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I’d been too nervous to pay attention last time, but he has to have this thing detailed regularly. It looks pristine.
Taking my time, I adjust the seat and the mirrors, heart racing as I put the car in reverse and back down the driveway. Thankfully, there’s a backup camera and sensors that alert me when I’m too close to things, because it feels like I’m driving a school bus compared to my little ratty car.
Despite its size, it drives like butter, rolling smoothly down the road and hardly feeling like I’m moving. Maybe one day, I’ll get an upgrade to something like this, although I’d prefer something smaller.
I park close to the restaurant, checking my makeup in the mirror a final time before grabbing my apron and heading inside. Sara waves at me from the hostess stand, her usual smile painted on her face, and after a quick hello, my eyes race across the room toward the bar, where Alessandro is standing, chatting to an older gentleman.
My heart flutters, heat prickling my cheeks before I realize what’s happening.
He’s stunning, and, like always when he’s near, it’s hard to take my eyes off him as I think about everything that happened last night and this morning. What I wouldn’t give to repeat it. What I wouldn’t give for him to drag me into the supply closet and fuck me against the shelves.
“Jessa,” Sara says, and I snap to attention. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” I shake my head. “No, I was thinking about something.”
“Alessandro wants you in section two tonight. Think you’re up for some parties?”
My stomach drops as my eyes swing to where the larger tables are. I haven’t been left alone in this section so far, but if Alessandro thinks I’m up for it, who am I to argue?
“Oh, that’ll be fun,” I mumble.
“If you get overwhelmed, just holler,” Sara says. “Trent is on section three, so he can help too if you need it.”
I nod. I haven't spoken to Trent much, as he mainly stays to himself and is in and out before there’s time for small talk, but at least there’s a third waiter tonight. Maybe things will go smoothly.
“Awesome.”
After clocking in and getting started on rolling silverware–a never-ending task here at Sal’s–the first tables start rolling in, and Sara seats them according to the rotation chart. She gets a couple sitting in the corner, and I get a family of five with an adorable toddler smack dab in the middle of the restaurant.
As customers pile in over the next hour, I try to keep a cool head. Muscle memory, that’s all it is. Drink order, food order, checks, take dishes, and wait for the busboy to clean off my tables. The process repeats over and over, with a few minor mishaps and bumps in between.
Nothing I can’t handle.
Nothing unusual.
Extra ranch. Lemon slices. More parmesan cheese. The requests have me running back to the kitchen more than I’ve ever had to hustle before, but I never fall behind. I bat my eyelashes at the gentlemen, flirting and laughing at their jokes like I normally do, being as personable as possible and watching my tip tab climb higher as the night goes on. Every dollar bill they hand me, I shove into the front of my apron until there’s a fat wad of cash there, and my chest swims with pride.
At this rate, I’ll have that first month’s rent in no time.
After jotting down another table’s orders on my notepad, I head to the kiosk near the kitchen to punch in the items. Then, I slip into the kitchen to grab two salads for a previous table and swivel my way back into the dining room. Sara’s heading my direction with a handful of empty glasses, and she jerks her head toward the front of the restaurant.
“Table three requested you,” she says, wagging her eyebrows at me.
I skid to a stop, careful not to lose grip on the salads. “But that’s your section,” I say.
“There weren’t any small tables open in your section,” she explains. “But it’s fine, I promise. They asked for you, so I’d hate to disappoint them.”
“If you’re sure,” I say as Trent squeezes around us and disappears into the kitchen. “I’ll get it. Thanks.”
Without a word, Sara’s gone to toss the empty glasses in the sink, and I zigzag my way through the crowded dining room to deliver my salads. I set them down, checking to make sure the table doesn’t need anything else, and I almost escape before a lady at the end asks for artificial sweetener for her tea.
“Of course,” I say with my politest smile. “Coming right up.”
Then, with a nod and a mental note, I head for table three at the front, wondering the whole way who could have possibly requested me. Have I really made such a good impression on the regulars that they want me to personally wait on them?
It gives me another boost of confidence as I hurry my way across the restaurant.
When I stop short next to the booth, already opening my mouth to introduce myself, I freeze.
