reach inside the little pocket behind my credit cards.
“Here.” I take a passport-sized photo that’s been in that compartiment for more than a year, and place it over the menu, right next to her fingers. “You can keep it, and gaze hopelessly at it for as long as you like, but get me some food. I’ll have the chicken with a salad, and sweet potatoes.”
She looks down at the photo for a few seconds. Then, she looks back at me, and says, “You suck.”
As she walks away, I see her hand moving to the pocket at the front of her apron. My brows pull together in confusion for a second, but then I see a menu in her other hand.
I lower my eyes to the tabletop. A smile forms on my lips before the now empty spot where the menu and my photo used to be even comes into focus. I have never wanted to kiss anyone more than I want to kiss her in my life.
For the rest of my meal we exchange flirty insults, I pretend not to give a shit about her, and she pretends not to like me. Neither of us is convincing.
After paying for my check—just the meal, since I’m still twenty-three dollars away from having the no tips warning removed from my check—I walk to the jukebox, and browse through the selection I’m still getting acquainted with. My lack of knowledge in country music usually makes this decision very hard. Today, however, I know just the song. I flip through the selection until I find it, then I place my quarter in the slot and press B8.
I walk toward the restaurant’s front door as the first chords of Blake Shelton’s “My Eyes” start to play. Before I reach it, I see Lexie looking at me. She’s got a smile that says we finally broke that disliking barrier. From that moment on, all I can think about is seeing her again.
With a wink, I push the door and exit the diner.
B eing a good waitress is pretty simple. All you have to do is be quick on your feet, pay attention to orders, leave your personal life outside, and be friendly. I’m usually a great waitress, but today, I suck. Instead of being on the floor tending to my patrons, I’m locked in the bathroom for the hundredth time in the past four hours, typing a message to Tanie.
Me: I think I’m going to call in sick tomorrow. I can’t see him anymore.
I press send and lower the toilet cover so I can sit. I don’t close the stall door, though. I don’t want to have too much privacy, since stuffing my face inside the bowl and drowning seems too much like a good option right now.
It honestly feels like my brain left this diner with Mathew. I’ve been trying really hard to keep my mind focused on work, but everything makes me think of him. The songs on the jukebox, the orders I write down, the menus I deliver . . . it’s like everything in this place is connected to a Mathew memory. It’s like I’m tied to him, and I don’t like it.
I also hate that I like him so much. He’s arrogant, way too handsome, obviously rich, and has trouble blinking in shinny letters over his head, which is everything I despise in a man. But for some bizarre reason, I do like him. I really, truly do. I also know that whatever this is, it has heartbreak written all over it, which scares me beyond measure.
Since last Sunday, I’ve been doing everything I can to reverse my feelings for him, but all my attempts have been useless, and today’s effort was the one that backfired the most. Every rude phrase that came from his mouth and was countered by the playful gleam in his eyes did more damage than the compliments he gave me when he arrived. And then he chose that song, a romantic and completely inappropriate song—my favorite song, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since then. Well, that and the photo that’s been burning a hole in my apron since he gave it to me.
I take the photo from my pocket and look at it. His hair is shorter in it, barely touching his jawline, but it’s tucked behind one of his ears, which makes me smile. I hate that I’m
“Here.” I take a passport-sized photo that’s been in that compartiment for more than a year, and place it over the menu, right next to her fingers. “You can keep it, and gaze hopelessly at it for as long as you like, but get me some food. I’ll have the chicken with a salad, and sweet potatoes.”
She looks down at the photo for a few seconds. Then, she looks back at me, and says, “You suck.”
As she walks away, I see her hand moving to the pocket at the front of her apron. My brows pull together in confusion for a second, but then I see a menu in her other hand.
I lower my eyes to the tabletop. A smile forms on my lips before the now empty spot where the menu and my photo used to be even comes into focus. I have never wanted to kiss anyone more than I want to kiss her in my life.
For the rest of my meal we exchange flirty insults, I pretend not to give a shit about her, and she pretends not to like me. Neither of us is convincing.
After paying for my check—just the meal, since I’m still twenty-three dollars away from having the no tips warning removed from my check—I walk to the jukebox, and browse through the selection I’m still getting acquainted with. My lack of knowledge in country music usually makes this decision very hard. Today, however, I know just the song. I flip through the selection until I find it, then I place my quarter in the slot and press B8.
I walk toward the restaurant’s front door as the first chords of Blake Shelton’s “My Eyes” start to play. Before I reach it, I see Lexie looking at me. She’s got a smile that says we finally broke that disliking barrier. From that moment on, all I can think about is seeing her again.
With a wink, I push the door and exit the diner.
B eing a good waitress is pretty simple. All you have to do is be quick on your feet, pay attention to orders, leave your personal life outside, and be friendly. I’m usually a great waitress, but today, I suck. Instead of being on the floor tending to my patrons, I’m locked in the bathroom for the hundredth time in the past four hours, typing a message to Tanie.
Me: I think I’m going to call in sick tomorrow. I can’t see him anymore.
I press send and lower the toilet cover so I can sit. I don’t close the stall door, though. I don’t want to have too much privacy, since stuffing my face inside the bowl and drowning seems too much like a good option right now.
It honestly feels like my brain left this diner with Mathew. I’ve been trying really hard to keep my mind focused on work, but everything makes me think of him. The songs on the jukebox, the orders I write down, the menus I deliver . . . it’s like everything in this place is connected to a Mathew memory. It’s like I’m tied to him, and I don’t like it.
I also hate that I like him so much. He’s arrogant, way too handsome, obviously rich, and has trouble blinking in shinny letters over his head, which is everything I despise in a man. But for some bizarre reason, I do like him. I really, truly do. I also know that whatever this is, it has heartbreak written all over it, which scares me beyond measure.
Since last Sunday, I’ve been doing everything I can to reverse my feelings for him, but all my attempts have been useless, and today’s effort was the one that backfired the most. Every rude phrase that came from his mouth and was countered by the playful gleam in his eyes did more damage than the compliments he gave me when he arrived. And then he chose that song, a romantic and completely inappropriate song—my favorite song, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since then. Well, that and the photo that’s been burning a hole in my apron since he gave it to me.
I take the photo from my pocket and look at it. His hair is shorter in it, barely touching his jawline, but it’s tucked behind one of his ears, which makes me smile. I hate that I’m
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