Ignoring him all day while having to share space with him might not be easy enough for me to crush this.
As a server,I simply don’t have ways to avoid going into the kitchen.
I have to turn in tickets and pick up orders, and Wilder has been using every second of it to his advantage.
We’re only an hour into opening, and the man has already found at least a dozen ways to remind me of exactly why I’ve been keeping my distance in the first place.
Running his fingers along the back of his knife as he’s chopping.
The smirk he gave me as I walked past the walk-ins.
And I swear he polished the line so it winks at me when I walk by it now.
If it were up to him, he’d probably put an engraved plaque in that spot, saying “Lexi Was Here” just because it would send me through the roof every time I saw it.
And while Wanda is gliding between tables, making it look like she was born to small talk with customers and remember orders without her pad, I’m over here learning the hard way why food service workers are the real MVPs.
It’s non fucking stop.
Take an order, check out a guest, reset a table, now table twenty-two’s drinks are low, forgot the silverware on that reset, and what happened to fourteen’s food? It’s been in the window for so long, Chef had to remind me to come get it before it turned into a dead plate.
And I wish I could say that was the only time.
The rubber on the soles of my shoes must be burning with the tracks I’m cutting into the floor today, back and forth, the tables, the server station, the kitchen.
To top things off, the humidity today is a Southern special, and summer is hitting early this year. Had to pull my hair back before it turned into one giant frizz puff, and let’s just say it isnothelping the ego (or my mood) today.
I notice table sixteen—all the way in the front corner against the windows overlooking Main—has someone sitting in it, and I’m relieved when I see it’s Weston Grady. My sister’s brother-in-law, who I see at family dinner most every Sunday.
What isn’t a relief is realizing it’s in my section, and not Wanda’s. How long has he been there?
Hustling over to him, still with the last table’s menu in hand, I hurry to get him taken care of. “Sorry, West. Didn’t realize you were in my section. What can I get you?”
“I dunno, you haven’t handed me a menu yet.”
He gives me that younger Grady brother smirk, but it does nothing for me. I’m immune to the Grady charm, unlike most women in this town. Probably by extension of my sister sleeping with one, it ruined them all for me. But that’s fine. They’ve both found their women, they’re set.
Huffing, I hand him the menu and stride right back to put in the order from my last table before I forget to. Again.
Mentally, I curse Wilder for somehow managing to order the largest menus the printer had to offer. They look more like road maps.
Weston speaks up before I can get far. “Hey, I don’t wanna ruin your day, but could you bring another? My date will be here soon.”
That might be my first genuine smile all day. Big Momma, here to see little ole me?
“Amelia’s coming?”
His head moves from side to side and I scowl at him, flash of a good mood vanished.
“If you’re seeing someone else, God help you, Weston Alexander Grady, Iwillgrab a knife from the back and find a new, creative use for it.”
Ugh! Now I’m remindingmyselfof the creative uses of the knives in the back?
My mind is a minefield since that night, nowhere is safe.
Weston must not notice my absolute internal meltdown—thankful for small favors—and reassures me it’s just his mom meeting him here for lunch.
Running through the doorway into the kitchen, I keep my eyes focused on the ticket in my hand, refusing to look up to acknowledge the asshole known as my chef at the station to my left.
