Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Hey,” I greeted, using my overly cheery customer service voice. “I’m a little short-handed tonight,” I said, as I’d been saying all week. “Would you mind grabbing yourself a table and a menu?”
While I attempted not to melt under his strangely heated gaze.
“No problem,” he agreed, reaching for one of the laminated books that had a nerve to call themselves a menu, then going to the far corner booth, away from everyone else.
So he could pass me the money in secret.
Since that was the only reason he was there, I reminded myself as I brought the food over to one of my tables, took the order for a second, then grabbed him a cup of coffee and creamers, then made my way over.
“Busy,” was what he said to me as a greeting.
“Yeah. It usually is. Not many lulls except on Tuesdays, for some reason. Or during bad weather.”
I liked the tips, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t mind if a big storm blew through the city and gave me a little break either.
“I brought you a coffee,” I told him, even though he was already reaching to grab the sugar. “I know it’s late, but I figured you were the kind of guy who can drink it and go right to bed after,” I said.
Why was I rambling?
He clearly wasn’t interested in having a conversation with me.
I mean, I’d reached out to him about my wound, expecting a little back-and-forth at least, only to have him send me back a one-word answer.
I guess I was the only one dealing with a little residual, pesky, unwanted attraction.
I mean, I just… there had been a moment in my kitchen. Or, at least, I thought there had been one.
But maybe that was all due to pain and blood loss and confusion and lack of sleep.
Of course some hot, older, worldly mafia guy wasn’t going to have the warm and tinglies over some random waitress he’d fished some bullets out of.
God, what the hell was wrong with me?
“Babe?” Salvatore said, making me jolt, realizing with no small amount of humiliation, that he’d said something while I’d been lost in my own thoughts.
“Sorry. I, ah, spaced out there. What did you say?”
“I asked how your whole situation,” he said, waving toward my body. And, damn it, it warmed. Warmed. Maybe I was septic or something. Clearly, there was something not right with me, that was for sure. “Is doing?” he finished.
“Oh, well, I’m managing,” I said, sighing when I heard someone snapping their fingers at me.
“He fucking serious? Who the fuck snaps at a waitress these days?” Salvatore grumbled, and his grumpy tone made a smile tug at the corners of my lips.
“You’d be surprised,” I said, shaking my head. “Can you give me a minute?” I asked.
“Yeah. But don’t rush off to that motherfucker. He probably won’t leave you shit for a tip anyway.”
“You’re almost certainly right about that. But guys like that also leave nasty reviews. Which means I would have to have a meeting with my boss. A one-on-one meeting in his office,” I added, cringing. “Give me a second.”
I felt his gaze on me as I walked away, and as ridiculous as it may have been, if I was a little more healed, I was pretty sure I would have put some extra wiggle in my step for him.
Insanity.
But I was going to go ahead and try to tell myself that it was just because I hadn’t had a guy that hot in my presence in a long time. Not one who wasn’t a customer, anyway.
“Hey! What can I get for you?” I asked, getting back to the table that had been nothing but demands and complaints since they sat down.
The coffee wasn’t hot enough. Then it was too hot. The air was on too high. The table was sticky. The fries were soggy. The soda needed more syrup.
And, yeah, like Salvatore said, I would be lucky to get any tip out of them. I’d developed a sixth sense for knowing who was, and who was not, going to leave a fair tip.
Everything about this middle-aged guy with permanent frown lines and a shirt that was a size and a half too small, said I would likely get a note on the receipt about why I didn’t get a tip, rather than a tip itself.
“About goddamned time. My time is precious too, lady,” he said, and I had to bite back the urge to snap at him.
I wasn’t Maureen. I didn’t have the balls she did to give customers attitude, to snark at them, to outright tell them to get the fuck out of the diner if they didn’t like how she did her job.
Besides, I taught teenagers for a living. I was hardened when it came to nasty comments and even outright insults.