Luck on the Line by Zoraida Cordova Page A

The Star.
    Out of every city I’ve lived in, New York felt more like home than the rest, and making my way around Boston’s chilly waterfront makes me miss it something awful.
    As I walk, the drizzle becomes rain. I find myself back at The Star. I unlock the door and listen for anyone else that is still there.
    “Hello?” My voice echoes in the empty dining room.
    I hang my wet hoodie in my mom’s office and dial up the thermostat.
    The last bar I worked at was a sports bar—The Stumble Out, on the Upper East Side. The crowd was a mix of trust fund babies and baby bankers who wanted a divey feel without leaving the safety of upper Manhattan. The floors were sticky with Jäger and the walls were covered in smudges from dirty ping-pong balls. By the end of the shift, my feet throbbed. I’d relish in the white noise after last call when the barback and I wiped down the bottles and tabletops.
    I don’t miss that place, but I do miss the bustle of it all. I loved being in the middle of the action. But there’s a moment after closing when the silence is welcome. Old habits die hard. Why else am I alone in an unfinished restaurant I’ve agreed to help finish?
    I find the storage room where the alcohol is supposed to be kept and suppress the urge to call my mother and yell at her. It’s pretty much empty. How is she supposed to stock the bar for her guests with one case of wine? I rip off the delivery notice. It’s a gift from Frank LaRosa, a restaurateur with a new vineyard. There’s a note that’s dated three weeks ago. Usually my mom replies to these things right away. Her contacts list is a shrine to herself.
    I take one of the bottles, a cabernet and malbec blend. The label is solid black with a gold star embossed in the center. You’d think my mom would be all over it.
    I find an opener, and because I don’t want to dirty any of the glasses, I use a clean mug from the staff kitchen that says Lick the Cook and let it air a bit. The sommelier I worked with at Ma Jolie would be rolling in his grave. Only he’s not dead, so he’d probably just roll his eyes and make me get a proper glass.
    Having the restaurant to myself is a freeing experience. There’s no construction, no jerky, holier-than-thou wannabe-celebrity chef looking down at me. Still, my heart races when I push the door to his office. It’s open, and it’s my mom’s restaurant. That’s not exactly breaking in, is it? I’m practically management.
    I turn on the lights and give the room a once over. He didn’t wear his motorcycle jacket to the fancy party with my mom. It’s thrown over his desk chair. I grab it and hold it at arms length. It’s three sizes too big for me. This is the worst time to realize that every guy I’ve ever dated has worn a leather jacket. Unlike the other guys, this one doesn’t cost two times my monthly rent. It’s a no name brand. No bells and whistles like studs or spikes, just clean leather. The inside lining is well worn and smells like summer at the beach.
    Whoa! Put the jacket down, Lucky, I warn myself.
    I put the jacket back where I found it and step back. What is wrong with me? It is not okay to smell a strange man’s coat! I shouldn’t be here. I hightail back to the kitchen where my glass—er…mug—of wine is waiting for me.
    But when I get there, the paper falls out of my hands. I’m caught, red handed. Chef James is standing with his hands on his hips, staring at my cozy little spread. His work blazer is in his hands and he sets it on the table. When he looks at me a mess of emotions cross his face. First, it looks like surprise. He’s probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here by myself. Then, it’s annoyance, because that’s probably his mug I’m drinking out of, and why would I touch his things after he told me to stay away from him? Finally, it’s that smugness that makes me want to slap the smirk off his face.
    He doesn’t ask why I’m here. He doesn’t tell me he’s going to