Second Hearts (The Wishes Series) by GJ Walker-Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

gesture because when someone called my name – well, Priscilla’s name – I almost jumped out of my skin.
    “Oh, it’s only you,” I said, spinning to see Elvis at the tiniest table we had, nestled near the door.
    He smirked roguishly. “You could get fired for that, you know. Comping meals is considered stealing.”
    I strolled toward his table. “Are you going to dob on me, Elvis?”
    His dark laugh led me to think he was contemplating it. “If I knew what dob meant, I might.”
    “What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
    “What do most people do here, Priscilla?”
    I cringed. Having a pseudonym bothered me only when he said it.
    “They eat. Would you like to hear the specials?”
    He laughed. “No. The specials are always the same.”
    “Yeah, but today they’re really special.”
    “Sit for a minute,” he ordered, pointing to the chair opposite him.
    I glanced around the room to see Paolo standing at the podium near the front door, watching me like a short, fat hawk.
    “I can’t.” I discreetly moved my head in an upward nod, gesturing toward Paolo.
    Discretion wasn’t Elvis’s forte. He twisted in his seat and stared straight at him. Realising he’d been caught, Paolo started thumbing through the reservation book. “Pretend you’re reading me the specials,” said Elvis, giving me a wink.
    I pulled out a chair and sat down.
    I enjoyed stealing a few minutes with Elvis now and then. He was funny, smart and handsome. He also knew he was funny, smart and handsome so he was cocky too. In the few weeks since I’d first met him, he’d dined at Nellie’s with at least four different women, showering each one of them with enough attention to make them think they were the only one. Elvis was clearly trouble, but I took heart in the fact that I was at least clued up enough to realise it.
    ***
    Waiting tables is not for the fainthearted. That morning I dealt with a screaming baby who threw her food around, two adult babies screaming at me because their orders were wrong… and Bryce and his pals.
    “What’s a smash cake?” he asked, pointing to the item on the menu.
    “It’s a favourite of all the little children who come in here,” I said acidly.
    I wasn’t lying. The white cake piled high with sickly sweet frosting was a must-have for any toddler who dined at Nellie’s. Little ones who weren’t coordinated enough to eat it with a fork would pick it up and smash it against their mouths.
    “We’ll take three of those.”
    Something about Bryce made his friends think he was hilarious and witty. I’d tried to figure out what it was but come up blank each time. To me he was one of the most repugnant people I’d ever met.
    “Would you like sprinkles on your smash cakes?” I spoke in the same slow tone that I used when asking two year olds that question.
    “Sure, why not?”
    I turned to walk away but Bryce grabbed my elbow. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, shrugging free.
    “You’re not very friendly today, beautiful.”
    “I’m never friendly to you.”
    His friends began to snigger, spurring him on to be even more offensive. But he didn’t get a chance to say anything else cringe-worthy.
    Elvis walked in.
    “Can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the table next to Bryce’s.
    “Yes, of course,” I replied.
    The party of chubby investment bankers didn’t seem to appreciate company. The table fell silent.
    I walked the short distance to Elvis’s table. “Good morning, Elvis,” I crooned.
    He looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”
    “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
    “Did you miss me?”
    “Not one bit,” I quipped, handing him a menu.
    He laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
    It had been nearly a week since Elvis had been to the restaurant. I had missed him but would never admit it. Pathetically, besides Marvin, Elvis was the closest thing I had to a friend in New York.
    Once I’d served the fat bankers their cake and coffee, I didn’t