CHAPTER TWO
Emma
I picked up the pace, my black work shoes pounding the pavement. Had I polished them since the last shift? I couldn’t remember. After getting off the night before, I’d fallen asleep on the couch with my chemistry book in front of me. The test was in two days.
Shit. The test is in two days.
I had way more studying to do. But when, exactly? When would I fit it in?
I paused at the corner, waiting with a gaggle of people for the light to turn. My fingers burrowed into my black pants’ pocket and found the hair tie there.
“Yes,” I hissed, making a woman nearby glance suspiciously at me.
I smiled at her. Don’t worry, I’m not a crazy person.
Pulling the hair tie out, I pulled my long waves up and into a high ponytail before tucking the ends into a bun. It was a shoddy hair job, but hopefully, it would pass. If not, my manager would sure as heck let me know the second I walked through the doors of the restaurant.
The light turned, and I booked it across the street. Late. I was going to be late. It was the last thing I could afford — literally. Rent was due next week. If I ended up getting fired, there would be no time to find another job and make the few hundred bucks I was short.
Relax, Emma. It will be okay.
I hoisted my backpack up higher onto my shoulder. It was full of books from the day’s classes and the clothes I’d changed out of in a bathroom in the Humanities building.
The facade of Kristopher’s appeared ahead, all the way at the other end of the block. A sleek black car pulled up to the curb in front of it, but I didn’t take the time to bother seeing who would get out. Kristopher’s was one of the most popular five-star restaurants in Chicago. It was a cesspool for the rich and famous. The only reason I’d stayed there this past year was because the tips couldn’t be beat. The majority of the clientele’s attitudes on the other hand? Those could definitely be improved upon. Seriously, you’d think some people’s mothers, also known as nannies in this crowd, hadn’t even bothered to teach manners.
Mothers!
Crap, my mom’s birthday was next week. Dad was throwing her a little bash in the backyard. I hadn’t given any thought to what I would get her. Assuming I could even get my butt to the suburbs for the party.
I chewed on my bottom lip and jumped over a crack in the sidewalk. My car’s battery had died the week before. The mechanic I’d talked to on the phone had suggested it was the alternator. My savvy roommate had helped me replace the battery, but I hadn’t gotten into the shop yet to get the alternator checked. Would the car be able to make a trip out of the city? Could I afford a present?
I took in a deep breath. One thing at a time. Everything would turn out all right in the end.
Hitting the tiny alley next to the restaurant, I hooked a left and headed for the staff entrance. The heavy door scraped the threshold as I stepped inside and into the kitchen. The long lines of gleaming metal tables bounced with their usual energy, the staff chopping and sautéing with verve. I hugged the wall, taking the route to the staff break room. There I dumped my bag in my assigned cubby and whirled around to join the rest of the front of house.
Chris, the night manager, hovered near the server station. His pale eyebrows shot up the second he saw me. I opened my mouth to apologize but thought better of it. The noise of the dining room creeping around the corner told me the night was already in full swing. Perhaps Chris had been too occupied to notice I was late.
“Hi,” I breathlessly said, skidding to a stop next to the drink station.
Chris’ eyes ran over my hair. I cringed, waiting for him to tell me to go and fix my bun.
“You’re just in time,” he said instead. “You just got your first table.”
I smiled wide. “Great.”
“Daniel is getting their drinks now.”
I nodded. Each front of house team consisted of a waiter, a back waiter, a sommelier, and a busser. The setup was vastly different from any other restaurant I’d worked in before, but Kristopher’s was a far cry from the breakfast diner I’d started at in high school. I’d been lucky to get a job at a fine dining establishment at all. The tips more than paid my bills. They were paying my way through nursing school.
“Here are the specials tonight,” Chris said, locking his eyes on mine and running down the list. I focused intently, committing the appetizer, salad, and two entree dishes to memory. At a place like Kristopher’s, reading the night’s specials off a piece of scrap paper was a big no-no. The head waiter wasn’t supposed to do any writing. When I took the guest’s orders, I would stash them away in my head and then go over to the server station and dictate them to my back waiter, who would then place the order with the kitchen.
Chris’ demeanor grew more serious. His eyebrows furrowed and his chin tucked down. “Your guest tonight is Niall Lambert and some of his colleagues.”
My breath halted. My heart sped up. Niall Lambert. I’d never waited on him, but he’d been in the restaurant during several of my shifts. Each time his cool gray eyes looked my way, the same thing always happened. A heat wave washed over me. My toes curled.
Undoubtedly, there was something about the man. Just what it was though, I had no clue. It wasn’t his pleasant attitude. More than one story about him making servers cry circulated the restaurant.
For the record, no customer had ever made me cry. But no customer had ever made the muscles between my thighs constrict with just a glance.
Folding my hands behind my back, I headed for the dining room. The timing was perfect, with Daniel just finishing pouring wine for the table. With a slight bow, he stepped back from the head of the table.
And there he was. The jet black wavy hair. The strong jaw. The lightly tanned skin. The piercing rain cloud eyes.
I swallowed hard. I could do this.
Daniel nodded to me as we passed and I took up my position near the head of the table.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I began. “Welcome to Kristopher’s.”
I could feel them on me. Those charcoal eyes. Their gaze was a laser, piercing the side of my face. I focused on the rest of the men at the table, specifically the ones who actually bothered to look at me. It was customary to address the host of the party, if there was one, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. That close to Niall Lambert, my knees were sure to buckle if he so much as blinked in my direction.
I went through the motions, giving a lavish description of the specials. Amazingly, I pulled it off without forgetting anything, despite the presence of the man to my right.
I answered the few questions about the menu, then took an order for appetizers. Spinning on the balls of my feet, I took my leave, only breathing fully once the table was yards behind me. My back waiter took the order and went to place it while I saw to another table that had just been seated.
After taking care of the lovey-dovey couple tucked into one of the corners — a nice reprieve — I headed back to Mr. Lambert’s table. Thankfully, the man in mention was engaged in a conversation with the fellow on his left.
Before I could ask if the party was ready to order entrees, the food runner brought the appetizers. I pointed out each dish and then stepped back so the busser could top off the water glasses. With a pitcher in each hand though, he’d picked up one of them at an odd angle, putting too much weight on his wrist. His hand shook, and I reached out to take the pitcher from him. Condensation slicked the glass, and it slipped, going right through my hands...
And down onto Niall Lambert’s lap.
With a glorious slow motion effect, the water flew up like a tidal wave, striking the white tablecloth then the floor — but practically drowning Mr. Lambert. The liquid soaked his fine gray suit, half a dozen glasses of water altogether.
I froze, not able to believe it. I’d never made a mistake at Kristopher’s — never dropped a plate, never forgotten a diner’s order.
The scene continued to move in slow motion, the collective gasps of everyone around permeating the air, the man next to Mr. Lambert scooting his chair out of the way, as if that somehow might save him from water already spilled.
One set of chilly eyes snapped up, locking onto mine, and time picked up, barreling past me.
I was as good as dead.