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There were few things in this world that I wanted to do less than serve Gabriella, including but not limited to drowning in a Celestine Pool, or becoming Miley Cyrus’ stylist. For that reason I hurried toward Trixie, who was flirting up a storm with Coulter.
Good for her.
Coulter may have had limited talents when it came to the kitchen, but he generally seemed like a great guy.
“Trixie, can you take table three? I’ll cover one of yours…”
Trixie glanced at Gabriella and Mrs. Holland as they settled into the vinyl booth and flagged me down furiously.
“Sure thang. They look like they tip well.”
They were almost certainly not going to leave a tip, but I didn’t want to crush her spirit. I’d gone on to serve table five their check and to wipe down table two when Trixie appeared by my side.
“Sorry, doll. They said they want you to serve them, specifically. They were pretty adamant about it.”
I bet they were.
As if Gabriella would pass up an opportunity to remind me that I was a lowly peasant and she a semi-celebrity, with hundreds of thousands of followers who fawned over every heavily photoshopped picture she posted.
I slapped a grin on my face, thanked my lucky stars I was wearing leggings under my revealing uniform, and made my way to their table, slapping two extra-sticky menus atop of it.
“Ladies. Welcome to Jerry & Sons. My name is Tennessee and I’ll be servin’ you today.”
If killing someone with kindness were a real thing, these two would be dead any minute.
Mrs. Holland stared at me with hateful eyes. Gabriella, however, played along with my affable charade.
“Oh, Nessy, good afternoon. Love your new makeover! You finally look under fifty.”
“I do?” I asked with mock surprise. “Dang, a few more layers of makeup and I would’ve been eligible for social security and the Applebee’s senior discount. How’s your headache doing?”
“Much better, thank you. I’m excited to be Trinity’s maid of honor.”
And I’m excited to leave this table and attend to my other customers.
“Great. Let me give you some time to look over our menu.”
“There’s no need.” Mrs. Holland jerked her chin up. “We know what we want.”
“We do?” Gabriella turned to her skeptically.
“We’ll have one sundae. No peanuts, please. And I do mean no peanuts. My little angel is allergic.” She squeezed Gabriella’s hand across the table. “So no traces of any peanuts, either, all right?”
“I’ll make sure to pass the message along to Coulter. Anything else?” I collected their menus back.
“Diet Coke for me,” Gabriella murmured.
“And coffee for me.” Mrs. Holland smiled innocently.
Shooting them one last look, I went over to Coulter and recited their order, highlighting the no-peanut rule.
“I know Gabriella.” Coulter wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his forearm, flipping bacon strips on the grill. “Don’t worry. No peanuts.”
Hurrying over to a corner of the diner, I pulled out my phone and started writing Cruz a text message.
This was stupid.
Surely, I wasn’t going to give up the best thing to happen to me since Bear (and Spanx) because of a few snotty people, even if some of them were my family. And I did owe him an apology for being difficult and pushing him away.
