At least the checks were made out correctly by Mrs. George. That’s what mattered.
“On it,” I told him.
A mango margarita, I decided, hefting the plates and pushing through the swinging kitchen doors.
By the time I had that mango margarita in hand, I might be in my sixties instead of a ripe old thirty-nine—thanks for pointing that out, Charming—but I would fix what needed fixing. There was no other option.
The dining room, though in desperate need of a complete makeover and maybe an industrial scrubbing, was warm and cozy.
Maybe I could offer to do some after-hours cleaning for a couple extra bucks?
“Here you go,” I said, sliding the pizzas in front of them.
The woman with the to-die-for leather skirt and I’m-a-badass haircut seemed to approve my topping smiley face on hers. She laughed in that way that born-rich people did. Not too loudly and with absolutely no snorting.
Charming, on the other hand, scowled down at his pizza. He had a face for scowling. That strong jaw was even more defined with his teeth clenching like that. Those icy eyes that couldn’t decide if they were blue or gray narrowed.
Ugh. He had those yummy little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Was grumpy and rude suddenly the new hot? My vagina seemed to think so.
It hadn’t been that long since I’d given her some action. But apparently she was into well-dressed douches now. Great. Thank God I was working myself to death for the foreseeable future and wouldn’t have time to explore her new inappropriate preferences.
“Can I get you two anything else right now?” I asked, a paragon of helpfulness.
“That’s it,” Charming said, tossing his napkin on the table and sliding out of the booth. “You and I are going to have a little screaming match about how to treat your customers with respect.”
He stood and closed his long fingers around my wrist.
I knew he felt it, too. That unexpected jolt. Like taking a shot of whiskey or sticking a finger in a light socket. Maybe both at the same time. For one moment of pure insanity, I wondered if he intended to take me over his knee and if I’d let him.
“Dominic, for the love of God. Behave yourself,” the woman sighed in exasperation.
In answer, he spun his pizza around so his mother could read it.
FU spelled out in greasy pepperoni.
“Is there a problem, sir?” I asked with sugary politeness.
“Oh, my,” the woman said, pressing her fingers to her mouth and trying to stifle a laugh. A real one this time.
“It’s not funny,” he snapped.
“It is from where I stand,” I said.
“You are a server. Your job is to act like one and serve,” he said.
Ass. And. Hole.
“You’re a human. Your job is to act like one,” I countered. Any other day, I probably would have let it all go. I knew better than to jeopardize a paycheck. But I’d come in after the lunch shift to find the nineteen-year-old server sobbing into paper napkins in the back because a dick in a suit had unloaded his bad day on her.
Freaking George the jerk caught me trying to comfort her and screamed, “There’s no crying in pizza.”
“I want to speak to the manager,” Dick 2 in the suit announced.
“Dominic, must you?” his date sighed.
“Oh, he must,” I said.
I had him pegged. This guy was one of those people. He believed that everyone under him existed just to serve him. I bet he had a personal assistant and that he had no idea that they were human. He probably called them at 3 a.m. and made them run to the convenience store for lube or eye of newt.
“I’m so glad you agree,” he said dryly. He was still holding my wrist. That electrifying zing was still sizzling its way through my veins. His eyes narrowed as if he felt it too.
Table Twelve, a couple of early twenty-somethings, looked like they were thinking about dining and dashing. Shifty-eyed and uncomfortable.
“Let me get this table their check, and then we can continue our battle royale,” I offered, yanking my hand free.
“Sit back down,” Charming’s lady friend insisted, pulling him back into the booth. “You’re causing a scene.”
I left them, grabbed the check for Twelve, and made serious eye contact with them while I thanked them profusely for coming in. It wasn’t going to be a good tip. I had an instinct about these things since waitressing and bartending had become my main source of income. But at least they weren’t going to walk out on the check.
“I can take that for you now if you’re ready,” I offered.
The guy reluctantly pulled out a wallet on a chain and opened it. “Keep the change,” he squeaked.
Two dollars. It was probably all they could afford, and I totally got that. But I needed to find real work… like six months ago.
“Thanks, guys,” I said brightly and shoved the money in my apron.
Charming was sitting, arms folded, staring down at his untouched FU pizza while his date daintily cut hers into bite-sized pieces.
“George, Table Eight wants to talk to you.”
“Now what the fuck did you do?” he snarled, dropping his fork in the double helping of pasta primavera he’d made himself. He acted as if I’d been nothing but a troublemaker, and I considered making him his own pizza. I wondered if the twelve-inch pie was big enough for “dumbass” spelled out in sausage.
“The guy was being a jerk,” I told him, knowing full well George wouldn’t care. He’d side with the ass. Asses liked other asses.
He hefted his bulk off the rickety stool that was going to give up the fight against his 300 pounds any day now. At five and a half feet tall, he was a grumpy beach ball of a human being. “Let’s go. Be fucking polite,” he said, wiping his hands on the sauce-stained apron. George lumbered through the swinging doors, and I followed.
“Thank you for coming to George’s Village Pizza. I’m George,” he said, all olive oily charm now. The guy was a dick to his employees, his vendors, hell, even his wife. But to a diner with a fat wallet? George was almost sort of friendly. “I understand there’s a problem.”
Without saying a word, Charming spun his pizza plate around.
George’s eyes narrowed.
“Is this supposed to be some kinda joke, Ollie?”
Great. I could see the vein in his neck.
That wasn’t a good sign. I’d seen it twice before. Once when he’d fired his delivery driver for stopping to help direct traffic at an accident scene and again when a server had slipped on a grease spill in the back and sprained her wrist. He fired her on the spot and said if she tried to collect workers’ comp he’d burn down her mother’s house.
The server was his niece. Her mother was George’s sister.
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just how the pepperonis arranged themselves.”
“This kind of service is unacceptable,” Charming insisted.
“Of course. Of course,” George agreed, all apologies. “And I promise you the situation will be rectified.”
“She should be fired,” Charming said, leveling me with a cold look. “She’s a detriment to your business. I’m never coming back here.”
And there it was.
I knew I was out of a job.