I’m thinking he’s the kind of trouble I should stay away from.
By the time my shift ends at six, my feet are throbbing. Saltwater sandals were the worst idea I’ve ever had. As Mr. Morgan predicted, the place crawled with people. A consistent thirty-minute wait proved it.
I hand off my section to a girl named Gloria, then make quick work of yanking at the ties on my apron. I reach into one of the pockets and pull out my wad of tips, fanning it between my fingers with wide eyes.
Holy crap. Three hundred dollars?
Well worth the drink mishap at table nine.
I catch Mr. Morgan leaning against the bar, surveying the shuffle. From the giddy tap of his loafers to the drumming of his fingertips against his trousers, he’s glowing.
Folding my apron in thirds, I hand it to him.
“Pretty good turn out,” I say.
He shakes his head in astonishment, and a boyish grin lights his eyes when he looks my way.
“Amazing. I mean, I hoped bringing something new to Bear Lake would be just what this town needed, but I didn’t realize how many people would show up. One couple even came back an hour after having lunch just so they could experience drinks by the lake.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say, remembering my own first impression of the patio view this morning.
“You did great work out there,” he says, and I hide my face behind my hands.
“I stained that woman’s white pants with Diet Coke.”
A deep, hearty laugh tumbles out of him. “Could have happened to anyone.”
“Thank you for saying that.”
“We only agreed to a trial run…”
Oh, great. Here it comes.
I feel the beat of my heart start to accelerate in my chest.
He’s going to let me go and that compliment was just his way of making the blow less painful.
My throat threatens to close off, but I round my shoulders, determined not to show how deflated I feel.
“I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” he continues. “I’m sure this level of busy wasn’t what you expected.”
No, it wasn’t what I expected, I want to tell him,but it doesn’t matter because I need that tip money.
“I’m ready. I promise,” I plead.
The curls that frame Mr. Morgan’s part bounce with his boisterous nod. “Well, good then. It turns out, I could use the help.”
He reaches into the back pocket of his ironed slacks and pulls out a slip of paper, holding it in mid-air between his pointer and middle finger.
I snatch it from his grasp before he has the chance to change his mind about me. When I unfold the centered crease, I catalog two weeks’ worth of shifts as if he planned on me staying all along.
I could hug him! But I won’t. Because that would be weird.
“Thanks, Mr. Morgan,” I say, bolting for the back door.
The hallway is cramped with servers, so I slow to a speed walk before my spill count for the day increases by an entire tray of food. With my new work schedule waving in my hand like a flag, I wonder just how many shifts I’ll share with the owner’s son. Aside from our small talk during my rapid-fire training session this morning, Reed and I served on oppositesides of the restaurant where we barely shared a look, much less a conversation.
It’s good, I think.Better this way. It makes leaving a hell of a lot easier the less friends I make.
