Smart Mouth Waitress by Dalya Moon Read Free Book Online

invisible in their little home base. Feng shui people could probably be brought in to make sure a new restaurant doesn't have one of those spaces, but the staff would be miserable and not stay long. We don't have a lot of turnover at The Whistle, and you can't say it's due to the wages.
    Courtney came out of the bathroom and walked straight into me for a hug, pinning me to the counter. “I'm sorry,” she said, her little honey-shampoo-scented head nestled near my armpit.
    “Don't you apologize. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have made fun of England's name. I mean Scotland. I mean Great Britain.”
    She let out a big sigh.
    The traffic sound muted and someone else came in the front door. Crossword Guy. Marc.
    “He never comes in Tuesday,” Courtney said.
    My knees got weak and I crouched down, pretending to pick something up off the floor. “Please take him in your section. I can't go all tongue-tied and nice again today.”
    “His feelings will be hurt.”
    “I'll still drop by to say hi.”
    She ran her fingers over a lank of perfectly-straight, perfectly-black hair. “You owe me. Remember this tonight when you're meeting Britain.”
    I agreed and, still crouching, patted her on the leg. I slowly rose, peeking over the edge of the bar counter. True to her word, she did seat Marc on her side, but not before they both turned to look at me, with her pointing my way. Once spotted, I had to stand.
    As Marc peered in my direction, I got that sensation you get in middle-grade, when you have a crush on someone and your best friend immediately goes and tells the guy that somebody she knows likes him, but she won't say who, and then she looks right at you . Then Scott Weaver knows you like-him like him, and he uses that information for humiliation.
    Why is it so embarrassing to admit you like someone? It should be a compliment to them, and even if they don't like you back, they should at least commend you on your refined taste. You should be allowed to bond over your mutual love of their dreamy eyes, you from afar, and them by staring at their webcam screen or searching out their face in every group shot uploaded to Facebook.
    Instead, admitting you're attracted to someone is this horrifying thing you must endure on the path to love. It's so … public.
    Them knowing is equivalent to you saying, Hi there cutie, I've been fantasizing about rubbing my private parts on yours.
    Ugh. Just shoot me.
    Courtney returned to the waitress station and put a cup of coffee on a tray, then doubled over. “Cramps. Oh the humanity. Oh, crampy-cramps. Can you take that coffee out to my table? I'm about to have a tampon emergency.”
    I was pretty sure she'd used that excuse the week before, but I figured I could check on my three house-painter guys on the way back, and it would be rude to not even say hello to Marc, who was so nice.
    At his table, I set down his coffee and said, “What brings you here on a Tuesday? Did your regular Tuesday place get closed down due to health violations?”
    He itched his nose and gave me a perplexed look.
    “It's Tuesday,” I said. “You normally only come in on Mondays.” As the words cannon-balled out of my mouth, I knew I was saying the wrong thing. He probably came by to see me, to be friendly, and now I was going to force him to admit it? Smooth move, Perry. Why didn't I just bring out a medical diagram of a naked woman and ask him to point to the parts he'd been thinking about touching?
    “It really is Tuesday,” he said.
    “That's what my underpants say.”
    “You were my waitress yesterday.”
    “Yes, but I was having an off day and I didn't verbally abuse you. You only got partial service, and for that, I apologize.”
    He tilted his head and rubbed his ear, his voice squeaky as he asked, “How long have you worked here, exactly?”
    “Since last summer. You know that.”
    “Right,” he said, nodding. “And you used to have dreadlocks, but now you don't.”
    I fluffed my hair.