The Fine Art of Truth or Dare by Melissa Jensen Page A

as he deftly arranged the peppers, the anchovies, the mozzarella, creating a pretty mosaic on the plate.
    As he added salami, I grabbed a chilled beer and a glass and waved them at Leo, who was on his way back to the dining room. “Can’t,” he snapped. “Overloaded as is.” True enough. He had full plates halfway up both arms, and two more orders coming up. “Christ. Sienna and her f—”
    â€œLeo!”
    â€œ
Scusi
, Nonna.” But he still managed to get a good, quiet curse or two out as he backed his way gingerly through the swinging door.
    â€œHere. I got it.” Tina took the beer and glass from me. “Ya know them?”
    I nodded.
    â€œShe looks like butter wouldn’t melt. But her kid . . .” She pursed brilliantly pink lips. “All that and a bag of baked tofu chips?”
    I had to smile a little at the image. “No. He’s not . . . He doesn’t act like . . .” I wasn’t entirely sure why I was defending him. He hadn’t exactly been the Prince Charming of Dinner Orders. Come to think of it, I couldn’t completely vouch for Alex Bainbridge being Prince Charming of Anything. Except my own little
Villink
fantasy. “Maybe.”
    â€œCute, though.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYeah?” I have no idea what is was Tina saw in my face. Something. “Aw, sweetie.” She sighed. “Want me to shake up Daddy’s beer a little?”
    â€œNo,” I answered, “but thanks for the offer.”
    I got a drinks tray and added Karina’s Pellegrino. The Coke dispenser spat pale brown liquid at me. Then it hissed. “And typical. Syrup’s low. Will you tell them the Coke’s on its way?”
    â€œSure thing.” Tina deftly lifted the tray onto her fingertips. She was a cocktail waitress at Delilah’s before she got married. As a matter of fact, she met Ricky there. She won’t talk about the job much at all, but she tells anyone who will listen that Ricky looked so uncomfortable when he came in with a bachelor party that she knew he had to be okay. I don’t know whether the club had hired her for her agility, or whether she’d learned it there, but she could probably dodge a barrage of bullets while holding two loaded trays over her head. I drop dish towels. Which is why I’m rarely given anything weighty, hot, or valuable to carry.
    Ordinarily, Dad would have reloaded the soda machine. I have to stand on a box, and the syrup is heavy. But he was in the walk-in, getting the special For Royalty Only pancetta from whatever crevice he hides it in. As I wrestled with the machine, trying to get the bag-in-a-box syrup locked into place, the door thumped again.
    â€œUm . . . Excuse me?”
    I very nearly slopped a gallon of Coke syrup over the floor. I did fall off my box, but at least I landed on my feet. Alex was standing in the doorway, half in and half out of the kitchen. He didn’t see me. I crept back up onto my perch.
    â€œCan I help you?” Ricky was closest. He had so much flour on him that his hair was gray.
    â€œI . . . ah, wanted to talk to Ella.”
    â€œYou go on back out. I’ll send—”
    Tina, who apparently hadn’t gone anywhere just yet, promptly smacked Ricky on the back of the head with her free hand.
    â€œWhat?”
He didn’t have a clue.
    Tina did. She could probably hear my heart thundering from across the kitchen. “There she is,” she told Alex, pointing. Then she looked at me and jerked her chin toward the back door. “Go. I’ll take the table.” She scooped up the antipasto and bumped her butt through the door, doing a quick, arms-raised, hips-pivoting cha-cha with Leo to avert a collision.
    Tina can be a B–, and she’s high maintenance in every possible way. She’s also prone to asking questions like whether vegetarians can eat animal crackers.