Page 3 of The Hanukkah Hoax
“What’s the plan?” Eden whispered. “What are you going to do?”
“Talk to her, obviously.”
“Obviously. Because that’s totally normal for waitstaff.” Eden squared her shoulders and hooked her hands over the lapels of her bartender’s vest. ‘Uh, hi, Ms. Freeland. Could I interest you in some coconut shrimp while I take your empty champagne flute and tell you all about how my cranberry Christmas toffee is better than any you’ve tried because it won’t pull out your fillings?’”
“Your vote of confidence is truly inspiring.”
“I’m not here to inspire. I’m here to help.”
“So far, you’re doing neither. Oh my God, look!”
Across the room, standing next to an ice sculpture of a snowflake, Monica rested a finely manicured hand on her date’s forearm and whispered in his ear. He smiled fondly, kissed her cheek, and headed toward the bar, where Anthony was currently a dozen guests deep in backup drink orders.
“Shit. I better head over there. Anthony’s dying, and the party’s just started.”
Marisa grabbed Eden’s shoulder. “Wait. How long do you think it’ll take before Monica’s date gets his drink order filled?”
Eden squinted at the lineup of guests waiting at the bar. “None of those people look like they want simple pours. If I had to guess, there will be a lot of unreasonably specific requests and a slew of mixed drinks. You’ve got ten minutes tops, possibly less once I get over there and help Anthony.”
“That’s all I need. I’ve already timed it out.”
“Timed what out?”
“My pitch. I’ve managed to get it down to only four minutes, though it’s better if I have five. A whole ten minutes? Ha! Oh, I’ve so got this. By the time Monica’s date comes back with her drink, I’ll be shaking hands with the future of my dreams.”
If Marisa had to slide into her thirties on the coattails of the same shame that had followed her around the ass-end of her twenties, she was going to stab herself in the eye with one of her gourmet candy canes.
Chapter 2
Marisa hadn’t made it two steps outside the partition before she was spotted by the catering manager, Angela, who had been speaking to another member of the waitstaff.
Angela swung a finger in her direction. “There. Marisa’s free. Give them to her.”
“Sure thing, boss lady.”
The sound of Marisa’s name punching through her single-minded focus on Monica was almost as grating as hearing boss lady spoken alongside it.
Seriously? Did every position of power held by a woman need to be gender-qualified?
A tray was thrust under her nose. “Here you go. Angela wants you to take these over to that group of guests hovering by the charcuterie display.”
“I’m a little busy at the moment. Excuse me.” Marisa had begun to push Joey—Johnny?—out of the way, but her strongarm was blocked by the man’s regrettably immovable girth.
“You’re too busy for work? Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
“I’m on break,” she gritted out.
“Not according to the schedule, you’re not. I’m overdue my fifteen minutes, and Angela just approved it, so here.”
Owing to the client’s insistence that all the serving trays be silver plated, along with the precariously balanced crystal stemware and greasy food fare perched on top of it, Marisa had two choices: drop it all and make a run for Monica before Angela fired her and had her removed from the premises, or waste precious minutes serving guests before Monica’s date came back.
Four minutes, girl. All you need is four minutes.
“Fine. I’ll take them over.”
The server—Jerry? Giovanni?—scraped his forearm beneath his nose, sniffed deeply, and tunneled his hands beneath the starched polyester covering his beer gut to rest where she presumed a belt lived. “Of course you will. And when you’re done, head on back to the kitchen. I’ve got a few more trays ready to go out that I haven’t gotten to yet.”
She’d never worked with this guy before and desperately needed to never do so again.
