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“Where’s Harlow?” he inquires, and it strikes me as odd, until I realize he’s not issuing a command but genuinely seeking information.
“She’s off today,” I respond, the subtle weight of unease still present. Retrieving my notepad from my pocket, I steady myself. “What can I get you?”
A transformation ripples through his being, as if a hidden entity within him surges forward. A smile graces his lips, banishing those lifeless eyes, but instead of easing my discomfort, the shift amplifies it.
“Tell me, Charlotte,” he murmurs with an intimate inflection, as if savoring each syllable. His tone carries a resonance that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine, a phantom sensation of lips brushing my skin. “What pies tempt our palates tonight?”
I glance over my shoulder at the pie case, realizing most of the usual suspects are diminished. “Looks like we’re down to apple and blueberry,” I report before pivoting back to him. His gaze is fixed upon me, those dead eyes resurfacing only to disappear in a blink.
It’s as though two distinct personas dwell within him.
“One of each,” he orders with a wink. “A dollop of whipped cream on top, if you please.”
“Anything to drink?” I ask as I jot down his order, mostly for his bill.
“Hot tea,” he replies, taking me by surprise. “Oh, I love that look on your face, that mixture of surprise and confusion. It’s quite delicious, Charlotte. I anticipate indulging in the array of expressions I can provoke from you.” His tone takes on a darker edge as he bites down on his lower lip, which seems uneven, almost as if all the attention went to the bottom lip while the top was an afterthought. “I want to savor you like a delectable treat.”
My throat tightens, the unease bubbling higher. I turn away, my steps carrying me from his table. Rude? Perhaps, but his unsettling presence keeps me on edge, and his disconcerting comment leaves me floundering for an appropriate response.
Who says that to a stranger?
“Ignore him,” Autumn says, handing me a plate for the pie. “Harlow does. Usually, she doesn’t even interact with him and his obnoxious harassment. If it’s too much, just tell Sal to take over.”
“I see how this night is going to go,” I mutter to her as I plate the pie. Apple stays in that perfect pie shape, while blueberries ooze out of the center of the other. “I’m here to take over the Monday night weirdos.”
Autumn snorts out a laugh. “Something like that. Harlow doesn’t let these assholes get to her. It’s her superpower. Don’t let them get to you either, and you’ll do just fine.” She makes up a few dessert plates of her own, placing them on the tray. “I’m out after this. Their tabs are with their pie. You just need to close them out.”
“I’ll put your tips in your lock box,” I assure her. Sal set up lock boxes for us on the off chance we miss out on tips because of our shift ending. None of us usually worry about it because he also pays us a livable wage, not something most restaurant owners do. “Why is the atmosphere so strange?” I ask, letting my inner thoughts spill out.
“What do you mean?” She gives me an uneasy laugh. I met Autumn when I got the job. She’s a part of our wine about it Wednesday crew, and in the two years I’ve known her, she never laughed like that.
She’s hiding something.
“You know…” I wave the pie knife toward the dining room. “It’s like… I don’t know, corporate merger meets secret service out there.”
Autumn looks out over the dining room, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder. Shrugging one shoulder, she says, “Maybe. They are just regulars, Charlotte, like your daytime regulars. These are mine and Harlow’s.”
“You’re right.” I sigh and go back to my task.
“Don’t forget the whipped cream,” she says before sauntering off.
I should believe Autumn, and typically, I would, but I can’t quite shake the strange feeling that continues to creep over me as I look out over the dining room. There’s just something off about this crowd, especially the guy at table six.
Thankfully, it’s only a half shift with closing time set for eleven. My thoughts eagerly fast forward to my bed, my pillows, and the comfort of sleep waiting on the other side. I just need to navigate through these next few hours.
Five
I’m not wearing a nametag…
The offending plastic glares at me from my locker’s top shelf. It’s cream colored with The Tulip’s logo on the right—an intricate and delicate flower etched in black—and my name in bold black letters to the left. It sits there on that metal shelf with the pin behind it, propping it up.
“Tell me, Charlotte, what pies tempt our palates tonight?”
The stranger with dead eyes flashes in my mind again and again as I stare at the piece of plastic. If an inanimate object could glare, it would do so tauntingly and maliciously.
“You’re new.”
His words, like gritty sandpaper, rub my skin raw until I feel uncomfortable enough to slam the locker door shut, only to open it again because I had a purpose for coming in here that had nothing to do with that name tag.
