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Now, I’m not a monster. It isn’t often that I make special meals for customers. But the truly awful ones? Yeah, I have a thing about delivering a little extra karma to them with a smile on my face. And no one is the wiser.
The man gives me glowing reviews on our food as I bring him his check, with the wiener removed from his bill. I almost feel bad about what I’d done until he turns to his date and says, “At least the managers of this joint aren’t fucking morons. They should hire more like this fat one. Didn’t I tell you fat chicks are always smarter?”
And then, the slight guilt I feel goes floating away like one of the pudgy layers on my apparently fat chick body. I handle the rest of his meal, all the while smiling, imagining the many restaurants this man goes to and the special ingredients he likely always receives.
When he leaves, he waves back at me, and I return his wave. “Enjoy your food poisoning, you tiny-dicked shit.”
My waitress is suddenly at my side. “He’s going to have a fun night, right?”
I smile at her. “Oh, very fun. You know I wouldn’t let someone talk like that about you and get away with it.” Then we exchange a quick hug.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” she whispers, gripping me a little tighter.
“Don’t worry, I handpicked my replacement. I think she might even be more twisted than me.”
Stephanie laughs and wipes the tears off her face before heading for one of her other tables. I stand by the front door looking back at my staff as they rush from table to table. They aren’t perfect, but damn it, I love them. It isn’t the first time in the last week since deciding to go to Sleepy Hollow that I feel a little sadness, but it is the first time I feel like I’m already gone.
“Table for three.” The deep voice rolls down my spine like a caress, or an instant shot of horny juice. I mean, I’ve been attracted to men before, but not just their voices, not like this. My nipples are already hard when I slowly turn around and see them standing at the door.
How I didn’t sense them walking into the restaurant is beyond me because they have the kind of presence that a group of sexy, naked firefighters rescuing a cat from a tree couldn’t master. The guy who spoke has dark hair that’s neatly trimmed in a classic guy hairdo and dark eyes. He’s easily six-foot-four, towering over my five-foot stature. His shoulders are broad, and he’s wearing a black t-shirt and jeans that, hell, look painted on.
One of the men behind him is slightly taller, with blonde hair that’s super long on top. He has on jeans, a plaid shirt, and a grey hoodie, with the hood up. He’s got to be my age, or slightly older, but he holds himself like a college guy. One of those ones who rolls out of bed and just looks good enough to eat, doesn’t seem to stress over anything, and can bang a girl until her head explodes.
Heaven help me.
And the third guy? You’d hope he was some asshole with greasy hair, boogers running down his face, and the air of a serial killer to balance out all this hotness… but no, I’m not that lucky. He has long black hair that comes down to his shoulders, deep green eyes, and arms that are bigger than my head. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt and black slacks, clothes that are way too dressy for the House of Wieners, and he keeps glancing at me and then at the floor, like he’s nervous.
Nervous about me… the lady in ugly work clothes. The lady that guys like these usually either don’t notice or snicker at. Not that I care, not really. If someone doesn’t think I’m pretty because I eat donuts covered in bacon and actually enjoy life, they can suck it.
Which, fuck, these guys aren’t doing. They’re just people staring at me, waiting for a table, while I basically dry hump them with my eyes. Which is oh-so-smooth.
Yet, I’m a professional. At least for a few more hours. So I tell my body to calm the fuck down and act like a normal, functioning member of society. Opening my mouth, I intend to say one of my usual lines to guests as a manager. “Ughlishfuh.”
Oh, holy shit. Is that actually what I just said?
The guy in front surprises me by smiling. “Huh?”
I swallow down whatever the hell is making me act like an idiot and try again. “Welcome to your wieners, would you like a table?” They stare. I stare. It clicks. “I mean House of Your Wieners.” That’s not right. “We’re the place you go if you want wiener!”
Damn it. I might cry.
The guy leading the pack only smiles more brightly. “Yes, table for three.”
Got to love someone who doesn’t make an awkward moment worse.
“Three? Do you mean six?” Surely these guys are meeting three models. Girls who are so thin I could crack them in half and use them for firewood. Girls who giggle at everything they say and hear a whooshing sound in their heads every time they aren’t speaking. That’s the crowd men like this seem to surround themselves with.
Not that I’m judging. Okay, I am. I’m usually better about that. I mean, thin or chubby people can be assholes. But looking at these guys, I can only picture them with women who belong on the red carpet.
He looks back at his buddies, or whoever they are. “No, uh, just the three of us.”
I swallow hard. No dumb, hot women. Okay. “Got it.”
Going to the hostess stand, I grab three menus and lead them to a booth in a corner. A booth that will allow me to watch them from the back like a horny stalker, with the added benefit of being across the restaurant from all the screaming kids and parents who look like they just want to step in front of a bus.
I hand them their menus with a nervous smile. “Stephanie will be with you in a moment.”
“Stephanie?” the blond asks, frowning. “I thought you were our server.”
