I just know what I like
Chapter six
Penny
The first thing I learn about working at Neverland is that the music is louder than it needs to be, and no one is entirely sure who increased the volume.
“Table six is still waiting on their burgers,” Chip calls, already halfway down the bar with two pints of beer in his hands.
I’ve learnt in the fifteen minutes I’ve been here that he’s Rose Potts’s son, though he works here instead of at Flora’s. Every time Gwen says his name, he straightens like he’s been called to attention, so I have a theory.
“I’m aware.” Gwen doesn’t look up from the lemon she’s slicing with calm precision. “Because you told me thirty seconds ago.”
Her dark hair falls in loosely around her face, and blunt bangs almost hide the fact that her striking green eyes miss absolutely nothing.
“I’m just sayin’.”
“And I’m just slicing.”
And I am holding a martini glass.
It is the wrong glass.
I know this because the woman in front of me is looking at it like I’ve handed her a teacup for her mojito. Gwen’s gaze lands on it, then at me, one dark brow lifting beneath her bangs.
“Tall,” she says.
I blink, turning to her. “Tall what?”
“Tall glass, Penny. For the mojito.” She gestures lightly toward the shelf without looking. “Second row.”
“Oh, right. Tall,” I say, repeating it as though I’ve never encountered height before.
The woman waiting for her drink gives me a sympathetic smile. I nod back and remake the mojito in something appropriately tall and cylindrical.
Chip slides past me again, muttering table numbers and orders under his breath. Someone at the end of the bar calls for more napkins, and the kitchen bell dings. A pool cue clacks against wood somewhere to my left.
This is not the corporate chaos I’m used to.
No quarterly targets pinned to a whiteboard. No one is pretending this is a streamlined event, and no one is smiling with their teeth or schmoozing me because of my last name while calculating how replaceable I am.
Neverland is loud and imperfect and smells faintly of fried onions.
And I can breathe.
“Penny!” Chip groans as he reappears at my elbow. “You rang in two waters and a cider for table four.”
“I did.”
“They ordered two ciders and a water.”
“Ah.” I stare at the screen. He’s right. “See, this is why you’re here, Chip! Balance.”
He blinks at me, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed. But a little boy in a dinosaur hoodie appears near the far end of the bar, and attempts to climb onto a stool that is clearly not meant for someone his age. I abandon the register before the laws of physics tip him backwards.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, steadying the stool with one hand. “You can absolutely sit up here. We just need to make sure it doesn’t flip first.”
He looks at me solemnly. “I’m big.”
“I can see that. Very big. But even big people check their footing.”
Behind me, there’s a bright laugh.
“Max! I turn around for five seconds.”
I glance back to the owner of the familiar voice, and smile before I can stop myself. “He was moments from faceplanting.”
Remi’s grin widens. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“You’re welcome,” I say lightly, lifting her son properly onto the stool and turning him so he’s secure. Max bangs his heels against the stool, delighted with his elevation.
“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Remi adds, eyeing the apron.
“Trial shift,” I say. “Jury’s still out.”
“I heard you were looking,” she replies, amused. “The boys were very invested in your cinnamon bun crime yesterday.”
I groan. “I ordered one fair and square, though they tried to derail me with Spice Girls propaganda.”
“They don’t get much entertainment.”
“That’s mildly concerning.”
A shadow shifts behind her, and Colt steps in, with a baby tucked against his chest.
“Max,” he says mildly, clocking the stool situation in one glance. “You climbing again?”
“Penny saved him,” Remi tells him.
“Ah.” His mouth tips slightly at the corner. “Appreciate that.”
“It was nothing.”
The baby stirs and lets out a small, indignant noise.
“And this,” Remi says, reaching to adjust the blanket, “is Zela.”
Zela’s eyes are enormous and unimpressed by everything.
“Hi, Zela,” I say softly.
Max twists to look at me again. “She cries loud.”
“I believe you,” I whisper.
Remi laughs again. “You’ll see us around a bit.” She gestures to Colt. “Though he’s in here with the boys more than we are.”
“Occupational hazard,” Colt says dryly.
Behind me, Gwen finishes the order I abandoned and slides the drink into place.
“Don’t get adopted mid-shift,” she says under her breath.
“I’ll try not to,” I reply.
Remi hears it and grins.
I make it through three more orders without incident. On the fourth, I drop the shaker. It hits the rubber mat with a metallic thud and rolls toward the taps, and there’s a brief pause in the noise around me.
I pick it up and raise it slightly. “Performance art.”
A guy at the end of the bar lifts his beer. “Ten outta ten for commitment.”
Chip looks like he might pass out as he appears next to me, stabbing at the register’s screen to type in an order.
“Relax,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve dropped worse things.”
“Like what?”
“Expectations.”
He stares at me for a beat, then snorts despite himself. Gwen appears with a tray of fries and two drinks, holding them out to me.
“Deliver these to booth three, please.”
“Got it. Three.” I gingerly take the tray and turn toward the booth area, my eyes flicking from table to table until I find the right number.
“Ahh, the cinnamon bun thief returns!”
I glance up to see Mason sprawled across the back of the booth, his arm draped around the woman beside him.
“That’s not my name.”
“It kinda is.”
The woman beside him studies me with open curiosity. She has shoulder-length red hair with straight bangs grazing her brows. Freckles across her nose and cheeks as though someone flicked paint there. She leans against Mason, watching us with mild amusement.
Ah, yes. Ginger Spice.
She glances between us. “I’m sensing history.”
“She stole baked goods,” Mason tells her.
“I paid,” I reply, setting their drinks down carefully. “He just thought staring at them long enough would transfer ownership.”
Ginger Spice snorts softly. “This is what you’re arguing about?”
“He is arguing,” I say. “I’ve moved on.”
Mason leans back dramatically. “It was the principle, Penny. Both those cinnamon buns were practically mine.”
“They were fair game,” I counter lightly. “You didn’t have custody.”
“How did you lose custody of a pastry?” She raises an eyebrow at him, which only makes him grin wider, nudging her knee with his own.
“A series of unfortunate events, Red.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “You’re new,” she says, offering her hand. “I’m Frankie.”
“Penny.”
“Trial shift?” she asks, glancing toward the bar where Chip is visibly unraveling.
“Yup, though I’m kinda drowning.”
Frankie nods. “Gwen won’t let you drown. She just won’t swim for you either.”
“That’s… comforting?”
Mason drags a fry through aioli and points it toward the bar. “Chip’s about thirty seconds from a meltdown.”
“He’ll be fine.” Frankie glances at me again, curious. “You from around here?”
“Toronto.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Me too.”
Mason tightens his arm around Frankie’s shoulder to tug her in, and Chip’s voice cuts across the room. “Penny!”
I turn instinctively, then glance back at Frankie and Mason. “Duty calls.”
“Try not to set anything on fire,” Mason calls.
“That’s a you problem,” I sing-song back automatically, already stepping away and hearing Frankie laugh.
I pivot back toward the bar, and the noise swells around me again. Glasses clink, someone laughs too loud from the pool tables, and the kitchen bell dings twice in quick succession.
This place moves faster than I do, that’s undeniable. I double-check buttons before I press them, and I repeat orders back carefully. I remember Max prefers no ice in his lemonade, and that the woman at table six wants extra napkins because her toddler is in a phase.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m in the way. I don’t feel like every move I make needs approval or calculation.
“Penny, where’s the docket for seven?” Chip asks, already scanning the counter like it might magically reveal itself.
“In the holder,” I say, concentrating on pulling a pint before making my way to the register.
“Which holder?”
“The only holder,” Gwen replies without looking up, sliding past him and grabbing a bottle.
I finalize a transaction for an older couple, then hand over their receipt just as the front doors swing open, bringing a rush of cool evening air with them.
“Hi, Penny!”
The voice cuts through the music like it’s on its own frequency, and I look up. A small blur of sparkly pink is already halfway across the room, light-up sneakers flashing against the dark floorboards.
I don’t stop to think, stepping out from behind the counter and crouching just as Elle reaches me, catching her before she can collide with my knees.
“Hi,” I laugh, steadying her shoulders. “You’re going to cause a workplace incident.”
“We came for dessert,” she announces.
“That sounds like official business.”
“It is.”
Behind her, Evan steps inside and shuts the doors with his foot, a leash looped loosely in one hand. He doesn’t move immediately, but his eyes travel around the space. First to the pool tables, then the booths and the exits. Then to me.
There’s a flicker of recognition, followed by assessment, and he gives me a curt nod as he walks toward where I’m still crouched with Elle. I wonder if this man ever fully relaxes, even off duty.
“Evening.”
“Hi again, again.” I smile softly, looking from him to the leash in his hand. “Did you lose your furry friend?”
“Gus is out back,” Evan says. “Gwen’s got a fenced courtyard, and she lets him hang there when we come in.”
“And when he behaves,” Gwen adds from the bar.
Elle nods. “He likes it ‘cuz there’s lots of good smells.”
My mouth twitches. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Evan almost smiles. “You should be.”
“So do you work here now?” Elle asks, eyes on my apron.
“Sort of,” I say. “Gwen is testing me.”
“Are you good at it?”