by Gracie Leigh
If there was, it was faulty. How else did he think she’d wound up penniless in his crappy café?
She shoved her empty plate away, narrowly avoiding her Prada handbag. It took a moment, but as she eyed the bag, her real leather diary, and her Visconti pen, the proverbial penny finally dropped. With her designer gear spread out on the plastic table, her soggy silk dress, and her ruined Manolo Blahniks, to Mr. Nowak, she probably looked like a half-drowned vapid rich girl who’d forgotten her platinum credit card.
And how wrong was he?
The longer she sat there with a full stomach and an empty purse, the urge to find out only grew. Eddie scanned the café, which by now had a handful of customers, and a sign above a wooden blackboard caught her eye. Help Wanted, with a phone number and a note to call Sam Nowak underneath.
Bugger that. I can see him from here. Eddie pushed her chair back with a screech of metal on tile and picked up her plate. She strode to the counter where Mr. Nowak seemed to be cooking enough bacon for a small army. “Thank you for my breakfast. I want to work for you in return.”
The mirth in Mr. Nowak’s eyes remained. “I told you, missy. I don’t need your help.”
“Oh, but you do.” Eddie turned and pointed to the sign. “It says right there that you’re looking for help.”
“I’m looking for someone to clean tables, load the dishwasher, and make tea. You want to do that?”
“Yes.”
“Really? Because I’ve got no time for people who don’t want to do real work.”
“I want to work. I need to work.”
“Why?”
Eddie gritted her teeth. “Why does anyone work? I need the bloody money.”
Mr. Nowak eyed her a moment, then banged two plates of fried breakfast on the countertop, smirking as Eddie jumped. “You want to work? Take these to table four.”
He shuffled back to the grill without another word. Eddie stared at the plates like they had horns, and time seemed to slow to an animated crawl as she picked them up and scanned the café, searching for any sign of table four.
There were no numbers on the tables. Pride kept her from asking Mr. Nowak, and so she stepped forward, trying to apply some logical thought to the problem. But logic had never been her strong point. She’d once dropped her tinsel halo in her primary school nativity play. It had landed at her feet, but rather than pick it up, she’d sat on the floor and cried, and not much had changed since.
But she wouldn’t cry now—not with Mr. Nowak at her back and her hands full of greasy fried breakfast. She stepped forward, analysing the tables that had customers at them. Most were construction workers and tradesmen, clad in dusty overalls and heavy boots, and were already eating. Only one table had nothing in front of them.
Eddie took a deep breath and carried the plates to the men, who glanced up with interest that was likely more for the steaming food than for her. “Table four?”
They nodded. She set the plates down and in a last second flash of inspiration, grabbed a nearby tray of cutlery and condiments. She placed it carefully on the table and picked up an empty tea mug. “Refill?”
The man nearest her nodded. “Please.”
“No problem. Enjoy your meal.”
She strode back to the counter and thrust the mug at Mr. Nowak, who appeared to have watched the whole exchange. “He wants more tea. Now can I have that job, or what?”
Chapter Three
An hour later, Eddie finally left the café. Mr. Nowak had agreed to employ her on a trial basis, but not, apparently, in a soggy silk dress.
“Come back tomorrow in something that doesn’t cost as much as my car.”
Fair enough, though Eddie had no idea what kind of car the old man drove. In fact, she had no idea of much at all, and as she stepped out into the by now bustling Vauxhall street, the high of her small victory with Mr. Nowak abruptly wore off. Yes, she had a job, but without knowing exactly how much money she’d need for the next two years, would a minimum wage job in a greasy spoon café be enough?
Somehow, she doubted it, and the ridiculousness of the last twenty-four hours hit her like a stone. What on earth am I—
A shower of dirty water splashed up Eddie’s dress as a car threw itself into the parking space beside her. Or rather, it was thrown into the space by the feral hood rat driving it. “Hey!” Eddie banged on the window. “Watch what you’re doing!”
The man behind the wheel lowered the window, and Eddie’s temper abruptly cooled as the stupidity of what she’d just done hit home. This was London. You didn’t screech at hooded young men in cars, no matter how idiotic their driving.
She backed away from the car, much to the apparent amusement of the man, who abandoned his attempt to communicate through the window and got out, unfolding his tall frame from the driver’s seat and coming around the back to stop right in front of Eddie. “You got a problem, missy?”
She’d spent all morning with Mr. Nowak addressing her as “missy” and hadn’t batted an eye, but hearing it from a young man in ripped jeans and a tatty hoodie reignited the rage her initial fear of him had quelled. “Missy? I’m not a bloody horse, and yes, I do have a problem. You sprayed water all over me by driving like an arsehole.”
The man stared down at her, treating her to a pair of deep brown eyes that were utterly hypnotising. “I wasn’t driving like an arsehole. I was just driving. It’s not my fault the roads are wet. You shouldn’t stand so close to the edge.”
“To the edge?” Eddie’s voice rose dangerously. “I’m not exactly on a river bank, am I?”
“No? Coulda fooled me.” The man winked and turned away and disappeared into the hum of the busy city streets, whistling to himself, Eddie apparently—and instantly—forgotten.
She had half a mind to follow him, but with the fresh shower of dirty water, all she could think of was a hot shower, fluffy towels, and her own bed.
Leaving her rage behind, she admitted defeat and went home. Ten minutes later, she let herself into her ground floor garden flat. Exhausted, she shut the front door behind her, hoping to slip past Martha, her perpetually cheerful flatmate, and fall into bed, crawling under her duvet with a mind to staying there until the real world went away.
“Eddie!”
Damn it. Eddie forced a smile as Martha danced out of the kitchen, coffee in hand, and not hair out of place, like she’d been up and functioning for hours. She probably had. Martha’s tendency to rise early and be in bed by nine was one of the reasons she was such a good flatmate. Close as they were, half the time, Eddie never saw her, which made her appearance now all the harder to bear. “Morning. Sleep well?”
Martha frowned. “It’s eight o’clock, Eddie. Ian’s woke me at the crack of dawn. Where on earth have you been?”
Ian. Shit. In all the excitement of Jimmy’s café, Eddie had forgotten all about him. “What did he say?”
“That you’d turned up all upset at his place, and then left in the middle of the night. He didn’t sound too concerned, but I was all for calling the police.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“No. Your dad said not to.”
“My dad?” Jesus Christ, this just got better. “Who called him?”
“I did. I was worried, Eddie. It’s not like you to go off on your own. Is everything okay?”
Martha stepped into Eddie’s space, her earnest gaze swimming with the empathy Ian had lacked, and the dam finally broke.
Eddie dropped her bag on the floor and covered her face with her hands. “My dad’s bankrupt, Martha. He’s lost everything.”
Martha gasped and pulled Eddie into a clumsy hug that was everything and nothing that she needed, all at once. “Oh God, Eddie. That’s awful. What’s he going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Eddie wailed into Martha’s cashmere jumper, “but he called me yesterday to tell me he’s cutting me off.”
“Cutting you off?”
Sniffing, Eddie raised her head. “Yes. He can’t pay my ren
t anymore, and after this term, he can’t pay my tuition either.”
Colour drained from Martha’s face, and for a moment they simply stared at each other before Martha seemed to snap back to reality. “Right. Go and get changed while I make some hot chocolate. There must be something we can do.”
Eddie doubted it, but she’d run out of energy to argue. She drifted to her room and dumped her dress in the washing basket, swapping it for pyjamas and the slippers she usually wore at Christmas. On the floor, her ruined sheet music poked out the top of her handbag. She retrieved it and spread it on her bed—perhaps a futile gesture, but she had to practice Beethoven’s Ninth if she had any hope of making the first violin section for this year’s summer proms, and time was running out.
Despite Mr. Nowak’s breakfast still heavy in her belly, the scent of warm chocolate drew her out of her bedroom. In the living room, she found Martha setting out cocoa and cookies, and Eddie’s much-neglected laptop. The sight of it reminded her that she still had her final essay to complete for her sonic arts class, but she silenced that particular crisis for now. Jesus…one meltdown at a time.
“Is your dad officially bankrupt?” Martha asked. “Because there’s some bursaries you can’t apply for unless you have no means of support elsewhere.”
“He’s cut me off,” Eddie said dully. “How much more official do they need?”
A lot more official, apparently, as Eddie discovered when she and Martha trawled the websites offering student grants and bursaries.
“What about this one?” Martha’s tone was hopeful.
Eddie shook her head. “It says my parents need to be ‘in receipt of tax credits.’ What does that even mean?”
Martha didn’t know, and with no answer forthcoming on the website, Eddie shut it down. “I’ll have to get a loan. They cover tuition, right?”
“It depends which one you get. All students are entitled to a student loan, but Eddie, the rent on this place is—”
“I know, I know…three hundred quid a week. My dad told me yesterday.”
“It’s not just that,” Martha said. “This place has three bedrooms, remember? A hardship bursary won’t pay for that, so we’ll have to move if you can’t pay the rent.”
It was nice of Martha to say “we,” but Eddie wasn’t convinced. Martha had been born with the same silver spoon that Eddie had, and there was no doubt that her father would plug any gap that Eddie left behind. Besides, they’d rented the garden flat so they could use the tiny box room for practice—Eddie on her Stradivariusus violin, and Martha on her flute and classical guitar. To move to a smaller place and have to use her bedroom was unthinkable. “We can’t move. I’ll make it work, I promise. I already got a job.”
“A job? That’s great. Where is it? At the concert hall, or something? I heard they were looking for people.”
“It’s at, er, a restaurant, actually…early mornings and late nights. It’s not much, but it should pay what’s left of the rent after the loan comes in.”
“If you get a loan.” Martha’s scepticism was clear. “How many hours a week is the job? Are you sure you’ve got time for it?”
Eddie wasn’t sure of anything, but she forced the most carefree smile she could muster and reached for a cookie. “It’s about forty hours a week, but the place is quiet. With any luck, I can take my uni work with me and do it while I’m there. Honestly, I think it’s all going to be fine. Lots of students work while they study. How hard can it be?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
“Indeed.” But as Eddie sipped her cocoa and ate her way through Martha’s cookies, her mind drifted from her current woes and instead settled on the obnoxious stranger from outside the café—and his molten dark eyes and tight jeans. Even his sneer had been arresting, though it still made Eddie’s blood boil.
Animal, she fumed. I hope I never see him again.
The trouble with hoping was that it was usually based on something that was likely to happen—a sad fact that Eddie discovered when she showed up for her first shift at Jimmy’s Café the very next morning. “You?”
Amused coal-dark eyes twinkled back at her. “Yep. Last time I checked, I was definitely me.”
Eddie opened her mouth. Shut it again. It was five-thirty in the morning. She had to be seeing things, because there was no other plausible explanation for the apparition of smug handsomeness standing in the kitchen of Mr. Nowak’s café. Damn. In tight jeans and a wrinkled white tee, eyes slightly hooded with the air of someone who’d barely woken up, the git was even more gorgeous than when he’d sprayed water up her legs the previous day. “You shouldn’t be here. We’re not open yet.”
“Oh no? Says who?”
“Says the boss. And the sign. Look. We don’t open till six.”
“So what are you doing here? Getting a jump start on your bacon fix?”
“No, actually.” Eddie smoothed her hair in an effort to appear poised and controlled—a tall order with Mr. Smug smirking down at her. “I work here, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Nowak wouldn’t want the local riffraff hanging around his kitchen, so I suggest you leave.”
“Mr. Nowak, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s who you work for?”
“Yes.” Eddie had a flash of inspiration and remembered the Help Wanted sign. “Sam Nowak, and he’ll be here any minute.”
“Any minute?”
“Yes.”
“Sam Nowak?”
“Yes.”
The impostor in the kitchen laughed, and in any other circumstances, in any other man, the sound would’ve been glorious—deep and rich. “Dear God. Pops promised he’d take someone on, but he never said it would be some prissy rich kid. Jesus Christ. Are you serious?”
Eddie prickled indignantly. “Excuse me?”
The man sighed. “Okay, lady…listen to me. The joke’s over. I don’t care what you’re trying to pull, but I haven’t got time for this shit. I’ve got a kitchen to run. Scram, will ya? While I’ve still got my sense of humour.”
“What?”
“You heard. Get the fuck out.”
Eddie had heard all right, but as the words filtered through the hypnotic haze the tall, dark, annoyingly handsome stranger cast on her, they made no sense. “You’re telling me to get out?”
“Yes.”
“Of your kitchen?”
“Yes.” Mr. Smug walked past her and out into the café. He jabbed the Help Wanted sign with a long, elegant finger. “My sign, my writing, my name. I run this place, so if you really want to stay and work, you’ll be working for me. If that’s a problem, then sod off. If not, dump your fancy stuff in the staff room and be ready in five.”
Eddie threw her least favourite handbag into a battered locker with a satisfying thump, grumbling under her breath. Of all the cafés he could’ve worked at, it just had to be this one, didn’t it?
Of course it did. The way her luck had gone the last thirty-six hours, it couldn’t have been anywhere else. And that smirk. God, she’d wanted to slap it right off his smug face, even when his humour had morphed into a bored irritation. Especially when that had happened. Sam Nowak was an arrogant arsehole, and he clearly thought Eddie a weak and useless little woman.
Well, she’d show him…at least, she would when he’d shown her what the hell she was supposed to do.
Resolved, she thrust her coat into the locker and slammed it shut. Then she went back to the café and found Sam oiling the huge flat grill by the service counter. “What do you need me to do?”
Sam glanced over his shoulder. “Still here then?”
“Of course I’m still here,” Eddie gritted out. “I work here. Now what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to piss off, but as that’s unlikely to happen, you can go round and fill up the sauce bottles.”
“The sauce bottles?”
“Yes. Ketchup. HP. It’s all in the dry store.”
“Which is where?”
“
Behind you, in the kitchen.”
“Oh.” Eddie retreated to a door she hadn’t noticed until now and retrieved giant bottles of ketchup and HP sauce from a store cupboard. She took them out to the café and eyed the many smaller bottles dotted around. Right. Fill them up. How hard can that be?
Not very, as it turned out, if she ignored the half-gallon she spilled on the tables. She was wiping up the last of the mess when Sam appeared at the counter.
“Spill it?”
“Only a bit. No harm done.”
“Says you. It ain’t your stock.”
“Not yours either. It says Artur Nowak above the door. That’s not you, is it?”
“No,” Sam said steadily. “That’s my grandfather. He owns the place, but he’s eighty-three. Who do you think does the leg work?”
“Not the point,” Eddie said, trying not to crow. “I’m just saying you aren’t really the boss. Mr. Nowak is.”
“I’m the boss of you,” Sam countered. “And I’m the boss when Pops isn’t here, which is six mornings out of seven, and most evenings until nine, so either way, I’m still in charge. Are you done with those bottles?”
Eddie’s small victory faded like it had never been there at all. She gathered her giant condiment bottles and nodded. “Yup. What’s next?”
“Mushrooms. Follow me.”
Sam led Eddie into the kitchen and to a row of brightly coloured chopping boards. “Use the dark green one for mushrooms. Light green for any washed fruit and veg. Same for the knives.”
“Bit pernickety, isn’t it? Colour coding your knives?”
Sam treated Eddie to a withering glare. “It’s the law, actually, smart arse, so do as you’re told, unless you want EHO to walk in here and shut us down.”
Heat flushed Eddie’s cheeks. She turned away from Sam and picked up the nearest dark green-handled knife. “Okay, okay, I was only joking. Do you want me to chop all those mushrooms?”
The wide, shallow box next to the technicolour chopping boards held more mushrooms than she’d ever seen. Sam came up behind her and reached over her shoulder. “Not the tiddlers. Anything smaller than these ones, leave ’em whole. Got it?”