound, we get the cigars out before we leave. They are like my children, you see?” His voice carries the exotic lilt of Cuba as he waves with a flourish at the boxes.
I take a step closer and scan the labels. “Which one is the most expensive?”
He shifts to the center glass case and points at a box cradling the artfully rolled cigars. “It is not necessarily the brand or the name that makes a cigar expensive. Sometimes it is the story behind it, and the rarity. These were made by Fidel Castro’s personal cigar roller. They are nearly impossible to find anymore.”