Page 1 of Good Taste
Chapter One
Taylor
The building looks abandoned,I think, hoisting my purse higher on my shoulder and double checking the address on my phone. It’s a match. This must be Green Valley Bistro. I can’t believe I’m back to waiting tables. I worked so hard to escape the hustle, and in the end, I’m right back where I started—stuck in the service industry, slinging hash.
I shake the thought from my head and tug on the metal handle. Locked, as I expected it would be. I take a step back, eyeing the frame for some sort of doorbell when the front door flies open. My hand flies to my chest and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I was out of the line of fire.
A tall woman with a sleek black bob stares me down. “You’re Taylor.” It’s not a question, though I nod in response. “You’re late. Get in, chop-chop.”
I want to be offended, to tell her that maybe I don’t need this job, but I don’t have the chance. She’s already through the door, which I have to catch before it closes—locking me out once more. Truth is, Idoneed this job. Rent, food, specialty coffee…they’re not going to pay for themselves.
Inside, it takes a few heavy blinks before my eyes adjust to the darkness. Before me stands an elaborate hostess stationwith the wordsGreen Valley Bistroscrawled on a placard in simple font. The walls are painted a navy blue so dark they read black. The beige and white decor with matching dark accents complements the restaurant’s overarching theme: expensive. I smile to spite myself. If I’m going to wait tables, it has to be where the checks are big, and in this sleepy little mountain town, tourist season is right around the corner. As much as it sucks to have our little swath of paradise invaded for three months out of the year, it’s also the reason we remain relevant to our meager, year-round population.
“We’re back here.” Thechop-chopwoman says, flicking her wrist to indicate that I should follow her. “Your resume is fantastic, but you’ve never worked in fine dining, but we’re desperate.” I flinch at her blatant judgment of me as she leads me toward a large table in the back where three other—I’m assuming to be—servers sit. “You’ll have to adapt quickly as we open in less than a week.” She gestures toward a chair and instead of running for the door, which everything in my gut tells me to do, I pull up a seat with the rest of the folks already sitting.
“Welcome, everyone. I’m Stasia.” She pauses, perhaps for applause, but we all just sit there wide-eyed. “I’m the Maître d', and who you’ll be directly reporting to for your tenure here.” A few of us exchange glances, wondering what to make of this sassy creature. “Get out your notebooks and get comfortable.” Her hot pink lips spread into a smile. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”
Nearly two hours and a large bottle of water later, we’re still scrawling menu ingredients and front of house expectations for the gig. If the prices on the menu were less, I’d leave. But dollar signs flash before my eyes. The tourists are usually from the city, specifically from the wealthier neighborhoods. One summer of this and I’ll have enough money to get through the off-season and figure out my next move.
But right now, Ireallyhave to pee.
I timidly raise my hand. “Excuse me, Stasia.” She glares at me, shocked to be interrupted. “I really need to use the restroom.”
“Christ, me too.” The guy next to me says.
Stasia’s gaze softens. “Oh God.” She curls the ends of her bob under with the tips of her fingers. “Sorry. We’ve been a little up in arms, trying to fit everything in before opening.” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes, of course.” The guy next to me’s chair nearly flies out behind him as he runs back toward the kitchen near the door marked “Wash Closet.” I’m seconds behind him.
My bladder shrinks three sizes when I see it’s the only restroom on the dining floor. “Shit,” I mutter, feeling the burn intensify.
There’s a line forming behind me, and though I’m next I truly cannot hold it. Damn that dude for jumping ahead of me. I’m the one that asked.
Typical. I think to myself.
The light in the kitchen is on, visible through the swinging door. I pop out of line and dodge through it. There has to be another bathroom in the kitchen. Something tells me that in a place like this, they’d frown on staff using the visible restroom…howhuman!
Squeezing my legs together, I wiggle down the hall. Bingo! I find the back of house restroom, nearly crying with delight. It’s almost comical. I laugh at myself as I finish up and wash my hands, catching a quick glance at myself in the mirror.
I smooth my reddish-brown ponytail and flick it over my shoulder. I didn’t have time for a full face of makeup today, but the restaurant’s not even open yet.
I balk at being back on a serving schedule. The long hours, aching legs, and painted on smiles that come with assuring I earn my paltry twenty percent. Still, I only have myself to blame for this.
I knew better. I knew exactly how it all would end.
I shake the thought from my head and click the light off behind me, then throw open the door—Bam!
“Jesus.” I gasp as the door ricochets back toward my face. I jump out of the way, narrowly missing a black eye. Doors are not my friend today.
The clattering of plastic bins against tile pulls my attention to the other side of the door, which I close behind me, and find produce scattered everywhere.
“Oh my God.” My hand flies to my mouth. A massive, muscular man in a white t-shirt gathers a plethora of onions and tomatoes. His tanned triceps pop and flex under the sleeves of his white t-shirt. “I’m so sorry.” The words nearly die in my throat. I’m fixated on what it would feel like to have those big, strong arms wrapped around me.
The man rests his palms against his thighs before running one hand through a mass of thick, dark blonde waves. He lets out a long exhale before meeting my gaze. His eyes are the warmest shade of honey brown I’ve ever seen. “I need a break.”
He scoops up the spilled goods and rises to his feet. My body nearly crumples in on itself. The brawny giant towers above me. He steps around me, casting one last lingering glance in my direction, and I watch him leave—unable to tear my eyes away from him.
He reaches into the white coat on the nearby wall hook, pulls out a set of keys, then uses his key card to unlock the back door before stepping out into the alleyway. My knees weaken beneath me.
I cannot do this again.
