Page 2 of Long Shot

Oh, the things I could do . . .

But no. I’m a waitress here. Happily waiting on people, serving drinks and food, living in sunny San Diego . . . I sigh. Okay, not so happily, but still, this is my choice and I’m making the best of it.

The food menu here sucks, and even though the bar serves some excellent drinks, which is what attracts most of their customers, the drinks menu could also be improved. The bar is attractive—elegant and stylish with white walls, dark wood, black leather furniture, and funky chrome light fixtures suspended above tables. The big stone fireplace against one wall nearly always has a fire flickering in it. Wood Venetian blinds on the windows shade the bar from bright California sun.

I check on my other tables, picking up a few dishes and transporting them to the kitchen, taking more drink orders, which I relay to Alex working the bar tonight. Often Beck tends bar himself, or sometimes Marco. Beck’s a charming flirt, though happily married, but that doesn’t stop female patrons from hanging around to talk to him, admiring his sexy tats, beard, and long locks. Actually, even the male customers like hanging around talking to Beck.

Marco is more serious than Beck, but has definitely lightened up since I first started working here, which seems to be largely due to his girlfriend Carrie. All three guys are knowledgeable about fine tequilas, but Marco is the connoisseur. But when it comes to serious, Cade is the winner. He rarely tends bar, spending most of his time back in the office with his spreadsheets and graphs and sales charts. When he’s not out screwing half the female population of Southern California.

I carry the food my bosses ordered to the table and they all begin passing the platters around, serving themselves nachos and poppers and chips. I wait expectantly, holding my tray in both hands.

“This is the new item.” Marco picks up a cheesy Tater Tot and pops it into his mouth. He chews. And swallows. “Well.”

“I know what he’s trying to do,” I speak up. “Using some fresh ingredients would be so much better.” My lip curls again reflexively and I quickly try to tame that. “Those are made with frozen Tater Tots.”

One of Marco’s eyebrows shoots up.

Cade rises to his feet. “Hey, Reese, can I talk to you for a minute in the office?”

My stomach clenches at the grim look on his face and my skin turns cold. “Of course.”

I follow my boss back behind the bar, down the short hall, and into the office the three men share. It’s a cluttered space including two desks, one of which is covered with papers, folders, and binders as well as half-drunk bottles of tequila and inexplicably a bike helmet and a basketball. Cade’s desk, however, is neat and tidy, with nothing but a couple of file folders and his computer.

He turns and leans a hip against his desk. I stop just inside the door, my insides tightening.

Damn, why does he have to be so good-looking? The first time I met him when he interviewed me for the waitress job here, I took him to be a laid-back beach bum based on his appearance—shaggy, sun-bleached hair hanging over his forehead nearly into his stunning ice-blue eyes, dark gold scruff on his tanned cheeks and chin, and big, broad shoulders wearing a loose tropical-patterned shirt. His mouth is distracting in itself—a full bottom lip and sharply carved top lip I had to drag my attention away from.

It was hard to take him seriously at first, but I quickly learned he’s not laid-back and he’s not a beach bum. He’s the guy in charge—organized, efficient, decisive, and controlling. Waaaay too controlling.

Now I swallow, once more trying not to look at his sexy mouth.

“You can’t criticize our menu in front of guests,” Cade says, his eyebrows pulled together.

I bite back the words I want to say—the menu sucks. I’ve only been here a couple of months, and I don’t want to lose this job. But annoyance rises in me because he’s right, dammit. I would never have tolerated anyone who worked for me criticizing my menu. “I’m sorry,” I say stiffly. “It won’t happen again.”

One of his dark gold eyebrows lifts. “You sure? This isn’t the first time you’ve done it.”

I try to keep my face neutral. “I’m sorry.”

He fixes me with a steady gaze that makes my insides twist up. No wonder he has women all over him, all the time. Whorehound.

“What’s your problem with our menu?”

I press my lips together. “I don’t have a problem with the menu.”

“Funny, you seemed to have a problem with it a few minutes ago. And last week when you told a customer not to order the seven-layer dip.”

I make a tight, repentant smile. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He regards me thoughtfully for another moment, then lifts his chin. “Okay. Glad we set things straight.”

Taking that as a dismissal, I nod and hurry out.

Inside, I burn. I hate being told what to do. Hate making mistakes. And I especially hate serving people food that sucks.

I have to get over that. This isn’t my restaurant. I don’t have to care. I don’t want the worries and responsibilities. All I want to do is smile and serve people, collect my tips, and go home to the crappy little duplex I’m renting.

It’s so damn hard though, when I know I could make things so much better.

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