7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
I ’m woken up to Belinda calling my name and charging with determination up the stairs. I jump, startled, and don’t bother throwing anything over my old T-shirt and shorts before stumbling through the dark, meeting her outside of the bedroom door.
“Hey, honeybee!” she says. “Good morning. You think you can do me a favor?”
I wince. The cheer in her voice—fake, rehearsed—is so shrill. “Huh?”
“The diner,” she continues, leaning up against the door frame. “One of my morning girls called in. I need a waitress.” She’s looking at me with sparkling eyes, expectant.
I glance back into my pitch-black room, squinting harshly at the clock on my nightstand. “What time is it?”
“A little after five. I open at six. What do you say?”
“I’ve never served before,” I tell her, rubbing at my eyes in a useless attempt to wake myself. “Don’t I need training or something before I can jump into that?”
She waves me off. “It’s easy. Get dressed.”
I stiffen, sweat collecting at the base of my neck. “I don’t know. I just—”
“When I started serving,” Belinda says, turning on her heel and starting back down the stairs, “I picked it up in five, maybe ten minutes, tops. It won’t take long, sugar.”
Of course she did.
I put on some makeup to make myself feel better, but it’s for naught. When I look at my reflection in the mirror of Belinda’s car on the way to the diner, I look just as dead as I imagined I would.
“I’ve got a shirt for you,” Belinda promises as we walk through the dark of the parking lot. “I can’t have you wear that.”
I look down at my oversized UConn tee. She’s not wrong, but that doesn’t negate that I’m offended. “What’s wrong with this?” I chide as Belinda flips on lights.
The diner I remember from last night comes alive, sans sizzling from the kitchen. It’s almost peaceful this way, serene, as I walk into the dining room. Tables are empty, and the room is quiet.
“It’s not a uniform, is what’s wrong with it,” my mother says as she reappears from the hallway, thrusting material in my direction. “Here, slip into the bathroom and try that on.”
In minutes, I’m in a matching tank top to Belinda from last night. The fact that I have a place setting on my body right now is degrading, even if it is accompanied by a pretty script. I might as well be outside waving a cardboard sign around advertising breakfast specials.
“You look great!” Belinda says brightly. She places her hands on my shoulders, looking me over. “I came up with this design. It really encompasses the place, huh?”
A place setting encompassing a restaurant’s vibe? Such an original idea. “It’s great,” I tell her. “So, where do we start?”
Belinda walks me through everything, explaining what it is, how it’s handled, and who handles it—everything except for serving. In the middle, Rory shows up. When she sees me, she doesn’t look pleased.
“But,” I ask Belinda as my training, or lack thereof, comes to an end, “what do I do?”
“Serving can’t be trained,” Belinda says, waving a hand at me. “You just pick it up.”
I furrow my brow. “What? No, that’s—”
“Trust me, sugar,” Belinda says, clasping my hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. “Just be yourself.”
I open my mouth to protest, demand more, but she wanders away before I can, shutting her office door with a bang.
“Hey,” Rory says quietly. “You want to start by telling me how you ended up here?”
“Someone called in, I guess,” I reply, shrugging. “I don’t know. But now I’m here, exhausted, cranky, and questioning my choices.”
“Which ones?” Rory jokes. “Visiting your mom? Or volunteering to help?”
I laugh weakly. “I didn’t really volunteer so much as get told what I was doing today.”
She winces. “Ouch. Bummer.”
“Tell me about it. This is just Belinda, though. I’m sure you know.”
Rory cackles. “Oh, girl. Yes, I know.”
“So, I take it you didn’t get trained either?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve been here four years,” Rory admits. She motions for me to follow her as we gather the maple syrup dispensers from the tables. “No training, piss poor hourly, and my boss—well, you know .”
“Did you also get told serving can’t be trained?” I ask quietly. “That it’s something you just do?”
“Hell yes, I did,” Rory says, with a roll of her eyes. She settles into a booth after setting down the maple syrup dispensers, motioning to the space across from her. “Sit. I’ll train you while we fill these. But between you and me, don’t consider it serving training. Consider it dealing with your mother and the general public training.”
“It’s not easy, is it?” I wonder.
Rory looks at me flatly. “You know the answer to that question, I think.”
“Why stay?” I ask, reaching for a dispenser and the big syrup jug.
“It’s complicated,” Rory says. “Life is, really. Let’s just say I don’t have a choice.”
We fill the syrup in silence for a few minutes. “That happens a lot?” I ask, biting my cheek. “At EJ’s?”
“I’m there more than I’m at my place,” Rory says. “I don’t love my house. It’s a beat up rental. It makes EJ’s couch look heavenly in comparison.” As we finish up the job we started, the front door swings open. Six old men in matching baseball caps wander in and situate themselves at a round table in the center of the room.
“The damn rotary club,” Rory mutters to me. “Poor guys show up at five fifty-five every Saturday. They know we don’t open until six. And yet!” She stands to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. “I think Rogers sets his watch five minutes fast just to piss me off,” she says with a soft laugh.
I watch her greet them with the cheesiest of grins. I can already tell that’s so un-Rory. According to Belinda, that’s all there is to waitressing: faking it until you make it.
“Cameron quit,” my mother says to me later, as I’m finally hanging up the apron I’ve worn without complaint all morning. For six hours of work, I’ve never been so tired.
“What?”
“I told you she called in,” she continues, not meeting my gaze. “But she called late last night to quit.”
That must have been the other waitress from last night. “There are protocols for that kind of thing,” I say, “right? You just hire someone else.”
“You did well today,” my mother continues. “It would be so incredibly helpful if you came back.”
Around us, noises from the kitchen swirl. “You asked me to help so you could get me to work here,” I realize. “Belinda.”
My mother fawns, chewing on the inside of her lip and having a staring contest with the floor tiles in the hall. “Don’t call me that. I’m your mother.”
I’m silent as I chew indecisively on the inside of my cheek.
“You asked to visit me, sugar,” Belinda says pointedly. “If I needed you to work, don’t you think I would have asked you?”
Conveniently, this issue with an employee who quit happened the night I arrived. Of course. A surefire coincidence in the life of Belinda Elliott.
It would be a perfect opportunity for a person to tell off their narcissistic parent, right here, right now. A person with nerve might. I am not her; she is not me.
“I’m exhausted,” I say. “Mind if I slip across the street for coffee? I need some air anyway.”
“Could you bring me a macchiato, sugar? Traditional, please.” Belinda grins, reaching over to kiss my cheek. Her animosity toward me is long forgotten, in the name of getting something from me.
I shrug away from my mother, making my way up through the hall and out to the dining room. I find Rory putting a ticket in the window. “I’m going across the street for coffee. Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head. “If I have anything but my after-shift drink, I won’t sleep.”
“So just consider the coffee I bring you your one drink,” I say with a confused chuckle.
Rory shakes her head again, with enough vigor this time to whip her ponytail around. “I am a traditionalist, Gigi. You must know that about me.”
“Coffee after shift or bust,” I say as I turn to leave. “Got it.”
EJ’s brother Cade comes to mind as I pull open the door to Beach Brew. I’m hoping his brother isn’t here, because I don’t need any reminders of him, even distant.
He is the epitome of everything that I don’t want in a partner. He’s too self-assured, and even if the tattoos don’t scare me, they truly are intimidating. Not to mention the fact that he is not my type.
Or maybe he is, given that my type seems to be guys who don’t have any interest in me.
“What can I get started for you?” the woman at the counter asks.
“A large black coffee and a large macchiato.”
“Hot or iced on that macchiato?” she asks.
Shit. I didn’t ask my mother about the specifics. I know she’ll let me hear it if I order wrong.
“Hot?”
“That’ll be ten sixty two.”
As I wait for my coffee, the overhead bell chimes.
In walks Cade, and the first thing I see is that daisy tattoo, the flowers cradling his bicep. Then, I notice one more: a snake wrapping around his forearm. The snake makes me wince.
He doesn’t notice me right away, sauntering up to the counter and requesting a large black coffee. The girl at the counter turns as red as the braids in her hair when Cade slips a five-dollar bill into her tip jar.
So, he’s tall and his appearance screams dark and dreamy if you like a guy you can find on a social media aesthetic board. Not worth gushing over. Not even with a jaw that sharp.
“Would you like a loyalty card?” she asks.
“Oh.” Cade smiles. I can hear it. I can picture the divots of his dimples parting the plain of his face. “Yeah, I would.”
“I gave you a few extra punches,” the girl says as she hands over a tiny card. “That much closer to a free coffee.”
“I appreciate that,” Cade says. “Thanks.”
As the barista works on my coffee, she makes small talk with Cade.
“Any plans today?” she asks. “Aside from waking up with some coffee?”
Waking up? It’s almost two in the afternoon.
“Just exploring the town,” Cade tells her. “I’m not from here.”
“Oh? Where’s home?” Gah, this girl is smitten with him. And he’s just living life like he doesn’t realize he’s perceived as a god among men. Well, for some girls. Girls who like tattoos. And dimples. And golden retriever-esque grins.
“Houston,” Cade says.
“Texas. That’s a ways. What brings you here?”
“Running from something,” Cade tells her. My gaze flicks to him for a second so short I can nearly convince myself I didn’t do it on purpose.
“Aren’t we all?” the barista says, fitting a lid onto the coffee she just poured. I roll my eyes so hard that I hope she—and Cade—notices. “Here’s your coffee—”
I reach for it. Cade reaches for it. I never realized he was nearly two heads taller than me last night. I figure it out once I’m making eye contact with a gray cotton t-shirt and chest muscles. Stepping back, I meet his eyes.
“I ordered a black coffee,” he says to me, an edge of warning in his voice.
“ I ordered a black coffee,” I reply, not dropping my hand.
We’ve reached an impasse. I can’t believe I have the same coffee order as someone so dark and broody.
The barista looks uncomfortable. “That one’s his,” she tells me, quick and distinct.
I furrow my bow at her as she pours steamed milk into a cup. Presumably, my mother’s macchiato. She fits on a lid and a decorative sleeve and hands it over without smiling. “Here’s yours. One macchiato, one coffee.”
Cade falls into step behind me as I leave the shop.
“She put her number on it,” Cade says once we’re outside.
I halt, whirling around to face him. “What?”
“The difference,” he tells me, stormy gray eyes meeting mine, “in our coffees? One had her number on it. That’s why it was for me.”
I scoff. “Good to know.” I hate that the realization is encouraging jealousy to well in my stomach.
“I know that you wondered,” he says. “I could see it on your face.”
“I couldn’t care less, really,” I tell him. “But thanks.” The butterflies in my stomach are screaming otherwise.
“It was the tattoos,” Cade chides. I can hear the smile, almost feel the sting of his dimples ripping through. “It’s always the tattoos.”
My eyes roll of their own volition. “Is part of your kink talking about how hot and awesome you are?” I ask. “Because I’ve never been more turned off in my life.”
“Then it’s a good thing I already know not to try impressing you, huh?” Cade says, smirking. He takes a sip from his coffee. “What are you doing today, princess?”
“I helped Belinda at the restaurant.” I point to the diner. “Someone quit yesterday. Turns out she thought I’d be happy to help. And I told you, nicknames are a no-go. Stop it.”
Cade’s eyes gleam. “Well, you helped, didn’t you?”
“Not happily.” I shake my head. “I’m exhausted, and my head hurts so bad I feel like my brain might bust free from my skull. And don’t even get me started on my feet.”
“All that for somebody you don’t like.” Cade shakes his head. “Don’t do nice things for shit people, princess.”
That’s easier said than done, but I appreciate his concern. “Stop calling me that,” I snap. “And Belinda’s not shit. You don’t know her. She’s just confused—troubled.”
“Rory told me about the Coke thing,” Cade says as he blows out a breath.
“Great,” I say. “Another person here who’s going to analyze everything and tell me how to fix things.” It warms my heart that he even cares, even if I am annoyed with his desire to fix it.
“I’m not,” he says. “But for what it’s worth, tell her when she oversteps.”
“I haven’t done that ever,” I admit. “I’m not going to start now. It’ll make my life much harder than it already is.”
“Kind of like how you’re not going to suddenly start being attracted to me?” Cade challenges, stepping closer to me and meeting my gaze with dark eyes.
I step back, taking a lungs-filling breath and avert my gaze. Yes, Cade, for the exact same reason: life will get harder. “Exactly.”
Cade readjusts, like he’s coming back to after being lost in himself. “So, what now?”
“I definitely will not be telling Belinda about all of her transgressions.”
“I meant with your afternoon. You’re done working, right?”
I blink. “I… Yeah. I’m done working. But my mother’s my ride, so.”
“I know you don’t want to spend the night with a guy like me,” Cade says. I nod. “But what about being a tourist with one?”
I feign indecision.
Cade looks at me pleadingly. “What, don’t tell me you have some preconceived opposition to tour guides, too.”
“Just the ones with tattoos,” I say. For being annoyed at his presence when he first walked into Beach Brew, I’m happy he’s here with me now. Belinda’s macchiato warms my hand. I hold it up for Cade. “Let me drop this off to her and then we can go… wherever it is that you plan on taking me.”
He grins. “Sounds good, princess.”
“I’m serious,” I say, making my way across the street. “Stop calling me that.”