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hell out of my kitchen.”
    Oh, it’s
your
kitchen now, is it?
I thought, and backed out of the doors, holding the water bottle and bread basket, stopping at the coffee station to ready a plate and a tea bag. It was a little frightening how easily I’d fallen back into my old routine.
    I set the water and bread down in front of my customer. “Here you go. Hot water’s coming up.”
    Parisi waved his hand. “No bread.” Then he looked up at me with a sly grin. “How does it feel to be serving a ‘pasta-tute’? Bet they don’t come in here every day.”
    Do not engage, Vic
. “We take good care of all our customers, Mr. Parisi.” I picked up the basket and turned to go.
    â€œThen maybe you can bring me my hot water, Ms. Reed,” he said from behind me.
    I fought the temptation to answer him and headed back to the kitchen, where I filled a metal tea carafe with shaking hands.
    When I brought the tea things back to his table, he emptied a packet of sweetener into his cup and pointed. “Water, please.” As I poured his hot water, he winked at me. “Surprised you there, didn’t I,
Vick Reed
? Though I don’t know why you should be—your mug’s on the back of all your books.” He dunked his tea bag vigorously. “I do read, you know.”
    â€œI’m sure you do.” I held up the carafe. “Would you like me to leave this?”
    â€œNah, you can take it. Where’s that salad?”
    â€œIt’ll be right up,” I said through my teeth.
    â€œHey, it’s a shame about that HBO deal!” he yelled to my retreating back.
    Back in the kitchen, I took a deep breath and washed my hands. Neither Mr. Biaggio nor my temperamental chef was anywhere to be found. But there was a telltale smell of burning chicken and smoke drifting inside the open door. Apparently, Tim defined well done as “charred.” But the salad was ready on the counter, so I took a small gravy boat and filled it with house dressing. While I waited for the chicken, I peeked through the kitchen doors at our guest, who was occupied with his phone. I pulled my head back inside before he could see me.
C’mon, Tim. Bring me the chicken already. This guy’s not the patient type.
A few minutes later, Tim walked in; without a word, he dumped the blackened chicken pieces on top of the salad.
    â€œThanks, chef!” I called as he slammed out the back door.
    I looked down at the unappetizing sight, but when I brought it out to Parisi, he dug right in.
    â€œIs there anything else?” I asked.
    â€œNot at the moment.” He shoveled a load of salad into his mouth, his thick lips glistening with dressing, then followed that up with a loud slurp of tea. If I stood there any longer, I’d be in danger of losing those two pieces of pizza I’d had for lunch. “By the way,” he said, shaking his fork at me and talking through a mouthful of food, “I don’t know what you people are so damn upset about. Your mayor’s on board, and I think your town council will be, too. You might as well get used to the idea that we’ll be filming here.” He opened his water bottle and poured a full glass. “You know the amount of business my show would bring you?” When I didn’t answer, he tried another tack. “Or . . . the amount of business it could
cost
you?”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.” But I was pretty sure I did.
    â€œWell, all it would take is for one of the kids to say—on camera, of course—how bad the food is here.” He took another sip of tea and grimaced. After another sip, he folded his hands on the table and looked up at me. “How busy do you think you’d be after that?”
    â€œThat would depend on the season, Mr. Parisi. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I wheeled around blindly, my fists clenched at my sides. The guy was scum,