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“You’ve got feelings for that one.”
I shake my head and dismiss it. “Fuck you. Feelings. The only feelings I have for her are in my cock.”
“And she wants Evan’s,” Katrina adds, and I throw my cleaning rag at her. Katrina laughs, shaking her head. “Come on, don’t get caught up on her. She lives in a motel, she could be gone by tomorrow. I don’t know what her story is, but she’s got heartbreak written all over that perfect little ass.”
I glance back over at Ivy in the server station as Giana walks up to talk to her. Giana rips a page out of her notebook and hands it to her, and they both start making drinks. Her purple hair tumbles in long tendrils out of her clip, brushing against the bare nape of her neck. A neck that had my teeth in it last night. A silver bottle opener protrudes from one of the back pockets of her tight jean shorts, catching a flicker of light from the kitchen as she moves. It is a perfect ass.
I mumble a curse under my breath and pull a chicken breast out of the cooler, throwing it on the grill.
I don’t have feelings for her.
I repeat this to myself several times, over and over, as I flip the chicken, sauce it, and slide it into a bun with lettuce, tomato, and pepper jack cheese. I tuck it into a small styrofoam container, and call Mia over as she’s walking by.
“Can you watch Ivy’s tables for a few minutes so she can take a break?”
Mia’s eyes narrow, but she slowly nods. “Yeah, I’ll cover them.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as I approach the mic. “Table 23, please,” I announce.
I see Ivy pause mid-step near the bar, and pull her notebook out of her apron. She flips through several pages, then walks toward the window in confusion.
“Table 23 is gone. I just cleared it,” she says, looking up at me.
“I know,” I say, sliding the small to-go container over to her. She picks it up, and pops the lid to see a chicken sandwich just as she ordered it that first night I saw her. “Kitchen screw-up,” I explain. “Go take that break.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I just got sat.”
“Mia’s got it. Go,” I say, nodding toward the back door. She glances between the dining room and the door, weighing it. Hunger wins in the end, and she picks up the container.
“Thank you,” she says. The sincerity in her tone nearly breaks me, and plants that seed of doubt in my head that I want so furiously to water and grow, that says she doesn’t want him over me. I watch her until she disappears out the back door, then turn to face the grill.
“Cock feelings don’t make chicken sandwiches,” Katrina announces, shuffling pans over the fire.
Iroll my eyes. “Yeah? What do you know about it? How’s Sophie, anyway?”
“Gone,” Katrina answers, not skipping a beat. “Caught me coming home with Amanda.”
“See, who are you to give any kind of advice when your relationships are knee-deep in a dumpster fire?”
She shakes her head. “I wish I could say it wasn’t worth it.”
“Me too.”
She glances over at me, sweat running down the short, bleach-blonde strands of her hair plastered against the side of her face.
“It’s not nothing.”
“Maybe not,” I finally, grudgingly agree. She smiles, shaking her head, and pulls a pan off the fire.
Mia walks back into the kitchen and up to the window. She has her phone out, scrolling through photos.
“Where did Ivy go? I want to show her some of these outfits at Gwenevere’s,” she asks, and I raise an eyebrow curiously.
“Tell me why you’re going to Gwenevere’s, and I’ll tell you where she is.”
“Bass and Lace, of course,” she says, like I should know already. “We’re going shopping. I think I found just the right dress.”
Katrina steps up to the window. “Let’s see it. I like lace.”
