Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I was checking the condiments at a booth near the jukebox when I heard a knock on the thick glass of the door fronting Main Street. Looking up in surprise—we weren’t open for another twenty minutes—my heart tripped over its next few beats when I saw Dash standing there.
I hurried to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. “Good morning,” I said. “You’re up early.”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d head over here to grab coffee and something to eat. How’s your finger?”
“Not too bad.” I held up my bandaged hand. “But I’m short a server this morning, so service might be a little slow.”
“Can I help?”
“Doing what?”
“Anything. You name it, I’ve done it—washed dishes, flipped burgers, waited tables, poured drinks.” He went through a pantomime of all his previous restaurant jobs. “It’s all muscle memory. And I’m not doing anything this morning. My dad’s not even back yet.”
I hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay.” I swung the door open wide enough for him to enter, then locked it behind him. “It’s not the most glamorous job in the world, but if you can pour coffee and take breakfast orders, I can use you.”
Dash turned in a circle, looking around the diner. “I haven’t been here in a while. Looks the same.”
“Nothing ever changes at Moe’s.”
His eyes scanned the photos on the wall, and he laughed. “What happened there?”
I followed his line of sight to his headshot. “Oh, that. Uh, someone broke in and vandalized your picture.”
“Just my picture?”
I nodded, pressing my lips together.
“And why didn’t you clean it off?”
“I just think you look better that way. It makes your face more interesting.”
He laughed. “My face wasn’t interesting before?”
“Not really. Average at best.” Grinning, I moved past him toward the counter. “So first thing, we—”
“Hey, wait.” He caught up to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re not zipped all the way.”
I went still as he finished the task, heat rising within me. “Thanks. I couldn’t reach it this morning.”
“All good.” His hand lingered at the top of my spine.
Move, Ari, I told myself. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“I’d pay many Bulge Bucks for some coffee.”
“What are Bulge Bucks?” I grabbed the pot and filled a thick white mug for him.
“It’s what my siblings call the money I made from Malibu Splash.”
I laughed. “Sounds like them. Cream and sugar?”
“Nope. This is perfect.” He picked up the cup and sipped. “So do I get a cute little uniform like you have?”
“No. But I’ll get you an apron,” I said, heading for the kitchen. “Then I’ll go over the specials with you.”
From a closet in the back, I grabbed a clean white apron that said Moe’s on the front and brought it to him, watching with amusement as he removed his hoodie, slipped the loop over his head, and tied the string around his waist. Beneath it he wore jeans and a black T-shirt, the sleeves of which hugged his biceps.
“How do I look?” he asked, holding his arms out.
“Like Bulge in season two, episode six, when he worked at the soup kitchen. Or maybe the Halloween episode from season four—the slasher parody—when you played the scary butcher and walked around with that cleaver.” I shivered.
“You watched my show?”
I cringed. “I’d like to say no, but I think you’d call my bluff.”
“At this point, I might.”
“I especially like the musical episodes. But the Christmas special was fun too. You looked great in the Santa suit.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve watched every episode, haven’t you?”
“Let’s not talk about it.” Suddenly, I realized something. “You know, you’re probably going to be recognized in here today. People will be asking for autographs and selfies and stuff.”
He dismissed the idea with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’m used to it, but if having me here turns out to be more stressful for you, let me know, and I’ll go.”
“Deal.” But I realized I was kind of excited about having Dashiel Buckley by my side today. Not because he was famous, but because he was Dash. “Okay, let’s go over the specials.”
Within minutes of opening, I discovered he hadn’t been lying about his hospitality skills—Dash was awesome at the job. He took orders quickly and efficiently. He remembered everything I told him about the menu. He kept the coffee cups filled and the plates moving. And he insisted on letting me work behind the counter so I wouldn’t have to carry the trays necessary to serve the booths and tables out front.
He was recognized instantly, of course. And everyone wanted not just autographs and selfies, but his attention as well. If they’d known him growing up—like his former fifth grade teacher or his Little League coach—they wanted to chat all about we knew you when. If they were fans of the show—like the teen girls who couldn’t stop blushing—they wanted hugs. Even if they’d never seen an episode of Malibu Splash, they were excited to meet a real Hollywood actor, one who’d grown up right here in this very town. They asked him dozens of questions about what it was like to be on television, whether he’d ever met this celebrity or that one, and what advice he had for anyone who’d like to get into acting.