“You need to pay attention.” The woman narrowed her eyes at me. You’d think I’d stolen the last piece of cake at her birthday party.
“Got it, heading to the kitchen,” I mumbled. Behind me, she continued to berate my lack of skill to anyone within earshot. I moved faster, carefully loading a fresh tray with an assortment of meticulously crafted mini-muffulettas. “You got this,” I whispered to myself.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. The first face I saw when I stepped out of the kitchen was none other than the displeased woman, her glare as sharp as the sequins on her dress.
“You finally remembered how to do your job,” she sneered. Her talon-like nails darted out to snatch a sandwich, and just as I thought she’d retreat to her lair, she reached for another, her greed tipping the scales of fate.
As she yanked the second sandwich with the finesse of a starved raccoon, she jostled my tray. Trying to salvage the situation, I spun back around, but her sandwich heist had thrown me off balance. My feet tangled, the tray wobbled, and before I could utter, “Please don’t sue me,” an explosion of muffulettas filled the air.
A mess of olive salad, sesame-seed bread, and deli meats rained down onto the pristine marble floor. The chaos knocked my mask and my jester hat clean off, leaving me standing there, fully exposed and surrounded by fallen hors d’oeuvres—all thanks to her double-sandwich greed.
The room went silent, save for the judgmental whispers and muffled gasps. The muffuletta-loving woman looked down at me with pure disdain, somehow managing to speak clearly through a mouthful of food.
“Utterly incompetent,” she declared before turning on her heel with a dramatic flourish, leaving me amidst the chaos I had created.
Flushing with embarrassment, I dropped to my knees to gather the wreckage. “Smooth, Anna,” I muttered under my breath. “Really smooth.”
“Here, let me help you,” said a familiar voice cloaked in an unfamiliar Australian accent. I looked up to see a man in a tuxedo and mask kneeling beside me, his piercing blue eyes unmistakable.
“Luke?” I whispered in disbelief.
He winked and handed me a muffuletta. “G’day, mate. Looks like you’ve had a spot of bad luck.”
I bit my lip to stifle a laugh as he dabbed at the olive salad with a damp handkerchief. “I thought you were going to stay home,” I murmured, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“And miss this? Not a chance.” He plucked a piece of olive salad off the floor and studied it thoughtfully. “You know, this reminds me of the time Hugh Jackman spilled an entire platter of shrimp cocktail on Oprah’s couch. People still talk about it. And look at him—he’s thriving.”
I snorted. “That didn’t happen.”
“Okay, fine.” He tossed an olive onto the tray with flair. “But imagine if it had? Hugh’s got the charm to pull it off. And so do you.”
I shook my head, focusing on cleaning the rest of the mess. “I don’t think charm fixes this.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” He crouched beside me with an exaggerated air of importance. “Did you know that Brad Pitt tripped over a waiter and completely took out the hors d’oeuvres table at the Oscars after-party? And Keanu Reeves? He once carried an entire fallen cake out of a gala while bowing to the audience.”
“Once again, you’re making that up.” I tried to suppress the giggles threatening to escape.
“I mean, maybe notKeanu, but wouldn’t it be amazing if he did that? Anyway, now it’s your turn to join the ranks of legends.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh any longer. “Great. I’ll be the jester author who dropped a full tray of muffulettas on a marble floor. Really iconic.”
He grinned, offering me a damp handkerchief to clean my hands. “Trust me, in five years, this will be your quirky success story. Every great writer has one. You’re just getting yours out of the way early.”
I took the handkerchief, shaking my head as I wiped my hands. “You’re weirdly good at making me feel better about public humiliation. What are you even doing here?”
He shrugged, reaching to pick up a piece of olive salad. “Topher mentioned he had an invitation to this masquerade ball, so I figured I’d follow your advice to see more of New Orleans. Little did I know that I’d be cornered into explaining Australian winters at least four times already. People areveryconcerned about how cold it gets in July.”
“Did they ask if the toilets flush backward, too?”
"Twice," he deadpanned, popping the olive into his mouth. "Also informed people that 'shrimp on the barbie' isn't actually a thing we say, which apparently ruined several people's evenings."
I laughed despite myself. "So you came for the cultural exchange?"
"Not exactly." He glanced at me, something shifting in his expression. "I came because I knewyou'dbe here. Been watching you work the room all night, actually. Awe-inspiring waitressing skills right up until the sandwich incident."
"Oh no, you saw the whole thing?"
"I had a front-row seat. You wore that costume well, then wore that muffuletta even better." His grin widened. "I was planning to just admire from afar like a reasonable person, but then I couldn't stay away. Had to abandon a very boring conversation about someone's timeshare in Destin."
