Page 5 of The Making of Mila and Blake
I snort as Savannah instinctively touches her earlobe, cheeks flaring red.
“I so hate Tori,” she mutters under her breath as the hostess guides us to a booth by the window, overlooking the gas station.
And speaking of the devil, she arrives. Tori flails through the kitchen doors with her apron tied around her waist, her dark hair in a sleek ponytail, a pen tucked behind her ear and a notepad in hand. She clocks us immediately and makes a sharp turn toward us, a bounce in her step as she weaves around tables.
“Well, hello!” she welcomes us with a cheesy grin. “Thank God you guys are here to keep me company. Brian is totally riding my ass.”
“Maybe you should be a better waitress,” Savannah says, propping open her menu, “and not make jokes with the reservations.” She fixes Tori with a death stare.
“Aww, Earrings, c’mon! It was funny.” Tori pouts innocently, but the amusement the pair of them offer me when they bicker is quickly interrupted when a man in dress pants and a shirt advertising the restaurant flits past our table.
“Tori! This isn’t your section. Table nine needs refills,” he instructs as he passes.
Tori mock gasps as she flashes him a look. “Oops! Sorry, Brian.” But when she turns back to Savannah and me, she rolls her eyes and points a finger gun to her head. “Give me a minute. I’ll be back,” she says, fires the finger gun and then disappears to the opposite end of the restaurant.
Savannah shakes her head, like Tori’s work ethic is a complete tragedy, and our realwaitress arrives to take our order. I go for the buffalo shrimp, obviously, and then relax into the booth beneath the cool fanning of the AC.
“So,” I say with a suggestive arch of my brows. “Teddy.”
Savannah groans and says, “Ugh. He is such ahunk.” She rests her elbows on the table, her head in her palm, and gazes dreamily across the restaurant. For once, I can’t even blame her. Teddyisa hunk. Still, I splash a few drops of soda at her.
“Why don’t you ask him out already? He’s worked at the ranch for months now,” I say.
Savannah finally lifts her gaze, gaping at me in horror. “Are you kidding? He’s older, and so cool, and I just. . . I don’t want to make things awkward. I think it’s developing naturally, you know? And I am donemaking the first move.”
Tori scuttles across the restaurant and slides into our booth right next to me, shoving me along the bench in a panic. She reaches across the table to grab Savannah’s wrist and huddles the three of us together.
“Okay. Maybe I should have actually checked the reservation list earlier,” she says in a hushed voice, glancing back over her shoulder.
“What, Tori?” I urge. The three of us are pressed so close to each other that we shroud the light.
“I just saw them all park out back,” she whispers.
“Who?”
“Myles and Cindy. Barney.” Tori pauses as she steals a cautious glance at Savannah, then continues. “Nathan Hunt and that new chick he’s dating.”
Savannah pulls away and slumps back against the booth, folding her arms across her chest and forcing a disinterested eye roll. Her previous crush on Nathan Hunt, quite frankly, ended in complete disaster. She asked him out after weeks of texting back and forth, he said no, she burst into tears. I don’t blame her for being afraid to ask out Teddy after that.
“I’ll sneak some chili into his food for you,” Tori offers.
“And I’ll shoot him death glares,” I add.
“Tori!” Brian, the manager, snaps again as he passes once more, menus and water jugs in his arms. “We’re in the middle of the dinner rush, takeout orders are backing up, and table ninestillneeds those refills!”
“Ugh,” Tori mutters as she stands from the booth. “It’s like he actually expects me to work. Okay, but wait. The name on the reservation—”
“Tori!”
“Just one second!” Tori calls back to Brian.
“No!Now.”
“Go,” I tell her, waving her away. She may suck at this whole job thing, but I should at least encourage her to try. Gossiping with friends during the dinner rush will only get her fired, which I’m surprised she hasn’t been already.
Dragging her feet, Tori skulks off to serve the group of elderly gentlemen at table nine, her smile so strained I can only laugh. However, I wipe the smile from my own face when I turn back to Savannah. She’s perched on her seat, nibbling at the corner of her nail and glancing repeatedly at the door.
“Hey, hey,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of her. “Nathan Hunt doesn’t deserve your attention. C’mon. Focus on me and that Philly cheesesteak they’re cooking up in the kitchen for you.”
