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You always knew you were going to leave. Besides, the orphanage taught you what it means to be on your own and rely on yourself.
And it was something I will always be grateful for.
Life had let me down too many times.
I was the only one who had my back.
“We should celebrate. I’ll make you dinner later in the week,” Mrs. Gina offered in a quieter voice. “I’ll let you get back to work, dear.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s going to be okay,” Mrs. Gina added in a lighter tone. “Keep your chin up, Rachael.”
As soon as the line went dead, I placed my phone back in my pocket and straightened my back.
I could do this.
I had to.
Because I had little choice in the matter.
I had my own back, I always had, and it was all that mattered.
Over the next hour, I raced back and forth between Mr. Monroe’s table and the kitchen, trying to keep up with his demands while he glowered. Each time he sent me back, demanding something else until he had me running around like a headless chicken. Ander watched from his podium and said nothing.
A headache began to form behind my eyelids.
By the end of the hour, I had crescent-shaped marks on the inside of my palms and bile in the back of my throat. Mr. Monroe had settled into his booth and was making his way through a bowl of soup when another man stepped into my section. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him sit down, selecting a booth two seats down from Mr. Monroe’s, and pick up the menu.
I made my way back to the other customer in my section, a tall blonde-haired man in a suit, my stomach twisted into knots. I took my notebook out of my apron and cleared my throat. He glanced at me over the top of the menu, his dark brown eyes wide and full of warmth and humor.
He lowered the menu and turned his full attention to me.
The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and a shiver raced up my spine. “Good evening. What can I get you?”
“Good evening,” he replied with a smile. “What’s good on the menu?”
I blinked. “It depends on your preference, sir.”
“Are the tapas any good?”
I paused and shifted from one foot to the other. “Yes, they’re really good.”
“How’s his salt?”
“Salt?”
He sat back against the booth and draped an arm over it. “The guy over there looks like he can’t make up his mind about the salt. He could just ask for no salt at all, and you could bring him a salt shaker.”
My lips twitched. “He could.”
“He looks like he’s been driving you crazy all night,” he added, with a shake of his head. “Don’t worry. Guys like him usually get what’s coming to them.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you an avenging angel or something?”
He threw his head back and barked out a laugh. “Not even close. I just know people like him. I deal with them a lot in my line of work.”
“Your job must suck.”
