Free Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) by Tracey Alvarez Page A

the dinner service.
    Both shifts had gone too smoothly, with Shaye being the epitome of a polite and accommodating employee. Putting up with his presence, basically.
    After a quick tour of the kitchen that morning—he could see little had changed—and a discussion of the weekly specials and staff scheduling, they’d worked like a well-oiled machine. And once everyone had left for their afternoon break, Del had no problems positioning a tiny camera unit on a little-used kitchen shelf. He kept the remote in his pocket, ready to hit record when dinner service started. With twenty hours recording time on the camera card, he’d use the footage taken over the next few days to compile an audition tape.
    But the evening’s dinner service had been a breeze. With the front of the house a quarter full the servers were on cruise mode, and nobody complained about the boring crap they served. Nothing even potentially interesting happened that could be used in his audition. Not even a dropped plate.
    After plating the last meal and closing the kitchen for the night, Del sat at one end of a stainless steel counter, hunched over Bill’s ancient laptop, viewing an out-dated spread sheet program.
    A glass jar half filled with gold coins rattled beside his face, and he glanced up.
    “First service is a freebie,” Shaye said. “Tomorrow, shit, fuck, and any of the other dozen or so foul words I heard you use will cost a buck each. Proceeds go to charity.”
    Del put down his pen. “You’re shitting me.”
    “’Fraid she’s not.” Fraser, their dish-hand, hoisted his crate of dirty plates onto the counter beside the dishwasher.
    “Shaye never kids about the swear jar.” Vince had already stripped off his cap and apron and now slipped on his battered sheepskin jacket. “And I’m off. See you in the morning.”
    After saying goodbye to Vince, Shaye raised an eyebrow and rattled the jar. “I’m asking you to adhere to my little rule.”
    “In God’s name, why?” This was Stewart Island, not the Queen’s frickin’ throne room.
    She paused, tucking a wispy strand of hair behind her ear, which had slipped out from under her cap.
    The sudden glimpse of vulnerability dampened his initial indignation. “This is important to you?”
    Angling her chin, she said, “A pleasant workplace is good for morale. Nobody likes being shouted and sworn at. It’s disrespectful.”
    Flickers in the back of his mind. A memory of hanging out at the Harlands’ as a kid. Of Michael, Ben’s father, dressing down Ben after an accidental “fucking bastard” slip in front of his mother and younger sisters. A firm reminder that part of respecting women meant watching your damn mouth.
    Del suspected there was an element of Bill allowing Shaye a sense of control in a male-dominated workspace. Wisdom suggested he keep his opinions to himself.
    “I’ll try.”
    Shaye nodded and replaced the jar on the shelf directly below his camera. He’d have to watch his language if he didn’t want her pulling the jar down every five minutes.
    “You don’t mind me cussing around you out of the kitchen?” he asked.
    She yanked off her checked chef’s cap. “I doubt we’ll spend any time together outside of work hours.”
    For some reason, his male ego smarted. Yeah, she’d made it clear he’d been lumped into the asshole category, but a sneaky part of him wanted to observe her beyond Due South. To peel back her prickly layers and see if the little zap of awareness between them was hostility or attraction. Mutual attraction.
    Though maybe she was right. With working his ass off here for at least the next two weeks, he wouldn’t have time for socializing—with her or anyone else. Better that way. Better to avoid interactions with his old crowd and just do his job.
    Fraser disappeared through the swinging doors with his plastic crate ready for the final batch of dishes.
    Shaye swiped a dishcloth over the already spotless countertop where he worked. “But