Belmont Inn

3

10:25 am

The sweltering residue of the regimented execution of cholesterol ridden orders at breakfast rush accumulated a mass of smoke on the cusp of forming its own layer of the atmosphere. The sizzling shrieks of meats encountering scorching grease nearly muffled Martin's resounding howls of commands. In any event, the latter prevailed.

Wearily untethering the binds of her apron, Sara shifted to drape its ruffled collar across the wall hook aligning the staff door. Her drive to attend the porter's shift was transient, but she'd already committed.

The crammed labour of picking up excess shifts during the understaffed holiday season accompanied excess pay. The general lack of traffic this time of the year that enabled such downsizing foresaw little actual work. A scant crowd chose to expend their breaks at the semi-remote Inn, including its own employees.

In any case, she'd rather shoulder the cursed post of subjection to weight lifting, snide conduct, and measly tips more degrading than none than handle Martin. The steadfast elderly head chef, who she'd barely restrain from dictating to customers what they verily wanted at his best, was in an exceptionally sour spirit this season. His ex wife had taken the kids to spend the holidays with her new boyfriend in Vermont. Wounding, and justifiably entitling a fit, but not in her vicinity.

Perhaps it wouldn't be such dreadful a shift, she thought. Her fortune with customer encounters had not been distinctly foul this season. A warm flush sheathed her as her thighs quivered in reminiscence of Tall Dark and Handsome's fervent touch. Her own audacious initiatives had floored her. She didn't customarily take such liberties. Not that she'd ever been shy with insolently running her tongue, but she usually kept her limbs to herself.

The hazel gaze eclipsed with unruly intrigue holding hers captive as their limbs danced indisciplined reoccurred to her. Surely unadulterated chemistry entitled lewd liberties. It didn't visit her often, if ever, and even she weren't too much of a prude to say hello when it did.

As Sara distractedly verged on the reception desk, she blinked at her unanticipated receiver. "Where's Susan?" She asked confoundedly.

Katie raised an affronted brow as she leisurely reclined across the desk. "Nice to see you too, Ser."

Her dimples twitched, but she rolled her eyes. "Hey honey. How've you been since I saw you four hours ago? I must denote how I adore your presence before broaching the delicate matter of where our boss is. You're so lovely Katie, but you don't sign my pay checks."

Katie's leadened gaze imparted exasperation. "She's in the lounge. Officially, to police the equipping of stage for that show tomorrow. Unofficially, to have a drink or four. You know the ritual."

Sara slackened against the propped desk in abstracted quietude as Katie droned unabated about the coping mechanisms of their ageing superior every holiday season. Eventually, her chatter waned, and she perceived Sara with a discerning gaze. Amid the field of her narrowed eyes, Sara ruefully gnawed on her lip.

In retort to her colleague's probing gaze, she tentatively commenced. "What do you know about a band called Miscreants?" She wavered, her brows furrowed and nose scrunched in reflective contemplation. "Miscreant. The Miscreants? Something of that nature."

"Miscreants. No conjunctions." Katie supplied impassively. "They're an up and coming gorgeous cocktail of British sex on legs. They're touring locally for now, but pretty boys with good hair sell like hot cakes in that industry. I've been trying to get Wade to take me." She paused to regard her company. "Since when are you interested in punk rock?"

Sara amusedly appraised the query and pursued her motif with wilfully fabricated dispassion. "Since four sets of 'Sex on legs' strolled into our diner looking monumentally astray."