“She ordered the fried fish,” I mutter.
I’d had a sixth sense she meant the grilled fish dinner instead, but I was double-sat and didn’t have time to walk her through the menu like I normally would’ve.
“Well, she says everyone else ordered the fish dinner, and she thought she did too.”
“Fine. I’ll fix it.”
I head over, planting my best customer-service smile on my face.
“Hi, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry about the mix-up.”
Inside? I feel like I could throw up. Too many emotions, not enough oxygen.
“You should be,” she snaps. “Now I’ll have to sit here and watch everyone else eat while my stomach growls.”
“I’ll have the kitchen fire that up right away.”
“Yes, you will. And you’ll take it off the bill.”
My jaw tightens.
I was going to suggest that. But I’ve never taken kindly toorders.
I rush back to the kitchen and beg our chef—my Uncle Dan—for a rush order.
“The things I do for you, Faith,” he mutters.
That’s the thing about working at a family restaurant. Every favor comes with a tab—emotional or otherwise—and it always comes due.
Dan glances past me, into the dining room. “Is that Hunter Holloway?”
“Yep.”
“What the hell is that son of a bitch doing in our place? They run out of food next door?”
“Uh… he’s probably hungry?”
“They just opened that shiny new bar down the street. Why the hell would they come here now?”
“I don’t know. But I do know I need that fish dinner, like, yesterday.”
Dan grunts, but plates it fast. I grab it and hurry back out.
Thankfully, once the older woman takes her first bite, she softens. Crisis averted—for now.
I drop off the wine and perch at Keith and Dave’s table with a little moreforcethan necessary.
“Keith,” I say, trying to keep my voice low, “can we please talk about this?”
I hate how I sound. Desperate.
Like I’m clinging.
Damn it—I’m begging. And I hate feeling weak.
“Babe.” Keith gives me that easy grin. “You know it’s all going to work out. Relax. It’s just a little Rumspringa.”
“So… a break. You want a break.”
