Page 8 of Breakout
It will all be over soon enough.
It’s the only peace of mind I have over the entire thing.
two
“Thanks, Carl,” I say as he sets the last drink on my tray.
“Of course, Peyton.” He smiles before heading off to help a customer.
I heft the tray and make my way to the table of rowdy college guys. I work my way around the table, setting their drinks in front of them.
“Are you gentlemen ready to order?” I ask as I tuck my tray under my arm.
“Sweetheart, I’m anything but a gentleman.” One of the dudes winks, or well, tries to.
I ignore his lame attempt at flirting and look around the table, silently begging one of them to tell me what they want to eat.
“Don’t have a response to that?” one of the other guys asks.
I give him a forced smile. “Are you guys ready to order?”
“Are you on the menu?” a third guy quips, making all of them laugh.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Tips. I need the fucking tips.
“All right, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you. Might I recommend taking the time to look over the menu?”
Before they can say anything else, I turn and walk away. I check on a few tables and see that two are ready for checks.
“Hey Peyton, I sat your friends in your section,” Holly, our hostess, says as I finish running my customers’ cards.
“Thanks, Hols.” I smile as I pick up the tickets.
After I drop them off, I head to the table of hockey players.“Hey, guys,” I say when I approach.
“Hey, Pey,” the guys say all at once.
“Where’s Grace?” I ask Clay.
He gets this goofy smile on his face. “She’s in a study group. I’m supposed to bring her home food.”
I look over at Kellan and ask about my roommate. “I’m assuming Cora is at work?”
He nods. “Yeah, she wanted to finish up some paperwork. I’ll pick her up when we’re done.”
One of the guys shifts, pulling my attention to him.
Beckett.
An involuntary shiver takes over my body as I look at him. He smirks at me like he knows it too. He probably does. He pays far too close attention to me.
I’ve told him that he’s going to get us caught, but it doesn’t deter him.
He’s trouble with a capital T.
“Pey,” he rasps, making goose bumps crawl across my skin.
