Chapter 8
“Now, about that ice cream…” 3
It was only eight minutes after eight when Preston hurried through the back door of the River City Restaurant, but from the glare his boss threw his way, one would’ve thought he was sauntering in somewhere around noon instead. Ignoring Roger Adams, Preston grabbed a clean apron from the hook in the storeroom and slipped it over his head, then tied it around his waist and leaned over the stainless steel utility sink to wash up. He gave his hands a vigorous scrubbing even though he’d done nothing to get them dirty and wouldn’t actually be touching the food itself, then dried them on his apron as he stepped out into the kitchen.
Roger was still giving him the stink-eye from over by the short order grill. “You’re late,” he growled.
“Five minutes,” Preston shot back, raising his voice over the sound of the metal spatula scraping the cast iron grill. “Traffic’s a bear this time of the day and you know it.”