menus out of the bin by the hostess station. “I don’t want to be part of your little ‘live like the common folk do’ project.” She put air quotes around the words.
“I’m not—”
But she was already gone, seeming to whoosh across the tiled floor like a tidal wave. In the space of thirty seconds, she had the second couple seated, given them their menus, then returned to the construction workers and taken their orders. She tore a page off the pad, slipped behind the counter and slid it across the stainless steel bar in the kitchen to Frank, calling off something Riley couldn’t understand but sounded like “flop two, over easy” and “give it wings.”
Frank garbled something back, and Sally/Sandy disappeared into the kitchen for a second.
Riley had to admit, he was impressed. He had watched her bustle around the diner, a tiny dynamo in a slim fitting pair of jeans, a hot pink Morning Glory Diner T-shirt, and a bobbing blond ponytail. Every time he’d seen her, she’d been like that, a human bee, flitting from one table to the next. She was fast, and efficient, even if her customer service skills with him were almost nonexistent. Maybe the job was more stressful than it looked. Many times, she’d been the only waitress in here when he stopped in for his morning breakfast, since lunch was almost always at McGill’s Pub with his brother Finn.
Apparently help was hard to come by, because he’d seen that Help Wanted sign often over the years, and seen dozens of waitresses who worked here a few weeks, then moved on. The only constant was Sally/Sandy—he was sure it was something with an S—she had been here every day, and always with the same brisk, no-nonsense approach to the job.
“Hey, buddy, you just going to stand there?”
Riley leaned against the hostess station, flipping through one of the menus. He’d been given the menu before, but never really looked at it. He’d just ordered what he wanted and figured if they didn’t have the ingredients, they would have told him. Now, though, it might be a good idea to get more familiar with it. Knowing Sally/Sandy, there’d be a quiz later.
“Buddy!”
Frank’s offered a hell of a lot of food for such a small place. He’d started coming here in the mornings for breakfast because it was on the way between his subway stop and the offices of McKenna Media. Not to mention the Morning Glory’s coffee was better than any he’d ever had. Riley scanned the pages of breakfast and lunch offerings, noted there was no dinner service. Working half days sounded good to him. He’d have his evenings free.
Except, the thought of spending an evening in yet another bar didn’t thrill him anymore. Maybe it was being another year older. Maybe it was the shock of Gran’s edict. Maybe it was a need for new friends. Whatever the problem was, he knew one thing.
He wanted more…depth to his days.
“Hey, moron!”
Riley jerked his attention toward the construction guys. “You can’t talk to her like that.”
“Her who? We’re talking to you, Tweedledee.” The two guys snickered, then the big one—the one with the hat that said Irving—wiggled his fingers like he was feigning sign language. “Two coffees. You know, the hot stuff in cups?”
“I know what coffee is.”
“Good. Get us some. Now.”
Bunch of Neanderthals ordering people around. Riley leaned against the hostess station and crossed his arms over his chest. Considered dumping the pot in the man’s lap, just to prove the point. “No. Not unless you say please.”
Irving’s face turned red. His fist tightened on the table. Before he could open his mouth, Sally/Sandy came sailing past Riley, two cups in one hand, a hot pot of coffee in the other. The cups landed on the table with a soft clatter, and she filled them to just under the brim without spilling a drop. “Don’t mind him. He’s not really a waiter.”
“What is he?” Irving said.
“I think you already called it. What was the word?” She put a finger to her lips. “Oh yes, moron.”
The two men laughed some more at that. They thanked her, then sat back and started talking about work.
The waitress had an ease with smoothing the customers’ ruffled feathers. He’d noticed that about her before—she’d turned more than one disgruntled frown into a smile. It was what had interested him about her before, and still did now. She was a contradiction. And that intrigued him. A lot.
Sally/Sandy returned, grabbed Riley’s shirt again and tugged him around to the other side of the counter. She was surprisingly strong for such a petite woman.
“Hey, go easy on the manhandling,” Riley said and gently disengaged her hand.
She snorted. “Manhandling. Right.”
He leaned against the counter and eyed her. “Why do you hate me so much?”
“I don’t hate you. You annoy me. There’s a difference.” He opened his mouth to ask a question but she put a hand up and stopped him. “Listen, I’d love to talk all day about your faults—”
“I don’t have any faults.” He grinned. “Okay, maybe one.”
“But the lunch crowd will be here any second, and I have work to do.”
“So do I. Are you going to let me do my job?”
“You can’t handle this job.”
“Let me prove it to you.” He took a step closer. Wow, she had pretty eyes. They were the color of emeralds, a deep, dark green that seemed to beckon him in. “Listen, I’ve watched you work, and if you ask me, you work too hard.”
“This job demands hard work.”
“Not if you have readily available help to call on. Something I’ve never seen you do, even when the other woman was working here. I can be useful, you know.”
She let out a long breath, and Riley found himself wondering what was in that breath that she wasn’t saying. What weights sat on her delicate shoulders. “I just feel better doing things myself.”
“Asking for help doesn’t make you weak. Just smart.”
She cocked a brow. “And asking for your help, what does that make me?”
“Brilliant.” He grinned.
She eyed him for a long, long time, while the coffeepot percolated and the hum of conversation filled the air. “All right, I’ll be better about letting you help. But stay out of my way and don’t screw up. Don’t flirt with the customers, and don’t flirt with me. Just keep your head down and work.” She narrowed her gaze at him. “Because when you screw up, it costs me, and I can’t afford to let that happen. Got it?”
“Got it, captain.” He gave her a mock salute.
She scowled. “And don’t call me captain.”
He leaned in, gave her another grin. “What should I call you?”
She held his gaze for a long moment.
