Sometimes… sometimes lying is necessary. Some things aren’t meant to be known by everyone.
There’s no reason Killian—or anyone—needs to know about my burner.
I force myself to slip back into waitress mode. I have customers to serve.
The rest of my shift passes in agonizing snail-like fashion.
I wait on the patrons who do stop by, doing my best to be friendly and accommodating but still earning nowhere near the amount of tips Bridget does.
I guess not everyone has the gift of charming customers with their girlish giggle.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, I’ve made a whopping eighteen dollars in tips and developed a twitch in my left eye that won’t quit.
My head’s throbbing, and I’m in need of some food.
Thankfully, Killian did stock the studio kitchen with a few gems like cereal, instant noodles, and other pantry staples for times when I’m hungry but he’s not around.
I’ve been pulling so many hours that when Tom approaches and offers the night shift too, I finally shake my head. After four days working twelves, I need a break.
The pub’s starting to pick up, and I happily untie my apron once Marcy steps onto the floor. But not before noticing how Bridget’s watching me.
She’s stationed at the other end of the counter, supposedly restocking napkins, but she’s been sneaking me glances ever since she got on shift.
That’sin betweenthe bubbly friendliness she puts on for customers.
I disappear into the back hall and decide it’s not worth thinking about. What I don’t plan on is that the busty redhead would follow me.
“Big plans tonight?” she asks, appearing at my side.
I only realize it as I’m footsteps away from the restroom. I give a noncommittal shrug. “Not really. Just glad to finally have a night off.”
“Heading back to Killian’s place?”
We’ve stepped through the restroom door. My gaze meets hers in the cloudy mirror above the sink.The hesitation on my face speaks for me because she pops on a smile and goes on.
“I thought you were sleeping in the backroom.”
“Tom said I couldn’t sleep there anymore.”
“So you’ve decided to crash at a customer’s home?”
Not by choice…
I step to the sink and twist on the faucet. “It’s complicated. Not that it’s your business.”
“People talk,” she counters, folding her arms over her chest. “All I mean is… it’s very nice of him to do that.”
“I guess so…”
“I didn’t believe it when I found out.”
My eyes narrow as water splashes over my hands and I rub them together with soap. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“It’s just… not his style to do that for someone. And you—I mean, nobody even knows you. No offense.”
“Is there a point to this conversation?” I’ve twisted off the faucet and snatched two paper towels from the dispenser. “If you’re curious about what’s going on between us—and if it means you can’t feel up his biceps anymore—you have nothing to worry about, Bridget. Killer’s all yours.”
Her brows jump, and her mouth drops open in offense.
