Page 4 of Pretend To Be Mine

Dash grinned. “There goes that plan.”

Sebastian raised his now-empty glass in a mock toast. “To Adrian Blackwell, soon-to-be engaged man. May God have mercy on your soul.”

I flipped him off as I headed for the door.

2

ELIZABETH

The coffee mug felt like it weighed ten pounds as I set it down in front of Table Seven. My phone had buzzed in my apron pocket thirty seconds ago, and the notification was burning a hole through the fabric straight into my hip bone. Being unable to check it was torture.

“Finally,” the man said, wrapping his hands around the mug like he was preparing to strangle it. “I’ve been waiting ten minutes.”

It had been four minutes, but I’d learned months ago that correcting customers was a one-way ticket to a lousy tip. “I apologize for the wait, sir. Can I get you anything else?”

He took a sip, then immediately recoiled, his face contorting like I’d just served him battery acid. “This is hot!”

I blinked at him. “Yes, sir. That’s how we serve our coffee.”

“I could have burned my tongue!”

“Did you?” I asked, keeping all judgment out of my tone.

“No,” he said. “But still.”

“Would you like some ice water to cool it down?” The suggestion came out on autopilot. “Or perhaps you could try blowing on it.”

After eleven months of slinging slop at Rosie’s Diner, I had run into every customer complaint under the sun. Coffee too hot. Salad too cold. Mac and cheese too cheesy. Some people used complaining like a special sauce, unable to enjoy a meal without it. I wished people like that would stay the hell home.

“I want coffee I can drink now,” he said, pushing the mug away.

“I’ll get you a fresh cup and blow on it personally,” I said, the words coming out a bit sharper than I’d intended. I grabbed the offending mug and turned on my heel before he could respond. Nothing he said would make my day better.

The diner was packed for a Tuesday lunch rush. Every red vinyl booth was filled with construction workers, mothers sneaking in a cheap lunch while the kids were at school, and retirees who’d discovered our senior discount. The air was thick with the smell of fryer grease and burnt coffee, a scent that had permanently embedded itself into my clothes, my hair, my pores. I was pretty sure I’d still smell like French fries at my funeral. There would be no keeping the raccoons away. Closed casket for sure.

I slid behind the counter and poured a fresh cup of coffee. I walked it over to the industrial fan we kept running in the corner, then held the mug in front of the breeze for approximately ten seconds, long enough to technically say I’d cooled it but short enough that I wasn’t completely wasting my time on this nonsense. Because honestly, I wasn’t going to blow on his damn cup of coffee like he was a child.

And ew. Gross.

“Lizzie, you got three orders up!” Danny called from the kitchen window, his face red and sweaty beneath his hairnet.

“On it!” I delivered the pre-cooled coffee to Table Seven with my brightest smile.

He took a suspicious sip, then nodded begrudgingly. I spun away before he could find something else to complain about.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of ketchup bottles, club sandwiches, and coke refills. By the time I’d delivered all three orders, cleared two tables, and refilled half the coffee cups in the place, I was ready to scream.

I caught Rosie’s eye from across the diner. She was stationed at the register, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she tallied up someone’s check. “Taking five!” I called.

She frowned, glancing at the full dining room.

“Bathroom emergency!” I added, which was our code for I’m about to set fire to the place if I don’t get a break.

Rosie waved me off with one hand, already turning back to her customer.

I practically ran to the back hallway where we kept our lockers. My hands shook as I dug my phone out of my apron pocket and quickly pulled up my email. I had been applying at every fashion house in the city and I was hoping to hear back from one of them at least. I just needed to get my foot in the door. One tiny little break to show people what I could do.

Dear Ms. Laramie,