Page 11 of Not My Billionaire


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“I’m not dressed right,” I say, gesturing at my black slacks and white t-shirt. Will that be a deal-breaker? She comes up and grabs my wrist, her touch electric.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “Our bus boy is a no-call, no-show, and we’re absolutely slammed in front-of-house.” She drags me past the kitchen to the office, and the manager looks at me, humor glittering in her eyes. She’s the only one here who knows my identity, and seeing the CEO dragged around by a server must be hilarious. Alexis says, “I need a tunic, stat!”

The manager pulls one from a cabinet above her desk, and when it takes me too long to figure out how to put it on—it’s not like a normal button-up shirt—Alexis smacks my hands away and does it herself. Her fingers brush against my throat when she gets to the top, and I wonder if she can feel my heart pounding at her touch.

After that, she takes me to the front. She hands me a rectangular black container of some sort, as well as a small bucket with a white rag. “Scrape off the dishes when you get in the back. Don’t leave a table without wiping it. We went over on reservations, so we have to get tables out as quickly as possible.”

I nod, excitement coursing through me. I don’t get to see any real action in the dish pit, but now, I get to see how this business really works.

I’m a bit clumsy at first, but I get the hang of it fairly quickly. I put all the dishes and trash in the tote haphazardly, wiping the tables and chairs down as fast as I can. Whenever there’s a cash tip on a table, I have to identify the server and get it to them, because there’s no time to wait for them to come to the tables, not when the place is this crowded.

Every time I make it to the dish pit, Hector is slammed, doing everything on his own. “You owe me,” he says, although he doesn’t seem angry. I nod, then get back out there.

Working the house is like a delicate dance, and I learn the lingo fairly quickly. “Behind,” I say whenever I have to pass a server. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s day like I did with Alexis, so I’m careful to inform anyone when I’m around. “Door,” I call when I enter the dish pit, although I’m almost always the only one entering and exiting. The servers are all too busy to refill the appetizer plates, so I’m also making runs for them. There’s a separate door for the kitchen employees, for which I’m thankful.

The greatest thing, though, is watching Alexis work. If this job is like a dance, then she’s the prima ballerina in the spotlight, an expert at her craft. I’ve only been at it for a couple hours, and I have no idea how she does all of this. Each of her tables has full drinks and happy faces, and she remains confident everywhere she goes. It’s clear why she’s the head server, and pride rises in my chest for some reason. I wonder why for a moment, but then I’m tossed right back into the action.

This is a closing shift, and those usually let me out by twelve-fifteen at night, shortly after the restaurant empties.

This time, though, Hector comes to say goodbye, and I’m stuck doing front-of-house work, wiping tables and booths, sweeping, and refilling the salt and pepper shakers. I find that I don’t mind the work, my busy hands keeping me from thinking about too much. It’s almost meditative, and by the time I’m sitting and folding silverware into cloth napkins with Alexis, I realize that I haven’t thought about my troubles all day.

Everyone else has gone home, and the lights are dim.

“Thanks for helping out,” she says, sitting across from me at one of the booths as we fold the silverware up like burritos. The intimate light makes her skin glow, and I have to work hard to avoid staring at her face.

I glance at her. “Of course,” I say. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice in the matter, considering she literally dragged me out of the dish pit and put the tunic on me herself.

“I finally have a day off tomorrow,” she says, her tone ecstatic. “I don’t think I’ve had one of those in months.”

That shocks me. Even when I’m taking an active role in running the company, I usually have two or three days off per week. Sometimes four. How does the CEO have to work less than a server? I guess the low pay would force someone to work more hours, but still.

In such a short time working here, I find that there’s a lot I don’t know about the world I run. For one, everyone here works a thousand times harder than I ever have. I used to think that my hard work would mean I deserved my riches, but in comparison, I just might be the laziest person alive.

“I have the day off, too,” I say, just making conversation.

A small smile plays across her lips. “A friend and I were thinking of going to the beach,” she says. “Maybe you could join if you aren’t doing anything.”

I freeze, forgetting, for a moment, how to fold napkins. When my brain reboots, I have to restart the napkin I was on. I should really do some of my CEO duties tomorrow, but the board insists that they don’t need me back for at least another month. My dad’s closest friend, Gary, told me to take all the time I need. He’s the only one on the board who doesn’t seem annoyed or amused by my existence, and I trust his judgement.

“I might,” I say. “I haven’t been to the beach in a long time.”

The last time I went was on a vacation to the Italian coast with my parents, and a pang runs through my chest. Will my memories resurface if I go to the beach? Will I have a total breakdown?

Still, I find myself wanting to go. Spending time with Alexis outside of work is a gift, and I’m not going to waste it.

“Here,” she says, writing her name and phone number on her notepad, ripping off the sheet of paper, and sliding it over to me. “Text me if you decide to go. You can meet at my place.” After a pause, she adds, “You can invite Hector, too. Or anyone you want.”

I smile and take the number, putting it in my pocket.

“Thank you,” I say earnestly, looking into her eyes the color of the sea.

Chapter Eight

Alexis

I’m not sure why I invited James to the beach. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t seem to have many friends, but deep down I get the feeling it’s more than that.

He texts me at nine in the morning, although I’m not up until eleven. I reply with my address when I’m up, and he arrives shortly before noon, dressed in a pair of gaudy orange swim trunks and a tank top with a beach sunset logo splashed across the front.

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