She’s going to kill me.
“At least he’s not making us sell chocolate,” I say. We had to do that one year in elementary school. I ended up eating most of them, and my mom was not happy when she had to cut a check for two hundred dollars’ worth of chocolate-covered almonds.
“True.” Erin picks up the sunscreen and starts reapplying. She is seriously OCD about sun damage. If she has anything to say about it, she will look seventeen forever. “So have you told your mom about the trip yet?”
“Nope.” I haven’t told her because she’s already working double shifts to keep us in our house. If she had known about the trip, she would work herself into the grave to get me there. I can’t let her do that.
“Hey, what do you guys want to do tonight?” Travis asks, brushing chip crumbs off his bare belly. “We could go to the Dragon. Practice our accents.” The Elephant & Dragon is a British pub in Fremont. There’s no way we’ll get in.
“Quinn doesn’t have an ID,” Erin says.
“And you do?”
She nods. “Trav got it for me.”
“I know a guy,” he says.
“I can’t go anyway,” I say. “I have to work.”
Work. Blech. Now I’m back to thinking about Wesley. I can’t seem to keep him out of my brain for long. Maybe Erin’s right. Maybe I am obsessed. But I feel like the only way I can put this whole mess to rest is to get him out of my life.
Which gives me a new idea. I may not be able to control whether or not a customer complains about Wesley, but if I sent someone in undercover …
“Actually, Travis,” I say, smiling. “I need your help with something tonight.”
*
Travis is late. I’m starting to get anxious that he’s changed his mind and is backing out, but then I see Rachel leading him and his weird Scottish friend, Ewen, across the restaurant. I told Travis to ask Rachel if he could sit near the stage—Wesley’s section—and sure enough, that’s where she leads them.
So far, so good.
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pull this off. I had to plead with Erin for over an hour to get her to agree to let Travis do this. She finally relented because she was tired of listening to me whine. Since I couldn’t send her—Wesley would recognize her—Travis brought Ewen instead.
I watch from behind the pillar as Wesley arrives at their table with a basket of bread. He sets it down on the table and Ewen immediately attacks it. Travis, however, just stares at Wesley, eyes narrowed, arms crossed. He’s doing his best to make him nervous, which is hilarious because, despite his vaguely criminal appearance, Travis is the least intimidating person ever. But that’s only once you get to know him.
Wesley doesn’t seem intimidated, though. He scratches their order on his notepad, gives them a friendly nod, and then heads over to the bar. He’s whistling.
Not exactly the exchange I was hoping for, but it’s still early in the game.
I can’t help glancing over at Travis and Ewen every few minutes. I’m so distracted, I give the wrong orders to two different tables and, even worse, totally forget about some of my customers altogether until an irate lady grabs my arm as I walk past. If I’m not careful, I’ll be the one getting fired.
Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen waiting for an order of ribs when Wesley punches his way through the door, his face stormy.
“Changed their mind again,” he says, tossing two turkey platters on the counter. “Turns out they really feel like salad.”
My heart picks up speed. I keep my expression blank, which is a struggle because I really want to do a fist pump. “Trouble?”
Wesley glances at me. “Table ten. They’ve sent their order back three times. Seriously, I’m ready to kill these guys.”
I’ve only seen Wesley lose his temper once—at the going away party, when I broke his magic wand—but I can tell he’s now dangerously close to blowing his top. Travis just needs to push him a little bit more and he should go off like a rocket.
Dean pushes a couple of salad plates across the counter. “Why don’t you let me take those for you,” I say to Wesley. “Stay in here and take a breather.”
Wesley studies me suspiciously. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you being so nice?”
My cheeks flush. “I’m always nice.” Just not ever to you.
But I do feel the teensiest bit guilty as I carry the salad out to Travis’s table. Which is ridiculous, because I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. What I’m doing is no less than Wesley deserves.
Ewen glances up as I head toward the table. His eyes bug out at the sight of me in my corset. “Stoatin ootfit,” he says.
I stare at him blankly. Ewen’s Scottish accent is so thick, I need subtitles.
“Wicked costume,” Travis translates through a mouthful of bread.
“Um … thanks.” I set the small hammered-silver plates down on the table. “Whatever you guys are doing, keep doing it! It’s working. Wesley’s about ready to punch you.”
“Are you sure about this, Quinn?” Travis says. “He seems like a decent enough guy. What if we actually end up getting him fired? I don’t know if I want to be responsible for that.”
“Och aye. Ah dornt loch messin’ wi’ a dude’s livelihood,” Ewen says.
Travis nods. “It’s not cool.” He picks a cherry tomato from his plate and rolls it across the table. “Also, how am I supposed to eat salad without a fork?”
“You’ll figure it out,” I say. “And you promised to help me!”
“What am I going to say when I cross paths with him in London?” Travis asks. “He’s going to remember that I’m the asshole who got him fired.”
“Come on, you guys. Do me a favor and keep going, okay? Please? Please please please please please.”
I don’t have time to wait for his answer because the lights dim. And since Amy called in sick again, I’m stuck playing Catherine of Aragon’s handmaiden. I’d rather they put me in the stocks. Performing in front of an audience—band recitals notwithstanding—is so not my thing. I feel dangerously close to throwing up as I climb the wide wooden stairs to the stage.
Fortunately, I don’t have any lines. I just have to brush Julia’s hair while she sits on a wooden stool and dreamily sings about her enduring love for King Henry VIII.
Alan wrote this particular act. He does that every once in a while when he gets bored with reciting Shakespeare.
I can’t see much from the stage—the footlights are too bright—which is actually a good thing. The fewer people I can see staring back at me, the better. I pick up a faux ivory–handled brush and run it through Julia’s fine brown hair. She shoots me a couple of dirty looks mid-song when I accidentally pull her hair, but other than that, the act goes off without a hitch.
When the lights come up, Travis’s table is empty. I catch sight of him and Ewen walking out the front door. By the time I reach them, they’re already inside Ewen’s dusty brown Honda.
I knock on the passenger-side window and Travis reluctantly rolls it down. “You’re done already?” I say. “What happened? Did you ask to talk to the manager?”