The next day, I dressed in my simple black server's uniform and went to work. I had a long shift from noon till 9 p.m. The Gilded Platter didn't open to the public until noon, but staff needed to be there earlier for prep polishing silver, folding napkins into stiff peaks and reviewing the daily specials we'd have to recite with rehearsed enthusiasm.
I pushed open the heavy back door to the kitchen entrance, the familiar, industrial scents of bleach, lemon sanitizer, and yesterday's roasted garlic hitting me like a wall. And there he was. Silas.
He was leaning by the dry storage, checking a clipboard. The moment his eyes lifted and landed on me, his face changed. The neutral, focused expression of a manager evaporated, replaced by a slow-building storm of pure, cold anger. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed.
My stomach dropped through the floor. I knew I was done for. He was either going to fire me on the spot or berate me until my ears rang and I wished he'd just fired me.
