I fill the girls’ goblets, planning my route around the table so I end up right behind Wesley as he’s taking Surly Girl’s order.
“Remind me why we couldn’t go for sushi?” she says to her friends.
“Aw, come on. You can have sushi anytime,” Wesley says. “But eating here … well, this is an experience.”
Surly’s laser-glare is a pretty strong indication of what she thinks about this experience. And of Wesley. It occurs to me that I may not have to do anything after all. I smile. He’s going to earn this complaint all by himself.
“There is nothing edible on this menu,” she says.
“I don’t know about that. The house special is pretty popular.” He taps his pencil against the cartoon drawing of a turkey leg. “Not exactly as shown, of course.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m a vegetarian.”
Oh, this is too easy. All I have to do is change her salad order to something that used to have a face and then watch the drama unfold.
I quickly fill all the goblets, sloshing water onto the plastic tablecloth in my haste to get to the kitchen. I need to beat Wesley back there in order for this to work.
I push through the swinging door. Fortunately, it’s a slow night. No one but Dean, the cook, is back here and he’s too busy plating orders to notice me loitering around the computer station, but I swipe my card and pretend to place an order just in case.
A minute later, Wesley saunters in. He tosses his order pad on the desk with a sigh. “Tough crowd,” he says.
“I don’t know. You seemed to be making friends just fine,” I say, thinking of the way the red-haired girl drooled over him.
Wesley smiles and my stomach does this weird swoopy drop.
“Jealous, Q?”
“Yes, terribly.” But my cheeks suddenly feel warm. Hopefully, he doesn’t notice. The last thing I need is for Wesley to think I like him. Because I don’t. Obviously.
I continue punching in my fake order, very aware of how close he is.
I hate that I’m aware of how close he is.
Wesley’s fiddling with his swipe card, waiting to key his own orders into the computer. I need him to turn around or talk to Dean or something so I can sneak his order pad off the desk. “I’ll just be a second,” I say, stalling.
“Take your time,” he says. “I’m not in a hurry.”
Of course not, I think irritably. Why would you be in a hurry? You only have a table full of hungry people waiting.
As do I. But I gave my table bread. The second thing we’re supposed to do when customers arrive, as clearly outlined in our staff orientation manual. Which Wesley probably hasn’t even read.
And, I realize, it’s the perfect way to get him out of here so I can switch the orders.
“I noticed you haven’t given table one their bread yet,” I say.
“I’ll take it out there in a minute,” Wesley replies. “What’s the rush?”
“You’re supposed to give them their bread before they order,” I say. “It’s the rule. And do I need to remind you what happens when you break the rules?”
I let the threat of the stocks hang there. I can feel Wesley’s eyes on me, but I don’t look up. Finally, he sighs heavily and says, “All right, fine. Guess I’d better go and give the girls their bread before you turn me in.”
He clomps off. I wait until the door swings shut before grabbing his order pad off the desk, along with a tooth-marked pencil. I carefully erase Surly Girl’s order—a salad with ranch dressing on the side—then scribble “house special” in what I hope is a convincing forgery of Wesley’s chicken-scratch writing. I toss the order pad back on the desk and leave the kitchen, my palms sweating.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve taken my own table’s order, I’m back in the kitchen. Wesley grabs three plates from underneath the heat lamp and heads out to his table.
Bruce is behind me at the computer station. I peek through the porthole in the door, watching as Wesley sets the turkey leg in front of Surly. Her face immediately contorts, like he’s placed a severed head in front of her.
“Huh,” Bruce says.
Something in his voice makes me turn around. “What’s up?”
“Wesley left his swipe card here.” He shakes his head. “That’s the second time he’s just left it lying around.” Wesley is disorganized, so this doesn’t really surprise me. I’m thinking about how I can use this to my advantage when he shoves through the door, his face red and flustered.
Bruce hands him the swipe card and Wesley tucks it into his pocket without a second thought.
“Hey, Dean,” he calls to the chef. “I messed up. I need a salad, stat.” He tosses the rejected turkey leg on the counter, the platter clanking against the stainless steel.
Almost immediately, Dean slides a plate of iceberg lettuce with a few shaved carrots and two sad little tomatoes at him.
“Thanks, man,” Wesley says. “You saved my butt.”
Yeah, thanks, Dean.
“Wrong order?” I ask casually.
“Yeah. I wrote down turkey, and she’s a vegetarian.” Wesley shakes his head. “But no harm done. I managed to charm her.”
Of course he did. I grimace, feeling irritated as he picks up the salad and two more platters. He leaves the kitchen, Bruce trailing behind him.
Clearly, I need to up the ante. Do something that he won’t be able to easily talk his way out of. Something like …
I glance casually over at Dean to make sure he’s not paying attention before plucking a hair out of my head. I snap it in half so it’s closer to the length of Wesley’s messy blond hair, then quickly stick it underneath a side of ribs. The last remaining platter destined for Wesley’s table.
Okay, yes, it’s a totally repulsive thing to do to some poor unsuspecting girl. The mere idea of finding a hair in my dinner gives me a whole-body shudder, but it must be done. All’s fair in love and war.
I beat it out of the kitchen. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going so when I hit something that feels as solid as a brick wall, I’m knocked backward.
“Careful, lass,” Alan says, reaching out to steady me. “What say you? Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
This is kind of a ridiculous question, considering we work in a restaurant. The whole point is to hustle.
“Uh, Your Highness. Hello.” I bob a curtsey, my breath coming in short puffs.
Okay, so maybe Alan is a mind reader, because his eyes narrow, like he knows I’m up to something. Or suspects it anyway. And for Alan, raising his suspicion is enough to land you in the stocks.
“Guard!” he shouts, tightening his grip on my arm.
“No! Please,” I say, trying to pull away. “I don’t have time for this.”
But Bruce is already coming. “What’s up, Your Highness?”
“This lass is up to no good. Off to the stocks with her!”
“You know, Alan, you really don’t have the authority to—”
“I’m the king of England,” he roars. “Be glad that ’tis only the stocks and not the guillotine!”
Um … right.