y good behavior continues throughout the next day. Jordan must have met up with Kali, because, by the time I start my morning shift, the hole in the ceiling has mostly been mended and everything is back to normal. Or mostly normal, because now as I'm working, I keep glancing at Jordan as he stands on his ladder, remembering how it had felt when he caught me.

Obviously, I'm being ridiculous. I push the memory – and the very thought of him – to the back of my mind. Jordan is the enemy here, the reason I'm about to lose the cafe and my job. The only thing I feel when I look at him is the desire to run him over.

For the rest of my shift, I throw myself into focusing on my customers, which mostly helps to ease my frustration, until one man, a stylish tourist in his late forties, lowers his sunglasses to give me a grin.

"Why, hello there," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. He's not bad-looking – women his age might even consider him attractive –but being hit on by a man old enough to be my dad makes me shiver. "Hey," I say politely. "Welcome to The Big Fish Cafe. What can I get you?"

I put my pen to my notepad, waiting for his response, but when he doesn't give one, I look up. He's still looking at me, grinning, and I can already tell what kind of tourist he is: the rich kind, probably one of the owners of those big fancy yachts out front. He's wearing a fitted black Armani top, shorts, and designer sunglasses, along with an expensive-looking Rolex. He may as well be a walking dollar sign.

"Evvy," he says, looking at my name badge. "That's a pretty name. Is it short for something?"

"Evelyn."

He smiles again, revealing teeth that must have cost him a fortune. "Evelyn, I like that. Classic name."

I nod and say, "I was named after my grandmother. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?"

He scans the menu, and I glance around the cafe. As I do, my gaze meets Jordan's, who has stopped plastering the ceiling to watch us. I glare at him, hoping he can see all the hatred in my eyes, then turn to my customer and smile. "Have you decided on something, or do you need a few more minutes?"

He looks up now, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "I want something," he says, his voice low, "but I don't think it's on this menu. Do you think I could have it, anyway?"

I tense. I know where this is going. "That depends on what you ask for."

The man looks at me for a moment, rubbing his chin like he's deliberating something. "Well," he says, pushing aside his menu. "I wonder if you'd like to join me this evening. I'm staying on my yacht–" he pauses to point at one of the white fancy boats, like this will greatly impress me, "–and it gets awfully lonely in there at night."

I'm so disgusted that I just stare at him. Then I lean forward, about to say something rude and cutting, but somebody beats me to it.

"A little out of your league, isn't she?"

I turn to see Jordan behind me. His pale eyes are dark, his arms folded in a manner that looks intimidating. Is he defending me?

My customer must be just as surprised as I am. "And who are you?" he asks, taking in the tool bag strapped on Jordan's waist, "the handyman?"

Jordan grins, his arms still folded, and says, "Nope, I'm the owner, and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The customer looks horrified, like this kind of thing has never happened to him before. "For what?"

Jordan's smile drops. He steps forward an inch. "For pissing me off."

The customer looks from Jordan to me, then back to Jordan. He gets to his feet and scowls again, resting his gaze on mine. "Come and find me when you've gotten rid of your bodyguard." He slips on his sunglasses and pushes past Jordan, retreating to his yacht.

"You all right?" Jordan asks.

"Fine." I move to the empty table next to us, wiping it down with a washcloth while he stands back and watches me.

"That it?" he says. "That's all you're going to say to me?"

"Well, if I told you what I want to say, I'd be bordering on unprofessional."

He leans in closer. "You brought a tarantula to the cafe in a bid to sabotage me. I'd say you're long past unprofessional."

The warmth of his breath sends shivers down my skin. I pull back and look at him. "I'm sorry, which of us just threw out a customer?"

"For harassing you," Jordan says.

"Newsflash, Jordan, I've been dealing with slimy customers since I was fifteen years old. I don't need your help."

He steps closer and growls, "I just can't win with you, can I?"

Kali darts over before I can speak, stepping between us. "I've had it with you two," he says. "Your constant bickering is ruining the atmosphere. All I see is you standing around, arguing like spare parts. You think that looks good to the customers?" He looks between us like he's waiting for an answer, so we both shake our heads. "Damn right it doesn't." He pokes Jordan in the chest now, looking up at him. "You. If you have to be here, be here quietly. Fix whatever goddamn thing needs fixing, and shut the hell up." He turns and pokes me this time. "And you, you still have a job to do, one that doesn't involve standing around hurling insults at him. Get back to work, both of you."

When neither of us moves, Kali claps his hands and I jump, getting back to my tables while Jordan walks back to his ladder. I'm still so mad that for the rest of my shift, I'm left with this knot in my stomach that I can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try. It's not just Jordan I'm angry at, either. While I hate him for trying to sell this place, for firing me, I'm mostly just angry at myself. As much as I hate to admit it, he's right, the stunt I pulled with the spider the other night was unprofessional; now I've got to live with the consequences.