Page 7 of DadBod
ELIZABETH
“I need a drink,”I mumble only loud enough for Jeriann to hear. The night is finally over. I’ve got a pocketful of decent tips. They could have been better if Gianna hadn’t slammed me with tables all at once, but thanks to Jeri and a couple of the other servers, it turned out okay. As for Rome, he hasn’t spoken to me since our last little talk. Hell, he hasn’t even looked at me. Whenever I stepped up to the bar to pick up drink orders, he’d turn and pretend to talk to a customer or do something on the other side of the bar.
Way to be a grown-up, Rome.
No matter. Saturday night is over, and I’ve got all day tomorrow to rest and recover. Maybe I’ll spend it hungover. That’d be fun.
Just kidding.
“Wanna grab a drink?”
“Can’t.” Jeriann smirks. “Got a hot date.”
A date? “It’s one in the morning.” After one, actually.
“Okay. Maybe ‘date’ isn’t the right word for it.”
“Booty call?”
“Sure. We could go with booty call.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know him.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. I give her the same or similar glare I gave Rome earlier. “What’s his name? Where does he live? Do you have a photo of him?” She knows how I feel about safety.
“I’ll send you all of that from the taxi. I’m late as it is.”
“Jeri…”
“Stop worrying, honey bun. I’ll be fine.”
“Send me the info.”
She sighs like she’s tired of my nagging.
Too bad.
“I will.”
Dragging my butt to the employee storage room, I spot my purse on the floor. “Great,” I mutter. Grasping the handle, I shake it, hoping there’s nothing gross on it, and slip the long cross-body strap over my head. “God, I’m tired.” No matter what anyone says, waiting tables is hard-ass work. If you’ve never done it, you should. You’d think twice before you tip shitty. Trust me.
Walking back through the kitchen, I push the door to the dining room open and right into Rome. “Oh. Sorry.”
He grunts. But he doesn’t move, which means he’s blocking my escape. Erm, I mean exit. “Excuse me.”
Rome takes one step to his left, giving me enough room to get past him. Almost past him. As I’m about to make a clean getaway, I feel him touch my denim-clad arm. “Elizabeth?” His voice is soft. It’s sort of sweet. Maybe he’s going to apologize for making me cry earlier.
Turning my head, I look up. “Yeah?”
“Do not talk to me like that again in front of staff––like you did earlier…”
I swallow hard. This isn’t an apology. Not by a long shot.
“If you do, you’ll force my hand.” His voice has gotten progressively louder. “I’ll have to fire you. Do you understand?”
My throat is suddenly as dry as the Sahara Desert.