late tonight,” Skylar says when I enter the kitchen to pick up an order. “I didn’t realize how slammed we’d get.”
“No problem. I can always use the money.”
She gives me a motherly look. “You know you can pick up extra shifts if you need to, and if you’re in a real bind—”
“I’m good, Skylar. Thanks, though.”
Skylar Pearce is the owner of Mitchell’s, the restaurant where I work. Her name used to be Mitchell before she got married to her hot photographer, Griffin Pearce. Their story is a tearjerker. Maddox, Skylar’s nephew—who also happens to be my best friend and roommate—told it to me a while back. Skylar isn’t just my boss, she’s like the mother I never had. Or more accurately, haven’t had since I was six years old.
I deliver three steak dinners to the guys at table fourteen. I don’t miss how they stare at my cleavage as I place their meals before them. “Will there be anything else?”
“Ketchup, please,” the dark-haired one says.
“Coming right up.” I take a bottle from the wait station and put it down in front of him.
The blond one tries unsuccessfully to grab my hand. I raise my brows at him.
“How about more lemons for my water?” he says.
“Of course.” I scurry back to the wait station and put four wedges on a plate. I set them on the edge of the table so he won’t reach for me again. “Will that be all?”
“Yup. Thanks.”
“Miss,” one says as I walk away. I turn, and he holds up his beer, which was half full a second ago. “I’d like another, please.”
I paste on a smile even though I want to string them up by their balls. “Sure thing.” I cross to the terminal and punch in the order. I check another table on my way to the bar; they don’t need anything.
I like hanging out in the bar. They have good music here—they listen to the radio instead of the stuffy piped-in elevator crap heard in the main dining room.
“Everything okay?” Maddox asks.
I stand at the end of the bar, waiting on the beer. “The usual grabby customers.” He stops pouring and puts on the big brother face he does so well. I know what he’s about to say, so I stop him. “It’s fine. They aren’t too bad.”
“I’m off in a few. How about you?”
“Just need to close out my last two tables.”
“Want to get a drink after?”
I shift my weight from one leg to the other. “Not really. My feet are killing me.”
“Drinking might help.”
I laugh. “Raincheck?”
“Always.”
“Thanks. I just want to go home and sleep for twelve hours.”
He puts the beer on the counter. “See you in a few. We can walk home together.”
I place the beer in front of the guy with the bulging muscles. He immediately picks it up. I can tell he’s flexing for me. I try not to roll my eyes.
He squints to read my name tag. “Reece. Nice name.”
“I’ll be sure to thank my parents for you. Can I get you anything else?”
“How about your phone number?”
Oh, that’s original. “Sorry. House rules.”
He seems confused. “The restaurant won’t let you give out your number?”
“I meant my house. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other tables.”
I hear a slow, quiet whistle as I walk away and ignore it. A minute later, I’m summoned back to get yet another drink for one of them.
I close out my other table and wait at the bar for the guy’s drink. I listen to the radio, liking the song that’s playing. Maddox puts the order in front of me, and I linger, wanting to hear the rest of the song. My heart races when I realize I already know the next words before they’re sung. I drop the drink, and beer and glass shards fly across the floor.
Maddox runs out from behind the bar. I think he says something, but I don’t hear him. I’m listening to the song. He tries to get my attention.
“Wait!” I snap.
“Reece, what the hell is wrong?”
I’m glued to my spot as I strain to hear every lyric.
“Reece!”
I sit on a barstool, unable to remain standing. “That song,” I say in disbelief. “That’s my song.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The song that was just on the radio. It’s mine. I wrote it.”
Realization dawns, and there’s a huge smile on his face. “Holy shit, that’s fantastic!”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not one of the songs I sent to agents. I wrote it when I was eighteen.”