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I straighten my shoulders and walk.
As much as I hate the lack of transportation, I can’t help but admire the town as I stroll toward work along the water. Some days, I can spot dolphins playing in the distance. Today, I’m not so lucky, but I do catch a glimpse of a manatee’s tail in the sailboat marina that sits a mile from my home. On the rare occasion that I get a day off, I like to sit on the end of the dock and check out all the sea life I can. That’s the real reason I moved here, after all. Last year, fresh out of college with a marine biology degree, I was ready to take on my new job at a rescue organization.
A week later, their state funding was cut, and I was politely laid off and left with nothing. No job, no savings. To this day, my mom still thinks I’m out rescuing dolphins and sea turtles. I can’t admit the truth even though there’s no shame in being a server at a restaurant. My mom has been one for thirty years, since she found out she was pregnant with my older brother and had to drop out of her softball scholarship at the University of Tennessee. There’s dignity in my job, although it doesn’t feel like it when my feet are bleeding from the blisters, and my stomach is empty because our breaks are revoked on busy days.
Again, it’s fine.
Just fine. Nothing more. Often less.
I make it to the resort and scan my card at the wrought-iron employee gate, greeting the security guard on my way in. After my shower, I listen in to the locker room conversation while applying my light makeup. Everyone seems to be buzzing with excitement.
“I’ve heard that he’s hot,” Jenine, the hostess at the restaurant, giggles. Her braided hair is up in a bun on top of her head, some of it falling around her earth-dark shoulders.
Rachel, one of the servers, rolls her eyes. “It’s just because he’s rich. I’m sure he’d be super average-looking if he was wearing a fifty dollar suit instead of a ten-thousand dollar one.”
“Who are we talking about?” I butt in, although I’m not usually invited to gossip with everyone else. I’m the head server for a reason, and that reason is that I’m fairly strict about working when I’m on the clock, not socializing.
Jenine eyes me for a moment, then says, carefully, “The new owner is here. Like, the biggest of the big-wigs.”
I prick an eyebrow. This is not what I needed to start my long day. I already deal with more rich jerks than anyone should have to see in a lifetime, and now I’ll have to be even more careful of some billionaire who’s my boss’s boss’s boss.
“Great,” I say, laying the sarcasm on thick. Even though I’m not really friends with these two, I am just as capable of disliking an unknown boss as Rachel.
They give me small waves when I leave the locker room. I’ll see them on the floor soon enough, but for now, I have to clock in, make sure the new dish washer knows what they’re doing, and get out on the floor.
If I weren’t trying to be professional, I would grumble about how dealing with the new dish washing trainee should be someone else’s problem, but I keep my mouth shut and paste a vapid expression on. I’m here to make tips, not complain.
But I really,reallywant to complain.
The trainee doesn’t seem to be here yet, so I grab a massive stack of small bread plates from last night’s clean dishes and head toward the server station, which is hidden behind an unassuming door away from the kitchen.
As I’m passing through the door, I call, “Entering!”
Apparently, the guy I smack into doesn’t get the message, and the plates go flying, most of them shattering on the cheap tile of the kitchen.
Chapter Three
James
I meant to go speak with the chef to get an idea of the working environment here, but it seems I’ve chosen the wrong door. I’m dressed plainly in slacks and a simple button-up to blend in, and my clothes don’t rumple for a moment as a tiny woman crashes into me, throwing small plates all over the floor. They shatter as they hit the plain white work-area tiles, and my eyes follow a shard that flies under a metal shelf.
“You have got to be kidding me,” the girl says, her voice low despite her evident frustration. Any normal person would be yelling by now. Perhaps she knows who I am?
Her stark gray eyes meet mine, and her face scrunches in absolute rage.
Quieter than her original statement, she hisses, “Are you the new guy?”
Surprised at my employee’s open rage toward me, I say honestly, “Yes.” I’m the new owner of the resort, at least, although I’m surprised anyone would be so straightforward and angry about my appearance. Maybe it’s because of the plates, but it’s not like they’ll be expensive to replace.
Without hesitation, she grabs my wrist and drags me back through the door she just came through. Her rage is palpable, and it sort of scares me.
“I know it’s your first day, but that was a pretty serious mistake,” she says, releasing me when we arrive in a dish-washing area. “Those were all the clean appetizer plates we had, and we’re gonna have customers in here in less than fifteen minutes.”
I consider correcting her on the date. I took over the company months ago, after my mourning period, so today is probably my hundredth day or so. Perhaps she means that it’s my first day visiting this resort? I open my mouth to ask why she’s so angry about a few plates, but she holds a finger up to stop me. I shut my mouth.
She continues, “I need you to get more washed. There are some in these cabinets—“ she gestures toward the metal cabinets “—that need to be washed before they go out. That’s the policy, although they should be clean. After you get me twenty appetizer plates, I need you to keep up with everything else. Got it?”
I’m starting to think that there’s been a misunderstanding. She strides over to a white preparation area, sliding a drawer open before throwing a small black piece of fabric at me. When I unfold it, it’s an apron. That’s when the realization dawns on me. She has no idea who I really am. She thinks I’m here to wash dishes, although that’s so far below my station as to be laughable.
