Last Olive Bistro ✓

Chapter 3: No-show

Table eight was a party of twelve, which consisted of seven drunk adults and five rambunctious children. Payton had nowhere else to seat them besides the front of the restaurant because they strolled in without a reservation. I had the joy of waiting on them, but got some assistance from another server, Jill.

"Excuse me," one of the women called out as I juggled half a dozen dirty dishes.

Out of habit of faking a nice persona, I rushed to her beck and call. "I asked for no cheese on this," she said.

The light dusting of parmesan cheese had already melted into the marina sauce and was hardly visible anymore.

"I'm so sorry. Are you allergic?" I asked.

"No," she confirmed. "But I said, specifically, no cheese and this is what I get." She balanced the full plate on top of the dirty ones I wrestled with in my arms.

I held back a reflex that itched to jerk my arms and let the red sauce drench her white top.

"I'll get you a new one," I said. She flashed a smug look and returned to not watching a child next beside her who was coloring on the fabric tablecloth.

My eyes scanned the packed restaurant over and over before I disappeared into the kitchen. The mysterious man from last night wasn't there, and my heart sank a little bit. I shouldn't expect to see him again; there was no use in getting my hopes up. He was a stranger.

"Chloe!!" Angela yelled only after the kitchen door closed. I dumped the dirty dishes in the tub-sized sink, and the full plate of marinara with it. It splattered all over the stainless steel bowl, splashing me and everyone around.

"Shit, I'm sorry," I blurted out an apology to the new dishwasher whose name I didn't remember. The Last Olive Bistro saw a consistently high turnover of staff.

"Chloe! Get these meals out to table ten right now!" Angela barked. I didn't see the orders were ready until they were pointed out. Table ten wasn't even my assignment, but such order rarely mattered. I called out a fresh order for penne with marinara and emphasized no cheese.

Angela hovered around me so close that I almost tripped over her, and I rushed to gather all the ready plates onto the same tray—another balancing act.

I barged out the swingy kitchen doors, almost taking down Payton in the process, and delivered the food promptly to the angsty customers.

"Alfredo?" I asked, and a bearded older man raised his hand. I felt bad serving the fake Alfredo in the middle of New York; the dish was made of dried box fettuccine and a cream based sauce.

"Fish?"—an older woman with a neon green blouse raised one finger.

A distinct cough of someone clearing their throat interrupted me and I turned a bit too hopefully. It was not the mysterious man from last night, but a younger guy who was waiting impatiently to move past. I shuffled over to let him through, holding back a huff.

"Reuben?"

~ ~ ~

It was late again by the time I got home, so I was surprised to see Morgan still awake on the couch. However, the spread of thick books and beaten up binders provided the easy answer why.

"You're up?" I stated the obvious. My feet ached too bad to delve into more of an involved conversation.

"It's heavy research on a topic I've never worked on before, and Tom wants a three page summary tomorrow before lunch," she explained.

I tossed my bag in it's usual corner spot. "Three pages isn't exactly a summary."

She raised her thin black eyebrows and threw her pencil to the floor. "What's up at the Last Olive?"

I cracked open a can of Coke and downed a long gulp. "It's amazing how we get different people all the time, yet they're all the same sort of crazy. Where's Rory?"

Morgan smirked. "He had a hot date tonight with a cute guy he met at the bar."

I shoved a bite from half a donut in my mouth. "He didn't tell me!"

She nearly laughed but her tiredness suppressed it. "He didn't feel like going but I convinced him."

"That's why you're going to make a killer lawyer," I commented.

Her eyes widened. "God, Chloe, you make me sound like a Lifetime movie. The Killer Lawyer."

We shared a laugh and I replied, "Maybe not a good idea to put on a business card."

Morgan shut her book and reclined on the couch. "You heading to bed?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm beat. I need a shower first. You?"

She kicked her feet up on the coffee table, atop her materials. "In a bit. Late Night is almost on and I need to feel like I've spent a little time on myself today instead of it all sacrificed to the firm."

"I don't blame you. I'll see you tomorrow night," I said then retreated to the bathroom.

I ran the hot water long enough to let it steam up the tiny space. I peeled off the dirty white blouse that reeked of grease and seared steak. My black pants were in no better shape.

The scalding water fell over my head and I closed my eyes to fully enjoy the blissful pleasure of it's healing properties. The warmth soothed my tight muscles and I did a few shoulder stretches.

Thoughts of the mystery man swarmed my head the more I relaxed and my brain could settle from all the chaos of work. I couldn't help but notice he was in great shape and the way his perfectly cut suit hugged his body excited me. I was never a woman to be attracted to a suit (unusual, I know) but this time it did.

Part of me wanted to know how old he was; not like it mattered. I was curious about myself and how old of a man I could be attracted to. But then again, I never believed age mattered. If he was good looking and decent to me, I didn't care.

This guy shouldn't have blown my mind with one order of bourbon. I spent an entire night hoping he'd walk in for another, and I spent my evening shower fantasizing about how that damn suit fit him.