The Beachwood [H.S.]

My Usual

September

Luckily, I didn't have to wait years to see Harry again.

Waking up to my alarm the next morning felt blissfully ignorant. At first, I assumed meeting Harry had been something I'd dreamed, but then I turned to my window and felt the memories of yesterday come flooding back to me.

I frowned and tried to force the image of those beautiful brown curls tucked into a beanie out of my mind. There was no point obsessing over him, he would already be on his way to NYC by now.

Going through my usual morning ritual, I finally attached the faded name tag onto my chest and grabbed my coat.

It was a cooler morning, feeling almost as if winter were forcing its way in. I shivered but continued on my way to the Beachwood, watching as the yellowing lights lit up the still darkened sidewalk.

I walked in and immediately flung my coat onto the hanger, quickly hustling over to the counter. Dean stood with a package of still-frozen sausage in his hands, hurrying around the kitchen.

"Morning," he spoke, voice still groggy from sleep. I returned his greeting and made my way to my bussing tray, already feeling my body fall into the groove of work as I continued to wake up.

The bell of the door rang right as the clock struck 7, and I turned to head for my post at the greeting podium.

What I hadn't expected, however, was to see Harry. He wore an orange-colored button down with black vintage jeans, a red scarf tied around his head.

"Harry?" I asked, completely dropping my usually formal demeanor.

"Hey," he grinned, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I thought you would be on your way to NYC by now?" I questioned, looking over him. Surely Ken would want him ready to leave any minute now.

"I couldn't leave without stopping here to see you again," he winked, and I felt my heart race. I wasn't sure what to expect him to say, but that definitely wasn't it.

"And of course, I had to get a taste of those scrambled eggs just one more time," he chuckled, placing his hands in his front pockets.

The way he refused to ever break the connection between our eyes made my hands go cold. I awkwardly stood staring at him, not knowing how to react.

"Jamie? Could I maybe get a table?" Harry asked, leaning closer to me.

"Yeah, yes, of course!" I broke out of my daze and grabbed a menu.

"Follow me," I instructed as he smiled.

I sat him purposely at the same booth as yesterday, setting his menu down on the table top.

"I'll have my usual," he spoke, still holding that smile on his face.

"Scrambled eggs, toast, and chocolate milk?" I asked, checking his order with him. There wasn't really a need, I knew what he'd ordered by heart.

"And don't forget my special ingredient," he added, laughing.

I giggled and let out an embarrassingly loud snort. I immediately ceased laughing and blushed profusely.  I felt Harry's eyes on me, but his look wasn't one of judgement, in fact he looked almost amused.

"Of course, I'll have that out soon," I said quickly, turning and walking rapidly back to the kitchen. I immediately leaned against the door when I finally was out of his eye sight, sighing.

"What's the matter?" Chef asked, never looking up from the stove he was beginning to ignite.

Chef was a man of very few words. And by very few, I mean this might've been the third time he'd spoken to me since I'd gotten the job here four years ago. He had never truly introduced himself to me, always just referring to himself as 'the chef'. Due to his dedication to anonymity, Dean and I had simply referred to him as Chef for as long as I could remember.