new marketing approach, one that would give it some attention in Boston’s crowded food industry. Riley pondered that as he crossed to Table Seven, another four-top, as Stace called it, which sat in the corner by the window. For whatever reason, Stace had seated this lone man at a table for four.
Before Riley said a word, the man put up a hand. He was tall, thin, with a thick graying beard that made him look like a human grizzly, a fact augmented by the thick dark brown plaid flannel shirt and the cargo pants he wore. For some reason, he looked familiar to Riley, but Riley couldn’t place the face.
“You’re new,” the man said, “so I’m going to do this quick. I don’t want a menu. I don’t want advice, and I sure as hell don’t want your opinion about the special of the day. I want a hot cup of coffee—hot, not lukewarm, not mildly hot, but hot—and a cheeseburger with fries. Don’t skimp on the fries and don’t eat any in the kitchen.”
“I wouldn’t—”
The man ignored Riley and barreled forward. “The cheeseburger better be well done. That means cooked through. Not so much as a hint of pink. Done, dead, and dark. You hear me? I don’t need E. coli as a side dish.”
Riley jotted down burger, fries and coffee on his pad. Wrote well done and underlined it three times. “Right away, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir or buddy or pal. I don’t need a new friend. All I want is my damned food.” The man eyed Riley up and down. “What the hell was Frank thinking when he hired you? You look about as much like a waiter as a walrus.”
Riley started to answer. The man put up his hand again. “I don’t need an answer. I’m not interested in your sob story. It’ll be the same as every other one I’ve heard. Lost my job, lost my apartment, lost my damned dog. I don’t care. Just get my food.” Then the man shook out his newspaper and buried his nose in the Sports section.
Riley turned away and headed for the kitchen. Before he could give Frank the order, the older man was laughing. “I see you met Walter,” Frank said.
“If you’re talking about Table Seven, yes.” Riley ran a hand through his hair. “Is he always that pleasant?”
“Today he’s in a good mood. Usually he yells his order at me from across the room.” Frank plopped a fat burger onto the griddle, then turned to drop some fries into a fry basket. “You better go get his coffee. Walter doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
On the way to the coffee, Riley got sidetracked by a customer who had to get to a meeting and wanted his order to go. Another who asked to add a salad to his lunch order and a third who wanted extra napkins. Riley dashed from place to place, trying to keep everyone happy, and wondering how Stace—who had twice the number of tables—managed to make it look so easy and he managed to feel like he was coming up short again and again. What he needed was an assistant, something he knew Stace sure as hell wouldn’t approve. Hell, he’d had two assistants at McKenna Media. Now…none.
He wasn’t used to being the gofer. Or the go-to anything. Riley had never expected the job to be this time-consuming or difficult. Yet Stace made it look effortless. She greeted every customer with a smile, seemed to sail from kitchen to table, and never missed a step. He caught himself watching her, more than once.
“New guy! Coffee!”
Riley jerked to attention and waved at Walter, then turned to the coffeepot and poured a hot cup of coffee. Just as he turned to bring over the mug, Frank dinged the kitchen bell. “Order up. Table Seven.”
Riley pivoted back, grabbed the plate, and headed for Walter at a fast clip. The plate jiggled a little as he navigated the crowded diner, but he recovered his balance and delivered the lunch to Table Seven. “Here you go. One burger well done, side of fries, coffee.”
Walter gave the entire thing a look of distaste. “I said hot coffee. This isn’t hot.”
“It’s fresh out—”
“You poured it, then went to the kitchen. I don’t care if it took you three seconds or thirty, my coffee is cooling while you dawdle and drool over your coworker. And as for my burger and fries—” he lifted the bun, grunted apparent approval at the charred beef, then ran a finger over the fries “—there are only twenty-one fries here. My order comes with twenty-two. No more, no less. I paid for twenty-two. I want that fry.”
Across the room, Stace watched the exchange with a slight grin playing on her lips. She was clearly enjoying this.
“I’ll get right back to the kitchen,” Riley said, “and—”
“Start over. Bring me the whole thing again. From the top. Twenty-two fries.”
“Sir, I can bring you more fries—”
“I don’t want more fries, I want the ones I ordered.” Walter leaned forward. “Did you eat it?”
Riley could swear he heard Stace let out a snicker.
“No, no. I would never—”
“You smell like fries. You ate my fry.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Riley noticed a long pale rectangle on the floor. The missing fry, probably had taken a tumble when Riley had dodged a customer shoving back in his chair. “Sir—” A light, quick touch on his arm cut off Riley’s words.
“Walter, you don’t need to be giving the new guy such a hard time.” Stace flipped out a coffee mug, and filled it with hot coffee. “Why, you’ll scare him away before he finishes his first day.”
Walter took a sip of the coffee. Something that approached a smile flitted across his lips. “Why’d you dump him on my table?”
“Because you’re my best customer, that’s why.” Stace gave Walter a friendly look. “Now let me get you some new fries. And an extra pickle for your troubles.”
Walter weighed the offer. “All right. But tell him—” he thumbed in Riley’s direction “—to get his head out from between his—”
“Don’t say mean things, Walter. It gives you indigestion.” She flashed another smile, then turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen.
Riley caught up with her just inside the double doors. The movement brought them close together in the small space, so close, he could catch the vanilla and floral notes of her perfume. It danced around his senses. Sweet, light, enticing. “How’d you get Sir Surly there to smile like that?”
“Easy. I just feed into Walter’s need to be right. And his addiction to pickles. Walter can be a pain in the butt—” she arched a brow in Riley’s direction, and he wondered if that was a side reference to himself “—but he’s all right. He just likes things the way he likes them.”
He grinned. “Remind you of anyone you know?”
“Not at all.” Stace blew on her nails and feigned indifference. That same slight smile teased at her lips again. “Why? Are you volunteering?”
Riley liked her. He always had. It had to be the way she stood up to him, and gave back as good as she got. She didn’t fawn over him or gush compliments like a leaky faucet. She was straight, no-nonsense, what you see is what you get and if you don’t like it, too
