CHAPTER 1
Anna
The man at table nine wanted me dead. Or fired. Whichever came first.
He’d been at it for almost twenty minutes now, which was impressive, honestly, because his steak had been cold for at least ten of those and he was still going. I stood next to his table with my notepad pressed against my thigh and my smile stapled on so tight my cheeks ached, nodding along while he explained to me, and to everyone within a fifteen-foot radius, that the standards of this diner were an embarrassment.
His words. Not mine. Though if I was being fair, he wasn’t entirely wrong. The laminated menus had photos that were generous interpretations of the actual food, and my manager, Doug, had a talent for vanishing the moment any customer raised their voice above a polite murmur. I’d watched him slip into the stockroom like a ghost the second table nine started escalating. Real leadership material, that guy.
"I ordered medium-rare." The man jabbed his fork toward his plate like he was cross-examining it. "Does this look medium-rare to you?"
It did, actually. It looked exactly medium-rare. Pink center, warm throughout. I’d checked it before I brought it out becauseI’d already gotten a vibe from this guy when he’d snapped his fingers at me to order. Fingers. Like I was a dog.
"I’m so sorry about that, sir. I can have the kitchen remake it for you right away."
"You can have the kitchen remake it," he repeated, his voice climbing. He was standing now. A man in a polo shirt, standing in a Wynwood diner on a Wednesday evening, performing outrage for an audience that didn’t ask for a show. "Maybe you can also have the kitchen hire someone who knows the difference between rare and well-done."
The couple at table seven looked away. The woman at table twelve pretended to be very interested in her phone. Everyone shrank, the way people do when someone decides to fill the whole room with themselves.
And me. I was shrinking too.
The feeling crawled up my spine before I could stop it. My body knew this choreography. The careful modulation of my face so the angry person didn’t get angrier. The accommodation. The smallness I’d been trained to perform. Shoulders down. Voice even.
Don’t provoke. Don’t challenge. Make yourself a smaller target.
My hometown back in Charlotte, North Carolina, taught me that dance. Someone there choreographed every step.
I didn’t want to think ofhisname. Just the thought of it made my wrist throb beneath the bracelet and that was enough.
"Sir, I understand your frustration, and I’d really like to fix this for you." My voice came out steady. Practiced. I hated how good I was at this. "If you’ll just give me a moment, I can…"
"What you can do is get me a manager who actually runs this place instead of sending the help to handle complaints she’s clearly not equipped to deal with."
The help. He called methe help.
Three weeks. I’d been doing this for three weeks. Smiling through insults and carrying plates that weighed more than my dignity at this point. Because the eight hundred dollars I’d brought with me didn’t last long in Miami, and Miley had already covered two months of rent while I tried to get back on my feet. The guilt of that was starting to crush me in ways I didn’t know how to explain.
I opened my mouth to respond, not sure what was going to come out, probably something I’d regret, when a voice cut in from the next table.
"Hey, buddy."
Warm. Easy. Sweet on the ears, but I caught the bite sitting just beneath it.
I turned. A man in a casual blazer, maybe thirty, was leaning back in his chair with his napkin still tucked into his collar. He was handsome in the effortless, annoying way some guys just are. Strong features, brown hair pushed back from his face, a smile that was equal parts charm and trouble.
He looked at table nine.
"That steak looks pretty medium rare to me," he said.
Table nine frowned. "What?"
The man gestured lazily with his fork. "Warm red center. Seared edges. Exactly what you ordered, unless you forgot how steak works."
A few people nearby glanced over.
He continued, completely unfazed. "The lady wrote down your order correctly and confirmed twice. I watched her do it. So maybe the problem isn’t the food, or the waitress." His smile stayed easy, but there was no warmth behind it now. "Maybe the problem is the guy holding the fork trying to bully his way into a free meal."
Table nine sputtered. Opened his mouth. Closed it.
