No rain, No flowers.

2

I slipped in through the back door of the Forewest Hotel, my heart pounding as I prayed I could dodge Debra's wrath. Tossing my bag into my locker, I hurriedly shoved a few rebellious strands of hair beneath my chef's hat, smoothing the rest into place. As I stepped into the kitchen, I scanned the room—until I met Debra's piercing brown eyes, already fixed on me.

Damn it.

She marched toward me, and I immediately spun around, grabbing a rag to clean the prep table like I'd been there all along.

"Fifteen minutes late on the night of the Remingtons' Award Show? Seriously?" Her voice was laced with irritation, the kind that sent a shiver down my spine. It was the exact tone my mom used when she caught me sneaking in after curfew.

"I was, uh, actually helping with the garnishes back here," I lied, flashing a hopeful smile at Jose, who was slicing lemons just a few feet away. I silently willed him to back me up, knowing I'd owe him big if he did.

Without looking up, Jose gave a quick shrug, casually tossing cucumber ribbons into a tray. "Yeah, grabbed her as soon as she came in. Needed help for a minute, but she's all yours now." His voice was calm, almost too calm. He was enjoying this.

Debra narrowed her eyes, clearly weighing her options. But after a beat, her expression softened—just a little. "I just want everything perfect tonight. The Remingtons are picky as hell, and I can't have anything go wrong."

I nodded, wisely keeping my mouth shut. This was one of those moments where silence would do more for me than words.

Debra sighed, her frustration slipping into something more vulnerable. She pulled her phone from her pocket, tapping at the screen as she spoke. "I was looking for you anyway. We're short on waitstaff, and I need you to help serve drinks tonight."

My stomach dropped. "But I don't have anything to change into. You know I would, but—"

"Claire left her backup cocktail dress in her locker. I texted her; she's fine with you borrowing it." Debra's lips curled into a smug smile as she reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a sleek black satin dress. "You're a lifesaver."

I stared at the dress, biting back a groan. "You're lucky I skipped dinner."

Debra chuckled, unlocking her own locker and grabbing a pair of unopened pantyhose. "I don't have extra shoes, but it's dim in there. No one's gonna notice."

I took the pantyhose, waving them at her like a white flag of surrender. "Scarlett just gave me some killer heels for my birthday. I'll grab them from the car."

The kitchen staff shot me curious glances as I passed through, but I barely registered them. My mind was already elsewhere—on the task ahead: serving drinks to the most pretentious crowd in the city. A familiar flicker of nerves sparked inside me, but something else, something I hadn't felt in a long time, simmered beneath it—a thrill. The challenge was real, and part of me was ready to rise to it.

In the dim, cramped bathroom, I locked the door behind me. The fluorescent light flickered on, casting a harsh glow as I shrugged out of my chef's coat. The cool air brushed my skin, and I felt a shiver, but not just from the temperature. Tonight was different. I wiggled into Claire's dress, the fabric clinging a little tighter than I'd like, but it hugged my curves in all the right places.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the way the black satin dress clung to me. It hugged my curves gently, while my dark waves framed my face, falling effortlessly into place. The slight circles under my eyes added an unintentional, sleepy allure—like a mix of exhaustion and beauty rolled into one. Despite the long, draining double shift that had stolen most of my energy, I had to admit... I looked pretty damn good. It had been so long since I'd had to face people like this—serving, presenting myself.