They tapped glasses. “To family,” Teddy echoed. “Greystone doesn’t drink alcohol.”
“No wine?” Elsa asked.
“No,” Greystone replied.
Alcohol dulled his senses, took him off his game. While he missed the occasional drink, he needed to stay sharp… always.
He kept the conversation rolling, all while keeping an eye on the patrons. He was used to living that way, but it wasn’t always easy looking over his shoulder, being suspicious about everyone, and always packing heat.
When they finished their meals, Teddy offered to drive Elsa home.
“Greystone, why don’t you bring me?” Elsa asked. “Have you seen Carrera yet?”
“Next time,” he promised her.
“We’re having a family dinner soon,” Elsa handed Greystone her cell phone. “Put your phone number in, so I can make sure you’re included.”
He did so, then walked them to Teddy’s car. There, he pulled his grandmother in for a hug and kissed both her cheeks. “Ti amo.”
She patted his whiskered cheek. “Anch'io ti amo. I love you too.”
He helped her into the car.
“I’ll be back to close,” Teddy said before ducking inside.
After they drove away, Greystone glanced around. Night had fallen. Someone could be hiding in a car with a rifle pointed at his head. Agitation slithered through him, threatening to suffocate him.
He’d been in intense situations before, and he’d gotten through them. He’d get through this one too…
On his way back inside, he checked his phone.
Nothing from Caroline.
Damn.
He hated that she didn’t show, but she’d made the right choice. No way would he send her home to an empty bed. Not when he could be in it with her.
His shift had gone down without a hitch, almost like the restaurant gods were smiling down on him. If Greystone were an optimist, he’d believe the universe was turning in his direction. But he was a realist. They had a good night. Nothing more, nothing less.
After the last customer left, the servers began prepping for the next day’s seating. Greystone was ready to take off. Time was ticking, and he had a group of international killing machines to hunt down. In an attempt to move things along, he got busy stocking top-shelf liquor behind the bar.
“What do you do when you’re not here?” asked the female bartender who was handing him bottles of scotch.
“As little as possible,” he replied.
“We should grab coffee sometime,” she said.
“My life’s complicated.”
“Whose isn’t?”
He said nothing.
“So, I’m off tomorrow,” she persisted. “Do you want to come back to my place tonight?”
When he took the bottle from her, she was gazing up at him with flirty eyes.
“Not a good idea.”