Iced Romance Page 6

  “We’re closed until nine.”

  I hold up my hand as if I’m in school with a question. “I’m actually here to work,” I begin, but she has already ducked back into the kitchen.

  Making sure I don’t trip on anything, I walk across the faintly lit room and push open the door. “Hello?”

  “I told you, we’re still closed. Please get out before I make you get out.” Dreadlocks stands up from behind a cupboard and glares at me.

  “It’s my first day,” I interject. “I’m Kennedy and Max told me to come here just before nine and that you guys would show me the ropes.”

  “Your first day?” she repeats, a look of horror appearing on her face. She groans and smacks her forehead with her palm. “Seriously, Max hired someone else?”

  I feel distinctly unwelcome. “Um, yes, I guess so.”

  She turns her back on me and pulls dishes out of an industrial-sized dishwasher. She piles them on the counter behind her. “I told Max we didn’t need another waitress. I specifically told him.” With that, she tosses a handful of silverware on top of the plates and glares at me.

  “I’m sorry.” I hate having to apologize for something I didn’t do, but I don’t feel like I have much of a choice.

  She sighs. “Whatever, not your fault. I’m Leila. Christine starts at eleven today. There are also three other waitresses who work the shifts opposite us. Welcome to Maxie’s, where we are underappreciated, overstaffed and, as you will find out, underpaid.”

  She walks to a brown cardboard box at the far end of the kitchen and pulls out some ugly fabric, that, when she unfolds it, I see is a dress. Sort of.

  “This is the uniform. Used to belong to Linda, the chick who quit here about two months ago. Disgusting color, I know. But at least when it’s a puke green color all other stains sort of blend in.”

  I take it between two fingers and sniff it. “Are you sure this has been washed?”

  Leila snorts, grabs a pile of cutlery, and walks out the door to the dining room. “Of course I’m not sure. Half the dishes we serve food on haven’t been washed. What’s a little sweat and grease anyway?”

  I think I might gag. I hold the uniform in one hand and follow Leila out the door. “Okay, I’ll wash it tonight. Can I just wear my street clothes for today?”

  “Not a chance,” Leila grins. She seems to enjoy my discomfort. “One day in a dirty dress won’t kill you, right newbie?”

  I shudder, but nod reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll put it on. So, um, what exactly am I supposed to do today?”

  Leila places a knife, fork, and spoon on a napkin on the nearest table. “Let me guess. You’ve never been a waitress before. You need money, so you thought you’d try it out. And Max hired you because he thinks your legs are hot in heels. Seriously, who do you think you are, Paris Hilton? Please tell me that those shoes are Gucci knock offs and not the real thing.”

  I’m flustered and look down at my aching feet. “Um, they’re real Gucci, actually. But I didn’t know I’d be expected to wear something different.” Suddenly I feel very stupid. So much for making a good impression by wearing nice shoes.

  Leila shakes her head and slams some cutlery on the next table. “You’re not expected to, but it’s common sense. Do you think people will leave tips if your shoes cost more than their cars?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. In fact, until a week ago, I hadn’t thought much about money at all. It always was just there.

  My parents were corporate lawyers, both partners in the largest law firms in the country. They’d worked over a hundred hours apiece each week, but what they lacked in being loving parents they more than made up for in monetary allowances. I’d had the cars, the clothes, everything I could have wanted. Except for their love and attention.

  But that’s beside the point.

  Anyway, after losing a major lawsuit, my dad committed suicide when I was twelve, leaving my mother and me behind with all his investments and a lot of money. Then my mom died in a car crash when I was eighteen, so I had her life insurance and my trust fund on top of everything else. Those ran out eventually, but by then I’d met Todd and he was going to be a huge star. And he was. Games and endorsement deals for him meant more trips to Bali and more spa dates with teammates’ wives, designer clothes, and everything else.

  So truthfully? Gucci had just become a bit of a habit.

  “I’ll try to wear something different tomorrow, if that helps,” I tell her and look around for more plates. Maybe if I assist her in putting things on the tables, she’ll realize I’m needed here.

  “You don’t talk like you’re from here. Where are you from anyway? Your accent says Idaho farm girl, am I right?”

  “Really? I have an accent?” I’m a bit surprised.

  Leila tosses the next handful of cutlery a bit too far on a table and a knife falls onto the floor. She bends down, blows off some dust, and puts it back on the table.

  “Not an accent, exactly, but you talk different. I’m guessing if it’s not Idaho, then it’s somewhere in the Mid-West. Utah? North Dakota?”

  I ignore her question, staring in horror at the knife she just placed back on the table. “Um, are you sure you shouldn’t wash that? The floor can’t be all that clean and . . .” I trail off at her expression.

  Leila shakes her head and says, looking upward, “Of all people, the newbie had to be a clean freak.”

  I flush, a bit embarrassed. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but still, don’t people expect their restaurants to be clean when they go in? “I didn’t mean to offend you . . .” I begin, but Leila holds up a hand to silence me.

  “I get it, okay. I was like you once upon a time, too. But you’ll find out soon enough. Gary, the cook in the kitchen? He doesn’t wear a hairnet. And I think it’s a bit questionable if he ever showers. The food isn’t fit for human consumption, but the prices are good and we usually have a crowd, especially for dinner. So little things like dirty forks don’t end up mattering. All that matters is we serve the customers, they don’t notice the mouse traps in the corners and Max is happy. Got it?”

  I grimace. “Mouse traps?”

  “Just be grateful the cockroaches are gone for the time being.”

  I feel a little dizzy. “Look, maybe I’m in the wrong place. I’m not very good at things like this. I like things being clean and, and neat and, well, not mice-infested. I think I’m in the wrong job.”

  Leila smiles at me and for the first time it seems genuine. “It’s Carley, right?”

  “Kennedy,” I reply with hesitation.

  “Kennedy. Right. I think I prefer newbie. Anyway, don’t let my orientation freak you out. This isn’t a bad place. Max is a bit of a tool and Gary is nasty, but the customers who come in are nice enough, usually, and it’s a job. Even when people all over America are losing jobs, Max will never fire us. We’re safe here, you know? So just give it a shot. You’ll fit in all right.”

  I smile back. Sure, my feet hurt, my back is starting to spasm, and it’s only nine o’clock, but I have an ally, albeit a reluctant one.

  “So what do I do, then?”

  Leila laughs shortly. “All you need to do is greet the customers, ask for their orders, give them drinks first, make sure they have all the food they need, and then have them pay at the cash register. Max mans that booth, so you just need to get them to him. He’ll be in around nine fifteen, before anyone has to pay. Food comes from the kitchen. After you get an order, you go tell Gary what they want. He makes it, you carry it back out. Simple.”

  “Got it.” It sounds easy. I can do that.

  The door opens and light spills into the room. “Mornin’, Gary,” Leila says with barely a glance over her shoulder.

  Gary is a stoop-shouldered man with a black beard that is starting to go gray.
He looks over and grunts, “Hi.” He walks back into the kitchen area and I hear pans banging around.

  Leila winks at me. “He’s not the most social of men. But considering his personal hygiene, that is a good thing, trust me.”

  Leila looks up at the clock on the wall. “Nine o’clock. Let’s get the lights on, you get changed into your uniform and then come on back out here. We usually get a dozen people or so for breakfast. Sound good?”

  “Everything except having to put on this uniform.” I wrinkle my nose and go to the ladies room.

  There are definitely a fair number of stains on this dress, but I plug my nose and eventually manage to pull it over my head without messing my hair too bad. It fits okay.

  I fold the outfit I wore in and glance around for a place to put it. I don’t want it to get dirty or stolen, but the bathroom has only two stalls and a small sink. I go back to the dining room where I see the lights have all been turned on. Leila is in the corner, fiddling with a juke box. Jazzy music fills the air.

  “Do you know where I can keep my dress?”

  Leila nods. “We have a communal locker in the back. It’s right beside the fridge in the kitchen. You can keep your wallet there, smokes, jackets, whatever.”

  “Thanks.”

  When I return to the dining room a few minutes later, I am surprised to see that a couple of customers have appeared. An elderly gentleman with a walker sits in a booth in the center, two women wearing heels are chatting at the other end of the room, and as I watch, the door opens and a tall, skinny man with glasses enters.

  I freeze. Do I say something to him? Leila didn’t specify if we have assigned seating or if people just sit where they want. I lick my lips, ready to walk over there when Leila pushes her way out of the kitchen, holding a pot of coffee and two ceramic mugs.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” she chirps to the man and then nods at me. “Newbie, go ahead and help the man in the middle, I’ll take the women and the guy who just came in. Sound okay?”

  I swallow once to get my wits about me and then walk up to the old man in the center booth. I don’t know what to say to him. From across the room I hear Leila say brightly, with just a hint of sarcasm, “Welcome to Maxie’s, my name is Leila. I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Perfect! That sounds good. I look down at the old man and smile. “Hello sir, my name is Kennedy and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you a drink?”

  He pulls a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose into it, honking like a Canadian goose. Then he folds it again, sniffs once, and squints up at me.

  “Kennedy, huh. Named after JFK, I’d imagine. Shame to waste a strong name on a woman though.”

  “I’m not sure who I’m named after,” I say after just a slight pause. Be polite, Kennedy, I warn myself. This is my first customer. Don’t blow it.

  The man sniffs and peers at the menu. “I would like a coffee, black, with hash browns and scrambled eggs.”

  I look around desperately. Don’t waitresses usually have something to write on? I see Leila talking to the skinny man, laughing and jotting things down on a little coil bound notebook. She has one.

  Crap.

  I guess I’ll just have to remember this and find a notebook after.

  “Okay, so a black coffee, hash browns and scrambled eggs. I’ll go place your order.”

  I walk away quickly and duck into the kitchen. “Um, Gary?” I say, not sure if I should just shout them out or if he needs me to write it down or something.

  I hear a grunt in reply and take that to mean that he acknowledges my presence. “I need a coffee and scrambled eggs and hash browns. Okay?”

  “I don’t do coffee. The rest, five minutes” is all he says, and mixes something in a bowl with a wooden spoon.

  Leila enters and rattles off her order, too. Gary grunts and Leila turns to me. “How’s it going?”

  “I need something to write on.” I point at her notebook. “Any chance there are more of these?”

  Leila nods. “Yep, we keep a whole bunch at the cash register. Just grab one whenever you need one. Anything else?”

  “Uh, yeah. Gary says he doesn’t do coffee,” I say, glancing over at him, a little ashamed to be talking about him right in front of him, “but my customer ordered some. How do I do this?”

  “Oh, right, sorry about that. Yeah, we do all the drink orders ourselves.” Leila guides me over to the counter and points out a soda machine and beside it a coffee maker, some tea bags and a kettle. “Just grab a cup from the cupboard, fill up whatever the customer ordered, and take it out.”

  I nod. “Gotcha.”

  After the mug is filled, I carry it gingerly back out to the old man’s table. He is nowhere to be seen, however, and I look around quickly, making sure I’m not at the wrong table. Nope. He’s gone.

  I hesitate. Did he leave? Do I take the coffee back into the kitchen? Do I leave it on the table?

  Just then I hear steps behind me, I turn to see the old man hobbling toward me. He must have gone to the bathroom. Thank goodness my poor waitressing didn’t drive him away from the restaurant. I smile at him, relieved.

  I place the coffee on the table just as the man pulls up beside me. He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. “There’s no soap in the men’s room,” he says in a raspy voice. His hand slides down my arm and he sits laboriously back into the booth.

  My arm feels wet. I think I might throw up. No soap in the men’s room. And he just rubbed my arm.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say and dash back to the kitchen.

  Leila is leaning on the counter, texting on her phone when I barge in. She looks up. “Where’s the fire?” she asks.

  “Oh my gosh!” I tell her what happened. “I need soap! I need to wash my arm!”

  Leila laughs. “Chill out, girl. Seriously, I’ve never met a bigger clean freak than you. There’s some hand sanitizer under the sink, I think.”

  I dig it out and rub it liberally over my arm. My skin tingles slightly as the alcohol dries.

  “All better?” Leila stretches and drops her phone back into her pocket.

  I nod, a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry.”

  She pats my arm as she walks by. “Don’t fret it, okay? Now look, let’s go back out there, you get the next person who walks in, and we’ll forget about this. See? Waitressing isn’t that bad.”

  I grimace. “I’m going to have to start showering before and after work now.”

  Leila shrugs. “Honestly? You’ll get used to it. I promise.”

  And with that, we get back to work.

  Chapter Nine

  “Hey newbie, can you take table eight for me?”

  I look up from where I am wiping off the corner booth. The cloth is damp and cold now and I wish that I had remembered to put on the rubber gloves that Max leaves in the kitchen for this exact purpose. I’ve only been here a few days and am still getting the hang of it all.

  “What was that?” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes with my free hand.

  Leila places a steaming bowl of soup in front of a customer nearby and then turns back to me. “Could you take table eight for me? The guy just came in, and I’m totally swamped. Man, Sunday’s are crazy! I still have to clean off three more tables before Max will let me go on break. And seriously? I am desperate for a smoke.” She grins at me and puts her hands in a praying position, while managing to also stick out her lower lip.

  “Where’d Christine go?” I ask, looking around for the other waitress. She only works here during lunch and dinner service, but right now she’s nowhere to be found.

  “She had to go home early. I think her kid was sick or something,” Leila says, making her lower lip tremble ju
st a little. “So please can you take my new table?”

  I’ve always been a sucker for that trembling lower lip thing. Besides, it’s kind of nice to be in on the camaraderie thing. She asks me a favor, I do it for her. That makes us friends, right?

  “Sure, you go ahead and get on your break. I’ll help the new customer.” I finish cleaning off the table and glance over to table eight. I can only see the back of his head. Black hair, slightly wavy but clipped short. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt and I can’t tell from the brief glance I get if he’ll be a good tipper or not.

  “Thanks, buddy, I owe you one!” Leila pats my arm in gratitude as she hurries by, heading to the kitchen to grab her own cleaning supplies. I feel a little smidgeon of happiness inside. Doing favors is a nice feeling.

  I toss the rag I was using into the kitchen on a counter and pick up a notepad by the cash register. I grab a menu and walk over to the guy. He’s tapping away into an iPhone and barely glances up when I place the menu in front of him.

  “Hi, I’m Kennedy and I’ll be your waitress. Our special today is blueberry pie. Can I get you something to drink?” At least in the few days since I started, I’ve gotten the welcoming routine down pat.

  The guy looks up. He has brilliant blue eyes with dark lashes framing them. If it wasn’t for a small scar running along his left cheek, he could pass for a model. He has incredible features, strong and tough. He is quite possibly the most attractive man I’ve seen in a long time, and I feel myself start to blush as I look at him.

  I am such an idiot!

  “Kennedy, huh. And you’re new here?” His voice is soft but masculine. He smiles at me and I feel like my knees are turning to butter, as cliché and ridiculous as that may be.

  “Uh, yeah, I mean, well, kind of, well,” I trail off and take a deep breath, wishing I could disappear. Why am I such a bumbling fool? It’s like I’m in seventh grade all over again and the cute boy on the basketball team is talking to me for the first time.