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I’m not above bribing, but since I have almost no social life, I’m also available to cover shifts when the restaurant is down a waiter, and that makes them grateful. There’s nothing worse than a bunch of customers who are mad because their food was cold, and that’swhat happens when we’re short-staffed on wait crew. The chefs take the blame, but it’s usually our fault.

When I walk through the door, I’m a little shocked when the head line cook points at me. Iggy isn’t usually a pointer. “You—we called a sub for you.”

I blink. “But I’m here—I’m not even late.”

“Our pianist canceled again.”

I suppress my groan and remind myself that this is just another way I can make sure that everyone loves me. On weekends, the fine dining at the Westchester always has live piano music. They usually want someone who can sing, but when the musician cancels, as flaky artists often do, well. Let’s just say that when I offered to pinch hit once, I didn’t realize it might happen once amonth.

The tips aren’t awful, and even though I’m asked to playPiano Manfar too often, it’s really not that bad.

Usually.

Most of the time the guests who come in are pretty busy with what they’re doing. Usually they want to come in, eat some food, chat with their dinner companion, pay the check, and leave. That’s the ideal, anyway. But sometimes you find people, especially when you play well, who stop eating, who don’t bother chatting, and who just turn around in their seats andstare.

I swear, I can feel their eyes on me.

After spending a lifetime learning to make no impression on others, to attract no attention, it’s disconcerting. There’s a reason I wasn’t a performance major. There’s a reason I never considered trying to write and perform my own music. I have a terrible voice and shouldn’t sing in public, for one, but for another, it makes me feel absolutely ill to have people staring at me. Talking about me. Paying attention to me.

I can usually muddle my way through, as long as it’s sprung on me.

Instead of grumbling, or cursing Paul for flaking again, I just put my bag in my locker and head for the piano. At least at five in the afternoon, there’s hardly anyone here. None of the few patrons we do have seem to care that I’m playing. There’s an art to not playingsoloudly that people can’t chat, but playing loudly enough that it createsambiance.

That’s one thing I’m very good at gauging.

About three hours later, right as my arms are so exhausted from playing that I’m about to cry, Stacy shows up. They usually stack musicians on weekends. There’s only so many songs you can bang out before you need a break. I get paid almost the same thing for a three-hour shift as I make waiting tables for six, which is pretty nice.

Unfortunately, before I can leave, Iggy catches my eye and shakes his head. “Lincoln puked in the sink. You’re covering section 7.”

I don’t argue. I don’t complain. I just nod and close my locker without touching my bag. It takes me almost half an hour to get caught up on his tables, whocannotbe told their waiter just puked his guts up. They were not super happy to have a twenty-minute interruption in their service, but I’ve nearly gotten them all happy when I catch a new table.

It’s only a two-top, but the client’s a VIP, apparently.

I used to think all VIPs would tip huge, but I was wrong. It’s honestly just as hit and miss with them as anyone else, but they’re much more likely to throw tantrums, so they almost always give them to their top servers, either me or Ollie.

When I reach the table, our host Frank is handingthem menus. “Not that you’ll need this,” he says. “Not with Beatrice as your waitress.”

“What does that mean?” The woman’s lips are pumped so full of collagen that I’m shocked she can talk at all.

“She has a magical skill,” Frank says.

I wave him off. “Stop with that.”

“I mean it,” he says. “It’s uncanny. If you answer just three questions, she can order the perfect meal for you. Guaranteed.”

“You’re kidding,” the man says.

“Not at all,” Frank says. “You should let her work her magic. You won’t regret it.”

I was so distracted by the collagen-lipped, saline-chested woman that I hadn’t even glanced at her date. When I finally do, I realize to my horror that I know him.

It’s Easton Moorland.

His sister Elizabeth is married to my brother Emerson. We’ve met twice now—once at their friend’s video game launch, where my brother Jake half-knocked him over when they arm-wrestled. Jake doesn’t ever play fair, but it was pretty clear at Emerson’s wedding that Easton hadn’t let it go.

And now he’s my VIP.

His company was doing well for years, or so I hear, but it exploded not that long ago, and I’m kind of sick of hearing about it. If I’m lucky, he won’t even recognize me.

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