Ashley
“Good
afternoon and welcome to the Field House Grille. May I start you two off with
drinks or an appetizer today?” The waiter’s voice startles me out of my
conspiracy theories, and I resume perusing my menu.
“Yes,
I’ll have a long island ice tea and a white wine spritzer for the lady.”
Gregory orders with confidence. He’s only a year shy of the legal drinking age
so he may pass as old enough to get
served, but it’s obvious I’m not old enough to drink yet. “And then we’ll have
an order of the calamari to start and for our entrees she’ll have the sea bass,
and I’ll have the filet.” He shuts his menu and hands it back to the waiter
with bravado.
“I’ll
actually have a bottle of San
Pellegrino please,” I say, staring at my menu, trying to avoid the
embarrassment of being carded and then denied, or worse, my parents finding out
I tried to order an alcoholic drink, at the club no less. “And what salad would you recommend?” I start to ask, but the words get caught in my throat when I finally look up and see
the waiter.
Whoa.
He. Is.
Gorgeous.
“Well…our house
mixed salad is very popular. It’s locally grown organic and is fresh picked
daily. It comes with a light raspberry vinaigrette dressing that can be tossed
on or left on the side,” he says, holding my gaze.
“Oh. Yes. That
sounds… yummy.” The words come out all breathy, and I’m immediately humiliated
at the way I must have sounded.
Yummy. Breathy.
Seriously, Ashley?
“Then on the
side, miss?” the waiter asks, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Yes, thank
you,” I say, feeling my face flush with warmth.
Apparently
Gregory Chase isn’t the only boy in town who can make a girl blush, and by the
daggers Gregory’s shooting the poor guy with his eyes, he knows it too.
Gregory clears
his throat and pulls the attention of the waiter back on him. “Fine. We’ll have
one house salad with dressing on the side and an order of calamari to start.”
Then with a dismissive flick of his hand, “Now, go fetch our drinks.”
Go fetch our
drinks? Is he serious? How can he think it’s okay to speak to someone that way?
But before I can say anything the cute waiter lets out an amused laugh that
surprises me.
“I’m sorry sir,
but I’m gonna have to see an ID first.” The waiter looks not at all sorry to
ask, which makes me have to hide a smile.
“You have got to
be kidding me,” Gregory starts. “I left it in the men’s locker room,” he
explains, but his confidence is shaken. No one ever challenges Gregory.
“I’m sorry sir,
but without a valid ID I’m not gonna be able to serve you, but I’ll be happy to
wait here while you go and get it.” The waiter gives Greg a fake smile and then
me a real one. He clearly is enjoying himself.
It’s evident
Greg’s not going to get his way, so he finally concedes, but without an ounce
of grace. “How about you take your eyes off my date, and go do your job.” He
levels the waiter with his eyes. “And just bring me a damn coke while you’re at
it.”
Gregory clears
his throat and pulls the attention of the waiter back on him. “Fine. We’ll have
one house salad with dressing on the side and an order of calamari to start.”
Then with a dismissive flick of his hand, “Now, go fetch our drinks.”
Go fetch our
drinks? Is he serious? How can he think it’s okay to speak to someone that way?
But before I can say anything the cute waiter lets out an amused laugh that
surprises me.
“I’m sorry sir,
but I’m gonna have to see an ID first.” The waiter looks not at all sorry to
ask, which makes me have to hide a smile.
“Will do, sir,”
the waiter says with artificial politeness, giving Gregory an almost
imperceptible bow before turning around and leaving.
This time, I’m
the one who gets caught watching one of the waitstaff walk away.
Lane
“Dude, I just
busted some richie-rich for trying to order drinks underage, and he had the
nerve to yell at me for looking at his date. Too bad for him, she was looking
right back,” I say with a cocky laugh before giving Mario a high five. “Man,
it’s the jerks like that, that always get everything in life—the money, the
power, the girl. Probably has some big fat trust fund to pay for college too.”
“Sorry, man, but
try not to let him get under your skin, amigo.”
I know Mario’s
right, I should just let it go, but I’m sick and tired of Stays treating us
locals like we’re nothing. And who the hell tells someone to ‘go fetch’? What
am I? A dog? What an ass.
I drum my
fingers against the metal counter at the pass until Mario rings the service bell with a grin and hands me their starters.
“Here, orders up
and good luck.”
I give him a nod
then try to shove my jealousy and anger down when I enter the dining room
again, but I feel it hovering right on the surface. I take a deep breath before
setting the calamari in the center of the table and the salad in front of the
girl.
“Is there
anything else I can get you right now?” I ask, and it’s hard to keep my eyes
off of her long dark hair, her light green eyes and her legs that go on for
miles. Maybe that douche had a point.
“No, I’m fine.
Thank you,” she says politely, and I wonder why she’s on a date with such an
ass-hat. Either way, girls like her don’t date boys like me. Unless they’re
trying to piss off their parents, which is fine by me, but she doesn’t look
like the rebellious type.
I turn to face
him, lifting my eyebrows. “And you?” I ask because it’s my job.
“Yes, there is
something you can do for me, how about you explain why my silverware is off of
the floor.” He holds up his dinner fork, but I don’t understand what he’s
talking about. Off the floor?
“Excuse me?” I
reach for the fork to examine it. I personally set this table less than an hour
ago, and the silverware hadn’t touched the ground. Why would it? But right
before I’m able to take the fork from him for a closer look he opens his thumb
and pointer finger letting the fork fall to the hardwood floor with a loud ping
that echoes through the dining room.
“See.” He looks
me right in the eyes, a smirk plastered across his smug face, challenging me.
You have got to
be kidding me. This guy picked the wrong day.
I calmly pick
the fork up off the ground, bring it to my mouth and spit on the tongs before
lifting my apron and polishing it until it’s dry and shining. So much for not
letting him get under my skin.
“My apologies,
sir.” I place the fork back on the table in front of him like I’d accidentally
brought out the wrong appetizer instead of spitting all over the dude’s
silverware. “If there’s anything else I can do for you please let me know,
otherwise your entrees will be out shortly.”
I watch his eyes go wide with shock
before walking away looking cool, calm, and collected, even though on the
inside I’m totally freaking out. This is not going to end well.
***
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