I’m supposed to be reviewing payroll numbers, but the spreadsheet on my laptop is untouched. All I can think about is last night. Her texts. The way we made each other feel.
It’s burned into my skull. And I can’t decide if I should feel like the luckiest bastard alive or the dumbest.
Because now I’ve got to figure out how to come clean. How to sit across from Faith Easton—the girl I’ve wanted since high school, who also happens to hate my guts—and admit that the guy she’s been sexting for the past week is me. Hunter. The guy she calls arrogant. The guy her father tried to tackle in the church lobby.
Great plan. Real smooth, Holloway.
The door bursts open.
Ty barges in, his expression already irritated. “Hey, man. Table twelve’s complaining their steak’s overcooked.”
I pick up the football on my desk and spin it on my finger. “You know what to do.”
“Comp it?”
“How many times have I told you, the customer is always right.”
“It’s a fifty dollar steak, Hunter. We can’t just comp everything.”
I set the football down and lock my eyes on Ty. “How many ways do I have to explain this to you? We’ll lose more potential revenue down the road from a bad Yelp review than we will from a steak which cost us fourteen dollars.” I squint, since Ty’s expression is still blank. “Dude, how is this not sinking in yet?”
Ty closes the door and sits down.
“Okay, I’ll comp it. Fine.”
“And next time, don’t waste your time coming up here to ask me. Just do it.”
He nods slowly.
“Is there something else?”
“What are you doing up here? Why haven’t you come down to the restaurant floor?”
I feel my chest clam up.
Because Faith, AKA Luna, is down there.
See, Ty and I grew up neighbors since we were in the womb. We’ve been through an all-time level of shit together. As a result, he knows I’m going to sneeze before I do. It’s quite the bromance.
When I’m acting even one degree off, because, say, I rubbed one out while sexting with our new trainee who also happens to be in the family of my posse’s worst enemy, who I met at a sex club, he notices something’s off.
The real reason I can’t go down to the restaurant floor is because, once I do, the jig is up with Faith. “Luna” will hear Thor’s—aka MY—voice on the floor, and know that I’m Hunter, the guy she hates, not Thor, the one she has a crush on. I even confirmed that she hates Hunter in my text to her yesterday.
And God help me, I can’t stop thinking about our late night texting thing last night, when Faithorgasmed in the tubfrom the pic I sent.
“I’m just staying up here because I want you guys to be able to run the place when I’m gone for the season,” I lie. “I’m letting you practice being independent.”
Ty sits back in the office chair across from my desk and folds his arms, examining my body language. “You love being down there and joking with everyone though.”
“And I, uh, decided to double-check the numbers from last week,” I say.
“Check the numbers?” Ty laughs. “Okay, now Iknowyou’re full of shit.”
“What?” I scoff. “Fuck you, dude, no, I’m not.”
“You hate running numbers, dude.”
“No, I don’t. I’m, ah, trying to be more disciplined.”
