Page 1 of Maid of Dishonor
One
Sam
Hello,and welcome to the Friend Zone! Population: me.
Literally just me.
Because it seems my best friend, Carter, will flirt with any woman at all. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, pretty, homely—everyone is fair game except for this girl right here. Samantha Quinn: baseball lover, plant mama, eternal Friend Zone dweller.
Maybe I should put that on a business card or something. Just to make sure everyone knows that I will be dying alone.
You know who’snotgoing to die alone? The redheaded waitress Carter is currently flirting with from across the restaurant.
He’s giving her those stupid bedroom eyes he does—those babies arepotent. And based on her fluttering lashes, she’s falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.
I can’t judge. I fell for Carter a long time ago. But it doesn’t matter, because to him I’m simply the tomboy he’s been best friends with since we made a blood pact in sixth grade to have each other’s backs.
It was a little unsanitary. But we didn’t know any better, and it felt cool at the time. Blood pacts aren’t something you do every day. Oranyday, really.
In fact, you probably should just stay away from blood pacts. Like I said: unsanitary.
The restaurant bustles around Carter and me, the noise level just loud enough that we have to lean closer to hear each other. Little Miss Waitress—yes, I named her, and yes, I could probably stand to be a bit less snarky about it—is making her way in our direction with an interested gleam in her eye that makes me slightly uncomfortable. Once again, though, I can’t judge, because I get it. Carter is a work of art. Paint a picture of that man and slap it in the Louvre. Six-two, lean, muscular. Bright blue eyes and tanned skin. A jaw worth drooling over. Hair the color of golden sand. Lips that probably taste better than chocolate—
Ahem. I digress. But it really is justified.
Little Miss Waitress clearly agrees. She moves with a confidence I envy, and I hate to admit it, but sheisgorgeous. Her more womanly assets are all but hanging out of her shirt, and when she reaches our table, she leans forward, putting them on full display. I try not to roll my eyes.
Well, I don’t trythathard. I might roll them just a little.
But really. There’s a time and a place. And gorgeous or not, she’s acting like I’m not even here. Jury’s still out on whether she’s figured out I’m female yet—with my blonde hair pulled tight in a low bun under my baseball hat and a uniform that does exactly nothing for my figure, it can be hard to tell if you don’t take a second look. And I’m not sure she’s even taken afirstlook. She’s still drooling over Carter, who’s now giving her one of his sexy little grins. It brings out the dimple in his left cheek. He’s always hated that dimple, because he thinks it makes him look like a little kid, but I tell him it makes him more approachable.Somethinghas to soften the effect of all that manliness.
“What can I get for you today?” Little Miss Waitress asks. Her voice is breathy and high pitched, and it grates on my nerves. She lowers her lashes seductively and says, “Please feel free to ask foranything.”
Wow. She’s just going for it.
I clear my throat loudly, because that’s quite enough of that. I’d rather not vomit before I’ve even eaten. “I’d like the twelve-count wings, please,” I say. “Buffalo sauce.” I glance at Carter, who’s still giving her that stupid little smirk. Then I look back to the waitress. “And he’ll just have a salad. He’s been having diarrhea all day; anything else might set him off again.”
I snap my menu shut, and the sound—along with my words, I’m sure—pull both Carter and the waitress out of their little eye contact marathon. Carter’s smile slips away, and the waitress looks mortified. She snatches our menus and rushes off.
“Sam,” Carter growls, turning to face me.
I shrug innocently. “It was that or a cold glass of water over the head, Carter. You can’t smile at girls like that. She was practically in heat.”
“Easy choice!” he says, throwing up his hands. “A cold glass of water over the head. Then I’d at least get something good to eat. You’re giving me half your wings.”
I snort. “Hard pass.”
Carter levels a glare at me. “We’re sharing. And then I’m going to go find that nice waitress and tell her you’re my deranged sister, out for a day on the town before going home to the asylum.” His eyes scan the restaurant again, but after a second of looking, he sighs.
“That sigh means you’ve just decided it’s not worth it to track her down,” I point out. “If it were meant to be, you’d think she was worth it.”
“Yeah,” he says glumly. Then he looks over at me. “But you’re still giving me some of your wings.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “We can share.”
Twenty minutes later, Carter’s salad sits forgotten on the far side of the table while we go to town on the hot wings, talking and laughing about the game we won this afternoon.
“Great hit, by the way,” I say, using a napkin to wipe the corners of my mouth. “At the bottom of the ninth.”