Chapter Seventeen
Audrey
“H ow did you feel?” I ask Leena as the lights come on and the bouncers herd the stragglers toward the door.
“It took me a bit, but I think I found my groove. I’ve got most of the menu cocktails memorized, and anything they asked for that I wasn’t sure about, I discreetly googled on my phone.”
“You’re a natural. You’ll be running circles around Leonard and Parker in no time,” I praise.
She truly did impress me tonight.
“I’ll go ahead and tip you out. Then, you head home. We’ll handle the cleanup tonight.”
At the end of each shift, I total the tips left on all bar tickets and in our tip jars, and we split them evenly while the servers keep all their earnings from the floor.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying to help,” she says as I hand her an envelope.
“Positive. You did great your first night, and trust me, you’ll get plenty of opportunities to sling a mop. Go rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks, Audrey.”
“Have one of the bouncers walk you to your car,” I call as she shrugs on her jacket.
“I will.”
Parker comes out of the kitchen with a tray and starts stacking dirty glasses.
“You send Leena home?” he asks as I shove his envelope into the cubby under the bar where he keeps his belongings.
“Yeah, she looked exhausted. I figured I’d let her skip cleaning this time since I have both you and Leonard.”
He stops what he’s doing and leans against the bar. “You’re a good boss.”
“Thanks,” I say as I start sanitizing the taps.
“You are. You put Leena at ease. You broke down the methodology and explained the procedures clearly. You give everyone grace and run this place like a well-oiled machine.”
His praise slides over me like warm honey. It’s not like Brew doesn’t tell me how much he appreciates me every chance he gets, but it’s nice to hear it from someone in the trenches.
We work harmoniously, wiping down the liquor bottles, cleaning the coolers and refrigerators, and rinsing the sinks while Leonard helps the servers stack chairs on the tables and then sweep and mop the floors.
In no time at all, we’re turning off the lights and locking the doors.
Parker insists on walking me out.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“It’s late,” I say.
“Technically, it’s early,” he points out.
“Semantics. It’s late for us,” I say.
“Come on. Let me take you to breakfast,” he says when we reach my car. “You know you’re just going to go home and eat a Pop-Tart.”
I open my mouth to argue, and he steps closer.
“We both know you have a stash of fatty, sugar-laden toaster pastries.”
“Pop-Tarts are amazing,” I say.
“They are, but I’m in the mood for real food. Come on. Don’t make me eat at Waffle Castle alone.”
My stomach growls at the mention of Waffle Castle.
It’s the only all-night diner on the island. It sits at the end of the Westend Bridge and serves breakfast twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The building is old, the red pleather seats of the booths are cracked and peeling, and the same four women have been working the night shift since we were teenagers, but you won’t find a better pecan waffle, omelet, or greasy hash browns anywhere on the planet.
Parker grins at the sound.
“Fine. It is on my way home. I’ll meet you there,” I agree.
“I would like three over-easy eggs, sausage links, extra-crispy hash browns, and rye toast. The lady will have a ham and cheese omelet and hash browns with onions, and we will share a pecan waffle.”
We hand our menus to the waitress, and Parker pours each of us a cup of coffee from the carafe she left on the table. I add cream and sugar to my cup.
Parker watches as I take my first sip.
“Mmm,” I say.
He grins. “Good, huh?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s terrible.”
“What?” He picks up his mug and takes a big gulp. “It tastes as good as ever to me,” he replies.
“That’s because it has always been terrible. We can tell the difference now that we have real coffee shops on the island,” I explain.
“You mean fancy coffee.”
“I mean coffee that isn’t from the bottom of a pot and has grounds floating in it.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve turned into a coffee snob.”
“It was bound to happen. That first sip of espresso with steamed milk, and I was an instant addict.”
The waitress returns with our food, and we dig in.
“Now, this,” I say, pointing at my plate, “is good.”
“Thank God you haven’t turned into a food snob too,” he teases.
“Never,” I declare before shoving a huge forkful into my mouth.
The diner is quiet this morning. A couple of men are seated at the counter, and another couple occupies a booth on the opposite side of the room. Parker quickly devours his food and starts loading the waffle with butter and syrup in the middle of the table.
“You’d better not eat it all,” I say.
He loads a fork with a bite, ensuring it includes chunks of pecans, and turns it toward me. “First bite is yours. I can’t promise anything after that,” he replies.
I lean across the table and wrap my lips around the offering. His eyes never leave my mouth as I chew and swallow, then lick the syrup from my bottom lip.
“Audrey?”
I look up at the sound of my name being called.
“Dad?” I was so caught up in the moment that I missed the sound of the bell over the door and my father entering.
Shit.
His eyes slide from me to Parker, and the smile falls from his face.
“What are you doing out this early?” I ask.
“A fishing boat called in an SOS about an hour ago, and we just brought it into the shop. We were hungry, so I told Lewis I’d buy him breakfast.”
One of Dad’s employees, Lewis, waves from a table by the door.
“Same here, actually. Parker is temporarily working at Whiskey Joe’s. We had a busy night because we had closed last week, so we worked up quite an appetite,” I explain.
Parker stands up and extends his hand. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Fulbright.”
Dad’s eyes dart from Parker’s face to his hand, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he addresses me. “Get home safely, sweetheart.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you.”
He joins Lewis at their table.
“I’m feeling tired. Can we request a to-go box and call it a night?” I ask Parker.
He turns to look over his shoulder at Dad, who is still angrily glaring at us.
“Yeah,” he mutters, then waves to our waitress.
Parker pays the bill while I scoop the waffle into a Styrofoam container. He then tosses a tip onto the table and walks me to my car.
“Sorry about Dad,” I say as he opens my door.
“It’s not news to me that I’m not his favorite person,” he says.
“Still.” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish.
“Audrey. It’s okay. I can handle the cold shoulder from your father. You just be careful getting home and text me when you’re there safe and sound,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I’m a big girl.”
“Humor me.”
“Fine. Goodnight, Parker.”
“Goodnight.”
He shuts me in, and I watch him jog to his truck. Then my eyes meet Dad’s in the diner window. They are filled with anger and disappointment.
Just Great.