Wyatt sets down the glass he’s holding and braces his hands on the bar.
“Ms. Whitfield. Eleanor.” He says my name like it costs him something. “Have you ever worked in a bar before?”
“Well, no…”
“Have you ever worked in any service industry at all?”
“I run an etiquette school. That’s a service.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Teaching rich kids which fork to use isn’t the same thing as serving drinks to a packed house while live music plays and people are line dancing and someone’s inevitably going to spill beer on someone else’s girlfriend.”
“Well, I understand that, but I am a quick learner and I?—”
“You’ll get in the way,” he interrupts. His voice is not unkind. It’s just firm.“You’ll slow us down, confuse the customers, and probably end up getting hurt. No offense.”
“None taken,” I say, even though I take plenty. “But I’m not asking for your permission. I’m informing you of my decision.”
We stare at each other across the bar. It is a battle of wills, and I refuse to be the one who blinks first.
He finally sighs.
“Fine. But you’re shadowing Dolly, and you do exactly what she says. If she says stop, you stop. If she says leave, you leave. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
CHAPTER 6
The first hour isn’t really that bad.
Dolly takes me under her wing with the patience of someone who has definitely dealt with worse. She shows me how to carry a tray. “Balance is everything, sugar. You lose the tray, you lose your tips.” How to navigate the crowded floor.
“Hips first. Always lead with your hips.” And how to take orders correctly. “Write it down. I don’t care if you think you’ll remember. Write it down.”
I follow her through the bustling crowd, my notepad in hand, watching her work. She’s amazing, greeting customers by name, recalling their drink orders, and smoothly redirecting a handsy customer with a joke that makes him laugh. She definitely knows what she’s doing with each customer, and I start taking notes.
“You’re doing good, darlin’,” Dolly says during a brief break. “Just keep watching and?—”
“I’d like to try to take an order,” I interrupt. “Just one table, to see if I can do it.”
Dolly’s eyebrows rise toward her impressive hairline.
“Honey, I don’t think?—”
“Please. I need to know if I can do this.”
She studies me for a long moment and then sighs in a way that suggests she is already regretting it.
“Fine. Table seven. It’s old Mr. Patterson and his buddies. They’re harmless.”
Table seven is occupied by four elderly men in various states of flannel, drinking beer, and engaged in what appears to be a heated debate over fishing lures. I approach with my notepad and my most professional smile in place.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Can I get you another round?”
Four pairs of eyes swivel toward me, looking confused.
