Page 77 of Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Duet 1)

Molly

“The coffee is cold and the creamer is warm.”

A few weeks ago, I would have rolled my eyes at the annoying customer and pointed out that his coffee was still steaming. Now, I take the perfectly fine cup back to the counter, refill it, and return with fresh creamer. The man doesn’t even say thank you.

It’s so strange being back waitressing again. I planned to leave the city immediately and get as far away as I could, but money was an issue. So, with only a little cash to spend, I took a bus as far as it could take me—just a few hours—and then I went back to the only thing I knew I could do. The diner I walked into had needed someone right away, so I took up an apron and went back to work as though nothing had changed. Though everything has changed.

I tighten my apron around my waist and grab the mop from the back closet. A couple and their little boy came in for pancakes, and he spilled the entire bottle of syrup on the floor. I’ve been mopping the spot once an hour all evening and the floor is still sticky.

He looked like Theo.

Not really. His hair was darker, his skin lighter, and he laughed like a deranged bird. The boy didn’t sound anything like my Theo.

But they were similar enough. Enough that I kept staring at him across the room, wondering what my son was eating for dinner. I lingered near their table, watching the mother fuss with his hair and tie a napkin around the boy’s neck for a bib.

I miss doing those little things for Theo.

I miss my son.

“There is a dead fly in the windowsill,” the man across the diner calls, waving his arm for my attention. “It’s disgusting. Can you come take care of it?”

The man has been sitting in the booth for an hour, nursing scrambled eggs and coffee, and he has done nothing but complain. When he arrived, I had four other tables with multiple people, and he still occupied sixty percent of my time. Now that the diner is empty, he is even more demanding.

I grab a handful of napkins from the dispenser at the bar and scoop the fly up. The man holds his hands over his plate to protect his cold eggs, as though I might drop the fly in them. Honestly, I’m tempted.

His hair is buzzed short on the sides with a bald patch in the center, and his hands are white and clean. Usually, people who have had to do manual labor their entire lives are more understanding of the working class. It’s the people with perfectly clean fingernails who make all the demands and refuse to tip because of a chipped coffee mug.

But this man makes even those people look reasonable.

“My fork is dirty. Can I have another?”

In your eye?I think, surprising myself with a bit of fire. I haven’t felt very fiery since I left Viktor in bed and Theo behind. Compared to leaving my son with my husband—it’s still bizarre to imagine that I have a husband somewhere in the world—nothing else matters. It’s difficult to get a reaction out of me these days, but this man is close.

I drop a new fork on his table with a grimace and turn back to the counter.

Before, I was working myself to the bone for Theo. I was working to care for him and provide for him, and his little smile was all the motivation I needed in the world to work hard. Now I am working so I can get on a bus and leave him behind. Which isn’t nearly as motivating.

Finally, the diner empties out save for the man, and after taking him more napkins, a new glass of water, and a third fork, he wipes his mouth, stands up, and leaves. I thank him for coming in, but he doesn’t respond, and when I go to bus his table, I realize he left me a single dime as a tip.

“Jackass,” I grumble.

“Hey!” I turn and the man is standing behind me. For a second, I worry he overheard me, but then he points outside. “My tire is flat.”

I consider chucking the dime at his forehead and telling him to use that to cover the damages, but he would probably call for my manager, and I don’t want to have to go into his office and interrupt him from whatever he’s watching on his computer. “I’m sorry but we aren’t liable for that.”

“You are if the pothole in your parking lot caused the flat. I drove through a swimming pool getting into that space and it wrecked my back tire.”

I sigh. “There are no potholes in our lot.”

“Don’t you work here? You must know that there is a pothole out there and that you are lying to my face right now,” he says, his face going red. “Come see for yourself.”

I glance towards the kitchen door, wondering if anyone in the back has overheard this buffoon and will come help me get rid of him, but the door doesn’t swing open, so I sigh and follow him outside.

It’s dark out and the lot is nearly empty, so it doesn’t take long for me to walk past his car and see the perfectly smooth gravel behind it. “See? No pothole. Now, you didn’t tip me at all, so I’m definitely not being paid enough to deal with this shit. So have a good night and please, fuck off.”

“Language, language.”

I jump at the unexpected voice and turn to see that the driver’s side window is rolled down.

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