Rewriting Us (Rewritten Love #1)

Chapter 1

One

ZOE

I gripped the tray of food like a battle-worn shield, weaving through the chaos of La Bella Notte. The air was thick with the scent of garlic and desperation, a din of clinking glasses and boisterous chatter. Just another Friday night in waitress paradise.

“Order up for table twelve!” I hollered over the din, sliding a plate of overpriced pasta in front of a guy in an expensive suit. He barely glanced up from his phone, already shoveling carbs into his mouth. Charming.

The restaurant buzzed like a hive of well-dressed bees, each table its own microcosm of drama and culinary expectations.

A raucous cheer drew my eye to the far corner, where a pack of corporate bros surrounded a trembling waitress.

I recognized Lisa, our newest hire, her eyes wide with panic and her hands shaking as she clutched her notepad like a lifeline.

One particularly sloshed douchebag leered at her, his tie askew and his morals even more crooked.

Oh, hell no. Not on my watch.

As I started marching over, Lisa’s gaze darted around desperately, finally locking on me. The relief that washed over her face was palpable, her shoulders sagging slightly as if a fraction of the weight had been lifted. I gave her a reassuring nod, my best I’ve got this look firmly in place.

I approached, tray brandished like a weapon. “Hey there, Casanova,” I drawled, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “I hate to break up this little rom-com, but your carriage turned back into a pumpkin about three martinis ago.”

His bleary eyes swiveled to me, confusion giving way to annoyance. “The hell, lady?”

“Allow me to translate from drunk to English,” I said, gripping his arm with more force than strictly necessary. “It’s time for you to leave.”

As I hauled him away, the security guards finally decided to earn their paychecks, descending like well-dressed vultures to flank our inebriated friend.

“Zoe, you’re a regular superhero,” one of them said, clapping me on the back.

I rolled my eyes. “More like a waitress who’s allergic to creeps. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more tables to rescue.”

As I turned to go, Lisa rushed over, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Zoe, thank you so much,” she gushed, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t know what to do. You’re like… like a guardian angel or something!”

I couldn’t help but snort at that. “Guardian angel? Honey, I’m more like a slightly tarnished silverware ninja.

Less halo, more spatula.” I softened my tone, seeing her still-shaken expression.

“But seriously, you did fine. Just remember, in this job, you’ve got to be part waitress, part bouncer, and part stand-up comedian. It’s a delicate balance.”

Lisa nodded eagerly, hanging on my every word. “I want to be just like you when I grow up,” she said, only half joking.

“Whoa there, slow your roll.” I laughed, giving her a wink. “Let’s aim a little higher, shall we? Maybe independently wealthy cat lady or secret agent who never has to wear heels.”

Her eyes widened, a mix of amusement and admiration. “But seriously, Zoe, you’re amazing. How do you handle it all?”

“Years of practice, a dash of sarcasm, and a sprinkle of sheer desperation,” I quipped, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Look, we’ve all been there. Stick with me, and I’ll teach you all the tricks of the trade.

Rule number one: never let them see you sweat.

And rule number two: always keep a firm grip on your pepper spray. ”

She giggled, relief evident in her posture. “I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone says you’re the best.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” I winked. “But in this case, they’re absolutely right.” I paused for dramatic effect, then straightened up. “Alright, enough mutual admiration. These tables won’t bus themselves, and I’ve got a hot date later with a pair of fuzzy slippers calling my name.”

As we headed back to the floor, the kitchen doors swung open, releasing a cloud of steam and the aroma of garlic. “Yo, Zoe!” called out Marco, our lovably gruff head chef. “You gonna leave some tips for the rest of us or what?”

I shot back a grin. “Maybe if you learned to cook, Marco!”

He clutched his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, bella! Just for that, I’m eating your shift meal.”

“Promises, promises.” I laughed, snagging a fresh tray of appetizers.

The night continued its chaotic dance, but I was in my element. Regular customers greeted me by name; newcomers marveled at my ability to recite the wine list backward, and the tips… well, let’s just say I wasn’t going to starve this week.

“Zoe, darling,” cooed Mrs. Vanderhoff, a regular with more money than sense, “that wine pairing was simply divine. You must have been a sommelier in a past life.”

I bit back a snort. More like a bargain bin connoisseur. “Just lucky, I guess,” I replied with a practiced smile, pocketing the generous tip she slipped me.

The rest of the night blurred by in a whirlwind of orders and forced smiles. When the last customer finally stumbled out, I dragged myself to the staff room, my feet screaming louder than a teakettle on steroids.

Once safely behind the closed door, I kicked off my torture devices masquerading as shoes with a sigh. Sweet, sweet relief. I wiggled my toes, half expecting them to file for emancipation after the night they’d had.

I peeled off my sauce-stained uniform, grateful to shed the armor of the evening.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons of a flannel shirt that had probably witnessed the fall of the Roman Empire.

I shimmied into a pair of jeans that hung on me like I was a scarecrow auditioning for a role in a low-budget farm drama.

Years of constant motion and the “waitress diet” had transformed me into a walking coat hanger with a side of sarcasm.

The mirror offered a reality check I hadn’t ordered. Dark circles under my eyes? Check. Hair that looked like it had picked a fight with a blender? Double check. I ran a hand through the mess, briefly considering a future as a “before” model for miracle hair products.

The last bus home was a rolling purgatory of exhaustion, or as I liked to call it, “The Midnight Misery Express.” We were a motley crew of the city’s unsung heroes—construction workers cosplaying as Sleeping Beauty, nurses who looked like they’d gone ten rounds with a particularly aggressive chart, and yours truly, the waitress wonder.

My usual seat buddy, Riley, was already there, somehow managing to read Rock Star’s Redemption despite the bus’ terrible lighting.

She’d picked up the second book in the New York Elite series after I’d gushed about The CEO’s Bargain last week.

That was Riley for you—methodical even in her escapism, always had to read series in order.

She worked two jobs—hotel housekeeping by day, evening cleaner at a corporate building—but still found time to devour books like they were oxygen.

Between her shifts, she probably knew more about how the other half lived than anyone.

Not that she ever complained. Riley was all quiet determination and dry humor, the kind of person who could make color-coded schedules sound sarcastic.

“The rock star’s being an absolute nightmare again,” she muttered by way of greeting, not looking up from her book.

Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but her posture remained military-straight, like exhaustion was just another inconvenience to be organized into submission.

“I mean, who does Nash Sullivan think he is? And don’t get me started on this Violet woman who keeps falling into bed with him.

Have some self-respect, honey.” She shook her head disapprovingly.

“Though I have to admit, these steamy scenes are… detailed. Very detailed.”

“Still better than Victoria,” I countered, slumping into my seat.

“At least Violet’s just sleeping with Nash.

Victoria’s trying to destroy Jason just because he wants a divorce.

Heaven forbid anyone tarnish the perfect Hayes family image.

Like, sorry your husband doesn’t want to stay in your loveless marriage anymore? ”

Riley snorted, finally looking up from her book.

“The Hayes sisters are quite the pair, aren’t they?

Though I’m starting to think Violet’s the worse of the two.

At least Victoria’s just being a typical daddy’s girl, wielding Daddy’s connections like a weapon.

Meanwhile, Violet’s out here being the family embarrassment, falling into Nash Sullivan’s bed every other chapter.

” She marked her page with a receipt—probably color-coded for tax purposes—and turned to face me.

“But seriously, Nash Sullivan is such a piece of work. And he’s supposed to be the hero!

I can’t believe women actually swoon over guys like this.

The way he keeps using her and tossing her aside?

It’s like the man’s collecting red flags like they’re awards.

I mean, I get that he’s this famous rock star and everything, but how is this behavior romantic?

He’s sleeping with anything in a skirt that shows him the slightest bit of attention, then discarding them like yesterday’s trash.

And let me guess—this is one of those stories where only the ‘right woman’ can change him?

” Her tone turned bitter, and I caught a glimpse of old hurt in her eyes.

“Because that always works out so well in real life.”

I gave her a sympathetic look, recognizing that particular brand of cynicism.

We’d all met our share of Nash Sullivans in real life—minus the mansion and millions.

“Yeah, well, at least it’s just fiction,” I said softly, before adding, “The whole Hayes family is terrible, though. Makes me grateful for my normal, non-sociopathic relatives.”