Chapter 2
Brin
Arancini is the worst.
The little round fried balls of cheese and rice are amazingly delicious and when there’s any leftovers in the kitchen after the restaurant closes, they’re the first to get snapped up and taken home.
Here’s the thing, though. These little balls are tumbleweeds from hell.
They’re crispy and crunchy on the outside, and when you pair that with the rimless modern dinnerware we use in the restaurant, it’s a recipe for disaster.
The service staff all know it. But our chef, Helena, refuses to remedy the situation by, I don’t know, adding a bed of marinara sauce to the plate. Even a bed of lettuce would work. Even me, Brin Shaw, a backwoods nobody from Appalachia, knows how to fix this problem.
Although I suppose that if the arancini had been on a bed of marinara sauce, it’s possible that I would have accidentally dropped a marinara-coated arancini into this lady’s purse, which would have made the situation about a thousand times worse.
Eva, my best friend here at the restaurant, and I watched it happen in slow motion. I had just picked up the plate from the tray of appetizers and was moving to set it down in the middle of the table. Someone had stood up from their seat right in my path. I dodged. A collision was avoided.
But I heard that little plop as the arancini rolled off the plate and into the bag.
“What do we do?” I hiss at Eva as I return to her and we both pick up plates.
We’re conferring over the tray of appetizers every time we grab a dish, trying to hide our conversation over the din of the diners and “Santa Baby” playing on the restaurant’s speakers.
She picks up the calamari. I pick up the stuffed mushrooms.
“You have to dig it out,” she says.
Two plates of bruschetta.
“If I get caught they’ll think I’m stealing her wallet.”
A flatbread and another calamari.
“So don’t get caught.”
By the time we put all the appetizers out, I’m no closer to a plan. I mournfully look at the purse. Why does she have to be sitting with her back to the entire restaurant? Even if I could distract her, the tables nearby would totally see me.
When we get back to the server station, I turn pleading eyes to Eva. “We can do this together. I’ll provide cover, you get the ball out of her purse.”
“I think you need to leave it.”
I press my hands together. “Please. I cannot live with myself if I leave it. I’ll be sleepless tonight, worrying that she’ll call in and report it and then I’ll get fired. You know I cannot lose this job.”
Eva sighs. “If you would sign up for Sugary again, you wouldn’t be so strapped.”
“I know,” I admit. I haven’t told Eva the real reason why I don’t want to get back onto the so-called dating app. “This is my Christmas wish to you.”
That gets a smile out of her. “I thought your Christmas wish was to lose your ‘virginity’?” She even does the air quotes.
Eva is the only person in my life who knows that pesky little fact about me, and she’s made it clear that having p-in-v sex is a bigger milestone in my head than it is in real life.
I waggle a finger at her. “That one I do not want your help with.”
“Fine,” she says, and then she holds the large tray out to me. “But you didn’t deny it. We’ll circle back to that later. For now, you hold this. Block the view the best you can.”
“Got it.”
I dutifully follow her out to the table. Eva pulls me close to her, the tray clutched to my other side, and beelines right for the woman.
Quick as a cat when we get there, Eva bends down and snatches up the purse. I’m too busy blocking the view to see if she is able to retrieve the arancini.
“Miss,” she says. “Your purse fell off the back here.” Eva puts the purse right back where she found it.
“Oh. Thank you.”
Eva smiles and makes a show of checking on the rest of the table. We retreat back to the station and Eva holds out her hand. Inside is a mushed rice ball.
Thank you baby Jesus in a manger.
The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind. The holidays are bananas. Even on a Thursday night at midnight, our restaurant is still bustling. I’ve already been tipped hundreds of dollars, and our largest party—the one with the arancini purse lady—hasn’t even left yet.
Now, though, the kitchen is closing up and our manager, Alice, is subtly telling the rowdy group of dentists—and assistants and office staff—that they have to move on.
Eva is counting her cash and checking her receipts so she can close up and leave. I offered to finish with the big table so she can meet her date from Sugary.
The thought makes my stomach dip in an uncomfortable way. But Eva assures me this guy is legit—hasn’t even tried to sleep with her yet.
In fact, she proudly showed off the manicure he paid for before their last date. Next week he’s taking her to some charity event. Tonight they’re meeting for drinks, and she has a change of clothes in her locker.
“Where is he taking you tonight?” I ask.
“Nix’s,” she says. “Wanna come? You could meet us when you get off and I bet my date would pay for your drinks.”
I haven’t even heard of it and assuming some guy would pay for my drinks feels cringy.
I only moved to the city about two years ago, and I don’t have the spare money to go out to the kinds of places Eva’s dates take her.
Not when every dollar I earn goes to paying off my debt instead of outrageously expensive cocktails since I don’t have a sugar daddy.
“No thanks,” I say quickly. “But I hope you have a great time.”
She sighs, pretending to be put out to tease me. “At least you’re coming to my Christmas party.”
“Yeah, sorry Marco’s not going to come.”
“The grinch who hates Christmas probably isn’t the best person to have at a Christmas party anyway.” Eva’s smile softens it. She likes my roommate, just not this side of him.
“Stop it,” I chide. “His brother died around the holidays. He never mentions his parents, he’s not religious. There are plenty of aspects of Christmas not to like.”
Last year, when we were fairly new roommates, I’d tried to innocently ask Marco what he wanted for Christmas. I was going to get him a gift, but I wasn’t sure what, because what do you get the guy who has everything?
He’d looked me dead in the eye and said he doesn’t celebrate because last time he’d had a Christmas tree, his brother was hit by a car carrying it home.
Eva winces. “That’s terrible. But you love Christmas,” Eva says. “And so do I. We’ll just have to enjoy the season without Marco.”
I head back to the table with a tray of drinks—hot toddies, mint martinis, and for someone less in the holiday spirit, whiskey on the rocks. When I get back, Eva’s talking to someone at the bar, and my stupid little heart lights up in happiness at the sight of my roommate.
I walk behind the bar to hear her telling the story of the wayward arancini to him. Of course, she tells it better than I would, making the story hilarious and pantomiming her quick fingers.
Marco’s smiling at her across the bar, and I get a pang of jealousy in my chest. They’re both New Yorkers, and sometimes it feels like they bond over my quaint, Appalachian mannerisms.
This stupid crush on him has got to stop.
I take a minute to grab a clean glass and the soda gun, filling it with Diet Coke. I slide it over to him as Eva wraps up the story. Marco smiles at me, and I take him in—fitted suit still immaculate, but tired eyes and rumpled hair.
“That’s how I saved Brin’s job today,” she finishes. She smiles at me, teasingly, and I bump her hip with mine.
Eva did save my bacon. Just like Marco, who has given me a safe space to live. Where would I be without these two saving me from all my stupid decisions?
Eva’s my best friend. She’s been here a lot longer than I have—she trained me when I started. She also has a friend group that she organizes to get together for brunch once a week at another restaurant owned by the same management company, which means we get an employee discount.
Most of the friends we go out with are Eva’s friends from school. I’m getting to know them, but since I see Eva almost every day, we’re much closer.
“You should get out of here; you’ve got your hot date,” I tell her.
“True.” She squeezes me goodbye and waves to Marco before sauntering off.
I tilt my head at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Walking you home.”
Marco does this occasionally, when he’s out as late as I’m working. I look down to hide my smile. In the bar sink there’s a few dirty glasses, so I grab them and run them through the sudsy water and the brush.
“I still have a table.” I jut my chin at the twenty-top on the far side of the restaurant.
“I’ll wait.”
Fifteen minutes later the group finally wraps up, and they leave behind a generous tip. I hand most of it over to my manager for the tip pool, since the back-of-house staff deserve a cut and then the rest goes to Eva. I run through closing, and Marco and I are some of the last people to leave.
It’s chilly out, but I’m still warm from hustling around the restaurant, so I keep my coat open for now, and when Marco and I turn left on the sidewalk I tip my chin up and puff out a breath of cold air like a dragon.
“I have an ulterior motive,” he starts.
“What?” I gasp in mock horror. “You didn’t come to walk me home just because you’re a nice guy?”
He gives me side-eye. “I’m not a nice guy.”
“Of course you are,” I argue back. Marco is nice .
. . to me. “Besides, you know what all the bad guys say, right?” I swerve to bump him.
“They call themselves nice guys. It’s like the bad guy pledge.
” I hold up one hand like I’m being sworn in.
“I, Chad E. Villain—the E stands for evil, by the way—do solemnly swear that I’m a nice guy. ”
I joke, but there’s a lot of truth behind the humor. The worst of the men smile at you, play nice, until you see the horns hidden in their perfectly combed hair.
Speaking of actually nice guys, Marco slings his arm around my shoulder. My heart goes pitter-patter because he’s so warm and solid and he tugs me close enough to feel the press of his body—
That’s when I hear footsteps coming from behind us. Fast footsteps.
I grip my purse harder and Marco’s arm tightens around my shoulders. It’s late, and even though the streets of New York are lit up with all the stoplights and bar signs, there’s not as many people walking around as I’d like. A yawning opens in my stomach.
All that takes a split second to register, and then we’re being passed by a person running. They’re not wearing normal workout gear, so I doubt they’re jogging for the exercise.
Marco and I relax slightly. His arm still stays around me though, so I lean into him more.
What would I have done if that person had bad intentions? What if Marco wasn’t walking me home? He’s so protective of me—so much that I worry he thinks of me as a little sister. I can’t blame him, and he doesn’t even know the half of it.
But still, it stings. Marco is so attractive, so put together. Even now, with his tired eyes and slightly crumpled suit, he’s got an aura of control around him.
No one would dare try to pull one on Marco.
We’re quiet for a few calming heartbeats, and then I remember what Marco was saying. “So why are you here, if not to keep me company and protect me from rando bad guys?”
I peer up at him as he runs his free hand through his hair. Marco has great hair: dark, wavy, a little long.
He’s also a foot taller than me. From this angle I can also see his Adam’s apple, which I am mildly obsessed with.
It has no right to be so sexy. It’s practically obscene. Which makes me feel . . . complicated. Good Catholic girls don’t pine for their roommate.
Although I do a lot of things since I’ve moved to the city that good Catholic girls wouldn’t do—I just do them with a hefty side of guilt.
“I need your help.”
I’m jolted back to the real world, where Marco’s my roommate and not someone I can randomly lick.
“I’m assuming this is work related.”
He nods.
“What did Billy Bob do now?” I tease. His boss’s nickname gets a barely-there smile from Marco.
“Of course, I’m in.” It’s the least I can do, since Marco has done so much for me.
When we met one night at a bar, I was at my wit’s end, drowning in debt and realizing that I was scared to go home.
I was desperate, and it could have turned out so poorly, could have been another stupid decision I made because I couldn’t take care of myself.
Instead it was the best thing I ever did—aside from leaving Tennessee. Thanks to Marco, my rent is cheap and my apartment is luxurious—for my budget, anyway—so I’ll do whatever I can for him.
He grimaces. “You may want to wait until you hear what you’re committing to.”
I grin at him. “It can’t be that bad. Hit me.”
He looks down at me, his Adam’s apple disappearing from view, so instead I focus on his dark eyes. “It’s something called SHiNY. All I know is that it’s a holiday-themed scavenger hunt for charity.”
“A fundraiser?” I echo. “That doesn’t sound too bad.” It sounds right up my alley. I love any excuse to celebrate Christmas, even though I’m not religious anymore.
“A days-long event, culminating on the twenty-third, where we have to spend our time running all over the city completing tasks and making fools of ourselves. The teams can be two people, and there’s no way I can do this myself. That’s why I need your help.”
“Of course you would hate that.” I laugh. “I’m already a fool, so I’m halfway there. What are the tasks?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t know yet. But we have to show up at the opening event at four p.m. tomorrow. It might be . . . it might be a lot.” Marco looks at me apologetically.
“Holiday-themed? For charity?” And spending time every day with Marco, I don’t add out loud. “Say less, I’m in.”