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The girls who were on their way out were amazing not just that day, but each following. They made sure extra side work was done, so I didn’t have to do too much extra moving around. And when Maureen saw, once she showed up to relieve me, insisted that I not even bother to try to clean as I went, that she would cover it until I was better.
“I once had to serve tables with a broken leg. I was wheeling around this place on an office chair. If it weren’t for the other ladies I worked with, I would have been out of work and quickly homeless. We have to stick together.”
I won’t lie.
Those first two or three days had me going into the walk-in to cry several times during my shift.
But once I figured out how to get around with as little pain as possible, I got the hang of it.
It wasn’t pleasant, but it was doable.
And I found that the sling made the customers give me a little more grace than they would have without it. I even had a table of teenagers jump up and help me pass out food on a busy night.
It was frustrating to have to adapt everything in my life, but it was getting easier day by day, and because I was getting accustomed to the pain.
Soon enough, the stitches would be out, and things could mostly go back to normal.
Plus an extra five grand.
Almost as if I conjured him with my swirling thoughts, I turned around… and there he was. Standing there. Watching me with those dark eyes of his.
Over the past week, I’d slowly but surely convinced myself that there was no way Salvatore was as attractive as my memory would have me believe.
But then there he was. In black slacks and a matching button-up, looking devilish and so sexy that it felt like a gut punch.
“Hey,” I greeted, using my overly cheery customer service voice. “I’m a little short-handed tonight,” I said, as I’d been saying all week. “Would you mind grabbing yourself a table and a menu?”
While I attempted not to melt under his strangely heated gaze.
“No problem,” he agreed, reaching for one of the laminated books that had a nerve to call themselves a menu, then going to the far corner booth, away from everyone else.
So he could pass me the money in secret.
Since that was the only reason he was there, I reminded myself as I brought the food over to one of my tables, took the order for a second, then grabbed him a cup of coffee and creamers, then made my way over.
“Busy,” was what he said to me as a greeting.
“Yeah. It usually is. Not many lulls except on Tuesdays, for some reason. Or during bad weather.”
I liked the tips, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t mind if a big storm blew through the city and gave me a little break either.
“I brought you a coffee,” I told him, even though he was already reaching to grab the sugar. “I know it’s late, but I figured you were the kind of guy who can drink it and go right to bed after,” I said.
Why was I rambling?
He clearly wasn’t interested in having a conversation with me.
I mean, I’d reached out to him about my wound, expecting a little back-and-forth at least, only to have him send me back a one-word answer.
I guess I was the only one dealing with a little residual, pesky, unwanted attraction.
I mean, I just… there had been a moment in my kitchen. Or, at least, I thought there had been one.
But maybe that was all due to pain and blood loss and confusion and lack of sleep.
Of course some hot, older, worldly mafia guy wasn’t going to have the warm and tinglies over some random waitress he’d fished some bullets out of.
God, what the hell was wrong with me?
