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“Babe?” Salvatore said, making me jolt, realizing with no small amount of humiliation, that he’d said something while I’d been lost in my own thoughts.
“Sorry. I, ah, spaced out there. What did you say?”
“I asked how your whole situation,” he said, waving toward my body. And, damn it, it warmed. Warmed. Maybe I was septic or something. Clearly, there was something not right with me, that was for sure. “Is doing?” he finished.
“Oh, well, I’m managing,” I said, sighing when I heard someone snapping their fingers at me.
“He fucking serious? Who the fuck snaps at a waitress these days?” Salvatore grumbled, and his grumpy tone made a smile tug at the corners of my lips.
“You’d be surprised,” I said, shaking my head. “Can you give me a minute?” I asked.
“Yeah. But don’t rush off to that motherfucker. He probably won’t leave you shit for a tip anyway.”
“You’re almost certainly right about that. But guys like that also leave nasty reviews. Which means I would have to have a meeting with my boss. A one-on-one meeting in his office,” I added, cringing. “Give me a second.”
I felt his gaze on me as I walked away, and as ridiculous as it may have been, if I was a little more healed, I was pretty sure I would have put some extra wiggle in my step for him.
Insanity.
But I was going to go ahead and try to tell myself that it was just because I hadn’t had a guy that hot in my presence in a long time. Not one who wasn’t a customer, anyway.
“Hey! What can I get for you?” I asked, getting back to the table that had been nothing but demands and complaints since they sat down.
The coffee wasn’t hot enough. Then it was too hot. The air was on too high. The table was sticky. The fries were soggy. The soda needed more syrup.
And, yeah, like Salvatore said, I would be lucky to get any tip out of them. I’d developed a sixth sense for knowing who was, and who was not, going to leave a fair tip.
Everything about this middle-aged guy with permanent frown lines and a shirt that was a size and a half too small, said I would likely get a note on the receipt about why I didn’t get a tip, rather than a tip itself.
“About goddamned time. My time is precious too, lady,” he said, and I had to bite back the urge to snap at him.
I wasn’t Maureen. I didn’t have the balls she did to give customers attitude, to snark at them, to outright tell them to get the fuck out of the diner if they didn’t like how she did her job.
Besides, I taughtteenagersfor a living. I was hardened when it came to nasty comments and even outright insults.
At least the teens had the excuse that their damned prefrontal cortexes weren’t fully formed yet, though. This guy couldn’t claim the same.
He was just an asshole.
But even assholes had to be served.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little shorthanded,” I said, using the line that had been working so well for everyone else. Unfortunately, this was not one of those cases.
“Not my fucking fault you came to work injured,” he said. “This bacon isn’t crisp enough. How hard is it to understand the word ‘crispy?’”
“I will get that fixed right up for you,” I said, plastering on a smile that was so fake, my cheeks hurt as I grabbed the plate of bacon and made my way back toward the kitchen.
I went ahead and took my time even after the cook was done tossing the bacon in the fryer, “He wants crispy, it will be to a fucking crisp,” he said, tossing the shriveled pieces of meat onto a plate, giving me a sympathetic eye roll.
“Some people just can’t be pleased,” I said, shrugging it off, trying to ignore the shot of pain that still sent through my system, then making my way back out into the front.
I’d just made my way out of the swinging door when my gaze went to my picky patron.
To find him facedown in his plate of pancakes, a hand on the back of his neck, holding him there, as Salvatore growled something in his ear.
My gaze shot around the restaurant, seeing the looks of confusion, shock, and a little bit of fear in the eyes of the other customers.
I felt all those things as well.
