“See!” My best friend claps her hands together and bounces on her heels, excited as hell to have some backup on this. “I told you so!”
“You’re both deranged.”
“And you both have tables. Get movin’, ladies!”
Beth takes off in a hurry like she was never here, always on the go.
“Darn.” I snap my fingers. “Just my luck. Gotta go work.”
I snatch up the full glasses and hurry toward my customers before Drew can corner me again.
“How convenient!” she calls to my retreating back. “We aren’t done talking about this, Wren!”
Shaking my head, I stop in front of Randy and Blythe’s table, making sure not to make any eye contact.
“What’s the spunky one going on about?” Randy asks.
“Nothing worth repeating,” I insist, setting the glasses down in front of them. “I’ll be back with your slices in a jiffy.”
“Jiffy. Jif. Peanut butter! Give me peanut butter with mine, baby doll!”
“You are a horrid creature and should be ashamed of yourself.” Blythe scolds him for us both, and I’m thankful, becauseew.
I pull my pen and notepad from my apron, heading toward table ten.
“Welcome in,” I say as I approach the couple, keeping my attention focused on the woman. Last thing I want is to stare at her date for a second too long and her accuse me of anything untoward. Learned that lesson my first week here. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have a Diet Coke,” the woman says. She gives a flirty laugh when she says this, and I scrunch my brows together, not getting the joke.
“Okay…” I pretend to jot it down so I can avoid looking at the guy. “And for you?”
“Your best IPA,” he answers.
Yes, because I know exactly what you’re referring to…
I flit my eyes to him for a moment, biting back my sarcastic response. He’s grinning up at me and there’s something familiar about him, but I brush it aside, moving my eyes back to my notepad before I get accused of checking him out or something.
“Which one would that be?” I ask.
“Beer Wars, A New Hop.”
I scribble it down with a grin. Thatisthe best one.
I return my attention to the woman. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?”
“Well, since we’ve had plenty of time to look this over…” she says pointedly, lips pursed with annoyance.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her off because they were only sitting here for maybe five minutes, but I resist.
Barely.
“I’ll have a large chicken apple salad,” she continues after a dramatic pause. “Nodressing. Not on the side or anything. None. At. All.”
“Got it,” I mutter, writing down the woman’s order, wanting so badly to comment on her insistence on not having dressing. What sort of psychopath eatsdrysalads?
“For you, sir?”
He chuckles at this, but I ignore him, pen poised and ready for his order.