They were a friendly bunch. As an apology for the fumble, I ordered an extra appetizer of onion rings on the house. Thankfully, it wasn’t a busy night, and both cooks were sober enough to get the food in fifteen minutes. 

Mister ordered an interesting selection: two scrambled eggs with American cheese, corn hash, grits, one chocolate chip pancake, and one piece of toast. Odd, but I bet it’s pretty good. He must be Southern because as soon as I served the grits, he went for a fork without hesitation and added a quick swirl of syrup. A sweet and savory kind of guy…I can appreciate that.

Not that I was window shopping!

In fact, I avoided directly looking at him the entire time. Even when he spoke to me, I fixed my gaze on his hair or the window behind him, nodding while giving the shortest polite response possible. For some odd reason, Mister couldn’t take a hint and would talk to me every time I stopped by the table; he seemed to ask for everything on behalf of his friends, and I had to step in the freezer twice to cool down from him complimenting me. 

Thankfully, I had three more tables come in and go while they seemed to vent. Between a toddler-induced drink spill, a coffee maker mishap, and my end shit duties, I had to reduce my check-ins over their nearly two-hour visit. 

I should’ve counted it as a blessing, but I was a little sad. It’d probably be the last time Mister'd come here based on how he was staring at all the ragged decor and all the duct tape holding up the booths.

Gerry immediately clocked how much I kept looking at Mister throughout the night.

“Who is McDreamy?”

“No one. I don’t even know his name.”

“But he clearly wants to know yours,” she teases. 

“Ger, stop it,” I growl as I bag the last of their and another table’s to-go orders. 

Using a platter, I load up both tables' orders, spare empty containers, and checks ready to hand out. I purposefully visit the other table. First, the mother and her soccer kids clearly itching to go. With a brief thank you, pay at the counter, and have a good night, I make my way to Mister and Co. The orders I’m handing out like Oprah–desserts and milkshakes–are mostly evidence of a second wind coming. Still, they are thankfully making moves to leave before closing. 

“You’re the best, Keisha.”

“Puh-lease,” I groaned back to the fashionista–I’ve never seen a peplum-style scrub top–who sees a to-go menu in her bag. “I’m a believer in having as many to-go menus on hand as possible. My aunt used to keep a binder of her favorites in her car. Learned from the best.”

“That is genius,” the guy next to her gasps.

I hum in agreement as I make sure to give the correct receipts to everyone.

“Y’all need anything else?”

“No, we need to get our asses home,” the tall one groans. 

Felt that one. 

“Alrighty. Come back, yeah?”

Hearing the chorus of "yes," I return to the other abandoned table in my section. I quickly bus the tables as they start to trickle past me.

“Have a great night,” I call over my shoulder with a wave. 

I feel like I can finally breathe now. Finished with the rest of my section, I drift back to their table—which I’d already cleared throughout the night—wiping everything down when I hear his husky voice from behind again.

“Excuse me?”

Twisting around, I saw that he’d just come from our bathroom. Seeing him in full uniform was quite the eye candy (I could see her muscles through the damn top, lord have mercy). 

“Hi.” It’s out high and breathy like a stupid teenager, and I have to clear my throat. “You need anything else?”

“No, no. You were great.” I can’t help but smile at that. “I just wanted to say sorry for startling you. I didn’t know we were coming here until we arrived, and I definitely didn’t mean to throw you off your game.”

Taking a moment to collect my thoughts before I blurt something stupid, I wipe all the crumbs and straw wrappers off the side of the table to sweep later. I felt his stare the whole time, but it wasn’t intrusive or creepy, and he kept an appropriate distance between us as I moved to the empty bar. 

“Don’t be sorry,” I say softly as I continue to fill up my bin. “I just never thought I’d see you again.” 

It’s been six days since the Flavor Incident, and I’d been replaying it over in my head an unhealthy amount of times.

“We could change that.”

Thank God, I am not holding anything when he says this because as I pivot to face him, I step into a wet spot, losing my footing. I begin to accept fate when his hands wrap around my waist, Mister's face hovering over mine as we blink at each other. 

“Careful now,” he mumbles as he pulls me upright, and I nod absently, mind still fixated on the feel of his hands on my waist. They're gone now, but I can feel where they were, like an imprint. 

“S-sorry.”

“No need. I’ll take that as a hint,” Mister sighs with a forced upturn of his lips.

“I actually never gave you a proper answer.”

He raises a nicely manicured brow, and I barely rush out my request:

“Give me your phone.”

Much to my surprise, he goes for his back pocket with gusto, and it’s delivered to me without delay.

I still have dirty dishes and damp towel fingers. “Shoot, I didn’t think this through. My hands are dirty.”

“I sanitize my phone every night. I don’t mind.”

With a shaky okay, I pulled up his contacts and created a new profile. I go beyond a mere name and phone number, taking a quick selfie for the contact. He lets out an amused huff, head tilted in question as I returned it. 

“So when you try to text or call me, you’ll remember the hot mess you're working with.”

Just as he’s about to say something, Lucifer comes around the corner like a bat from hell. 

“Keke, stop fucking around and get back to work before I give you another write-up.”

Funny, because Little Tommy is coming out of the storage closet she was in, not even smart enough to have fixed his clothes in there. Poor little white boy doesn’t know what to do with himself as he spots me with my post-Lucifer face. Tommy begins to walk to me with a guilty expression and opens, but I shake my head. He immediately works on cleaning the bar next to me, knowing I have some words.

“One, if you’re going fuck her, at least put her in a good mood.”

I register Mister coughing in suprise, but don’t care as I glare at the too cute high schooler that’s fucking up my money. 

“Two, you could do sooo much better if you want a broad. I keep telling you to get an actual sugar mama. Gonna be someone’s on-demand dildo? Then get paid for it.” 

Tommy crosses his shoulder, pouting because he knows I’m right.

“You know I’m saving.”

“So is everyone else, babes. Regardless, you also need time for homework. How else are you supposed to get that scholarship? You can’t be here all the damn time.”

“…I know. I’m trying to work something else out. I’m sorry about the shift thing,” he whines. But not even two seconds later, he’s piercing me with his masterclass pout. “But, c-can you still help me with my math homework this weekend?”

“Ugh! Yes, if you take over Ger’s floor and bathroom duty for the rest of the week.”

“Absolutely!”

Finally free, I turned back to Mister, who clearly heard everything based on how his mouth gapes. He walks next to me as I work my way down the rest of the bar counter, silent momentarily. 

“That’s some advice you gave.”

“Well, he ignored the earlier, much more reasonable one I gave at the beginning of this shitshow, so I meet him where he’s at.”

“Mhmm.”

“Still want to text me later,” I manage to ask calmly. I wouldn't blame Mister if he thought I was unsavory after this.

“Absolutely.” With a few quick taps of his finger, I feel my phone buzz in my apron. “Now you have my number.”

“Oh. C-cool.”

He walks past me with a wink and a hushed, ‘Bye, Keisha,’ and I have to do everything to hold in my fangirl scream.