Chapter 33 Anna
ANNA
I had signed up for this catering gig months ago, back when it seemed like an easy way to make some extra cash.
But that night, standing in a room full of New Orleans’ elite, I was seriously questioning all my life choices.
Why did catering companies insist on dressing their staff in the most humiliating outfits imaginable? That’s right, I was decked out like a jingling Mardi Gras jester.
Cringing at my reflection in the polished silver serving tray, I adjusted the ridiculous hat perched on my head, its bells tinkling with every movement.
The purple, green, and gold onesie, with its puffy sleeves and shorts, topped with a black bow tie, was a peak of indignity.
At least the eye mask offered me anonymity.
Marie Antoinette, in her matching jester costume, swished past me with a tray of crab cakes. “Everybody who’s anybody in New Orleans is here tonight,” she whispered dramatically.
“You’re right. I just saw the mayor.” I bent slightly, jingling every inch of the way, as a woman in a dazzling fuchsia dress reached for a muffuletta from my tray.
“Ahem,” a woman in a black sequined dress said, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Your tray’s as empty as my glass.”
I jerked my head back. “Oh, right, sorry about that. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“You need to pay attention.” The woman narrowed her eyes at me. You’d think I’d stolen the last piece of cake at her birthday party.
“Got it, heading to the kitchen,” I mumbled. Behind me, she continued to berate my lack of skill to anyone within earshot. I moved faster, carefully loading a fresh tray with an assortment of meticulously crafted mini-muffulettas. “You got this,” I whispered to myself.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. The first face I saw when I stepped out of the kitchen was none other than the displeased woman, her glare as sharp as the sequins on her dress.
“You finally remembered how to do your job,” she sneered. Her talon-like nails darted out to snatch a sandwich, and just as I thought she’d retreat to her lair, she reached for another, her greed tipping the scales of fate.
As she yanked the second sandwich with the finesse of a starved raccoon, she jostled my tray.
Trying to salvage the situation, I spun back around, but her sandwich heist had thrown me off balance.
My feet tangled, the tray wobbled, and before I could utter, “Please don’t sue me,” an explosion of muffulettas filled the air.
A mess of olive salad, sesame-seed bread, and deli meats rained down onto the pristine marble floor. The chaos knocked my mask and my jester hat clean off, leaving me standing there, fully exposed and surrounded by fallen hors d’oeuvres—all thanks to her double-sandwich greed.
The room went silent, save for the judgmental whispers and muffled gasps. The muffuletta-loving woman looked down at me with pure disdain, somehow managing to speak clearly through a mouthful of food.
“Utterly incompetent,” she declared before turning on her heel with a dramatic flourish, leaving me amidst the chaos I had created.
Flushing with embarrassment, I dropped to my knees to gather the wreckage. “Smooth, Anna,” I muttered under my breath. “Really smooth.”
“Here, let me help you,” said a familiar voice cloaked in an unfamiliar Australian accent. I looked up to see a man in a tuxedo and mask kneeling beside me, his piercing blue eyes unmistakable.
“Luke?” I whispered in disbelief.
He winked and handed me a muffuletta. “G’day, mate. Looks like you’ve had a spot of bad luck.”
I bit my lip to stifle a laugh as he dabbed at the olive salad with a damp handkerchief. “I thought you were going to stay home,” I murmured, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“And miss this? Not a chance.” He plucked a piece of olive salad off the floor and studied it thoughtfully. “You know, this reminds me of the time Hugh Jackman spilled an entire platter of shrimp cocktail on Oprah’s couch. People still talk about it. And look at him—he’s thriving.”
I snorted. “That didn’t happen.”
“Okay, fine.” He tossed an olive onto the tray with flair. “But imagine if it had? Hugh’s got the charm to pull it off. And so do you.”
I shook my head, focusing on cleaning the rest of the mess. “I don’t think charm fixes this.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” He crouched beside me with an exaggerated air of importance.
“Did you know that Brad Pitt tripped over a waiter and completely took out the hors d’oeuvres table at the Oscars after-party?
And Keanu Reeves? He once carried an entire fallen cake out of a gala while bowing to the audience. ”
“Once again, you’re making that up.” I tried to suppress the giggles threatening to escape.
“I mean, maybe not Keanu, but wouldn’t it be amazing if he did that? Anyway, now it’s your turn to join the ranks of legends.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh any longer. “Great. I’ll be the jester author who dropped a full tray of muffulettas on a marble floor. Really iconic.”
He grinned, offering me a damp handkerchief to clean my hands. “Trust me, in five years, this will be your quirky success story. Every great writer has one. You’re just getting yours out of the way early.”
I took the handkerchief, shaking my head as I wiped my hands. “You’re weirdly good at making me feel better about public humiliation. What are you even doing here?”
He shrugged, reaching to pick up a piece of olive salad.
“Topher mentioned he had an invitation to this masquerade ball, so I figured I’d follow your advice to see more of New Orleans.
Little did I know that I’d be cornered into explaining Australian winters at least four times already.
People are very concerned about how cold it gets in July. ”
“Did they ask if the toilets flush backward, too?”
"Twice," he deadpanned, popping the olive into his mouth. "Also informed people that 'shrimp on the barbie' isn't actually a thing we say, which apparently ruined several people's evenings."
I laughed despite myself. "So you came for the cultural exchange?"
"Not exactly." He glanced at me, something shifting in his expression. "I came because I knew you'd be here. Been watching you work the room all night, actually. Awe-inspiring waitressing skills right up until the sandwich incident."
"Oh no, you saw the whole thing?"
"I had a front-row seat. You wore that costume well, then wore that muffuletta even better." His grin widened. "I was planning to just admire from afar like a reasonable person, but then I couldn't stay away. Had to abandon a very boring conversation about someone's timeshare in Destin."
My heart bloomed in my chest at his admission that he came to the party to see me. I picked up the last olive and the tray. “Thanks for the save.”
He shrugged, a sly look in his eye. “Couldn’t let you take all the hits alone.”
The olive salad smudged on my sleeve caught my eye. “I’ll be back. Just need to drop off this tray and clean up before I start smelling like a deli counter.”
I made my way back to the kitchen, carefully balancing the tray as I wove through the crowd. Once there, I set it down with a sigh of relief and inspected the damage to my costume. The olive salad smear wasn’t nasty, but it was enough to send me toward the bathroom for a quick rinse.
On my way back from the bathroom, I had to cut through the ballroom. There, a deep voice froze me in place. It was a voice I hadn’t heard in years, but one I could never forget.
“Anna.”
There he was. Beau. The man who had shattered my heart without a second thought. He looked the same, all casual rich-boy charm with his surfer-dude hair and fitted tuxedo. The rest of the world dropped away.
For years, I had rehearsed this moment in my mind, envisioning what I would say if I ever ran into Beau again.
Never had I envisioned that I would be wearing a jester costume.
“Beau, h-hi,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You look... Different.” Beau’s eyes scanned me from head to toe. The way his gaze lingered on my ridiculous costume made my stomach churn.
Different? Different? Was that what we were going with? I swallowed hard, the sting of his casual condescension making my cheeks flush.
“I could say the same,” I shot back, surprising even myself. My eyes flicked to his tailored tuxedo and carefully tousled hair. But it was a lie. He looked every bit the polished rich guy he’d always been.
“I heard you’re working at that bar,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just raked me over the coals with a glance. “Muses, right? Still writing, too?”
“Yes, actually,” I said, lifting my chin. “And you’re back at the family bank?”
He shrugged, his smirk unwavering. “You know how it is. Gotta take over the family legacy sooner or later. Looks like we’re both keeping busy.”
I wanted to say something clever, but my mind stalled. All those imaginary confrontations, all those rehearsed zingers, and yet I was completely blank.
“Hey, congrats on the engagement,” I said finally, my voice stiff.
Beau’s smirk faltered. “Yeah, about that… I’m sorry. For how everything ended. You know, my bad.”
I blanched. My bad. That was his apology? I stared at him, and a hot wave of anger stirred in my gut. My brain scrambled for a retort, but my tongue sat in my mouth like a lead weight.
I could have been a good Southern girl, graciously pretending he hadn’t ripped my heart out and stomped on it in front of an audience. But no. The anger won out, and suddenly, I found my voice.
“Yeah, that’s right, it is your bad.”
Beau’s mouth fell open like he’d just been hit with a flying muffuletta.