Page 8 of Over & Out
“It’s not his,” the woman says with a sigh. “Not mine either.”
Before I can wonder whose exactly it is, the man clears his throat. “Scotch.”
It takes a minute to get that he’s asking for a drink.
My mirth vanishes. Being rude is one thing. Treating servers like servants? Not on my watch.
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” I ask.
“No,” he sneers. “I’m just naming types of tape.”
This fucking guy. I fold my arms, my jingling bracelets accentuating the motion. “I’m so sorry, sir, but I don’t serve people who speak like toddlers. Unless they wear diapers and love to play with blocks. Although, gosh. Maybe that tracks!”
The woman—Tru?—makes a slight choking sound.
The man’s jaw nearly pops out of his skin. He swipes his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes under his sunglasses.
“Listen, bangles,” he says, flattening his hand on the table. “I’m having an extremely rough morning. I don’t need this shit from anyone, let alone my brunch waitress. So if you could pretty please just jingle your way back to the bar and get me a scotch from one of those pretty little bottles on the top shelf, I’ll make it worth your while. Okay?”
Fuck physical therapy. Fucktherapytherapy. Turnsout all I need to feel like my snappy self again is this absolute asshat on a platter.
I give him a sweet smile. “Well, since you asked so nicely, I’ll bring you my favorite kind. Would you like two, to make you feel better?”
The woman’s eyes widen and her mouth opens, but I give her anI’ve got thislook, and she snaps it shut again, choosing to trust me.
The man leans his head back against the booth. “Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”
“Wonderful. B-R-B!” I spin around, bracelets jingling.
Everyone’s staring when I turn, which is weird. But maybe they heard the way the jerk was talking to me too.
I quickly take care of the family I was helping earlier, slipping the little boy a handful of crayon packs as they pay their bill. Then I place Kissing Booth’s order.
“I’m sorry,” Luke, our weekday helper, says, poking his head out of the kitchen a moment later as I’m making the latte. “Does this sayboiled goat?”
“Extra rubbery, please.” By luck’s great fortune, Mac’s doing this incredible Moroccan goat curry as a main this month. Boiled chicken just doesn’t have the same pizzazz.
Luke is still frowning, so I give him my most winning smile. “You can do that for me, right?”
Luke blushes. He’s barely out of high school, skinny as a rail, and sweet as apple pie. “Sure, Christine,” he says, though his brows remain furrowed as he returns to the kitchen.
“Chris, please, honey,” I say. I’m only thirty, but I think Luke is all of nineteen, so I can say things like that.
He blushes harder and vanishes into the kitchen.
Mac must be in his office waiting for me, because Luke wouldn’t dare follow through with that order if he was in the kitchen. But Luke loves me, so Dicks “R” Us gets very special meat in his mouth this morning.
I finish a gorgeous latte for the woman, then make Dick’s “drink.” Satisfied, I head back to their table with a skip in my step I haven’t felt in a good while.
When I get back, it appears I’ve interrupted some kind of disagreement, because Dick is stony and tight-lipped.
Well, he’s about to pucker up everywhere when he sees what I’ve brought him.
I set Dick’s glass in front of him.
Tru places a neatly manicured hand over her mouth for the second time this morning.
Dick just stares.
