by Jiffy Kate
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About the Authors
Other Books by Jiffy Kate
Table 10
Part 1
Jiffy Kate
Copyright © 2016 Jiffy Kate
Published by Enchanted Publications
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
Enchanted Publications
www.enchantedpublications.com
[email protected].
Visit the author’s website at www.jiffykate.com
Edited by: Nichole Strauss
http://www.insighteditingservices.com/
Cover Design and Interior Formatting by:
www.uplifting-designs.com
Cover images by: Depositphotos.com (stock photo)
First Edition: April 2017
Chapter 1
“Can you take table ten?” LuAnne asks. “Carla called in sick again today. I swear, if it’s not her three snot-nosed kids, it’s her.” She huffs and walks away with a loaded tray.
I take the two waters I need for table five and drop them off, before walking over to table ten. A man, probably five years older than me, is sitting in the booth staring out the window. I’ve seen him here before, but he always sits in this booth and is never in my section.
But I have noticed.
He’s noticeable.
Handsome. Tall. Well-dressed.
But there’s something edgy about him too. Maybe it’s the long trench-style coat. Maybe it’s the dark eyes that are perfectly matched with his dark hair. Maybe it’s the bit of scruff on his jawline. Most men who come in here are well-groomed—their hair perfectly coiffed and faces clean shaven. This guy isn’t perfect, not in the usual sense of the word, but he is perfectly imperfect.
“What can I get for you?” I ask, standing beside the table and pulling out my order pad. I don’t need it. I can remember every order by heart, but it gives me something to do with my hands, keeps me from fidgeting.
He glances up at me and looks annoyed for a second, but then his features soften, and a small smile graces his face.
“What kind of pie do you have today?” he asks.
“Blueberry or chocolate.”
“Hmmm,” he hums, letting his eyes wander over me while he decides. “Tough choices. What would you suggest?”
“I’d go with the blueberry and a side of cream.”
“Is it hot?”
“Straight out of the oven.”
Since it’s not even nine o’clock in the morning, the pie hasn’t cooled yet. I made it fresh when I got in this morning.
“Sold.”
He hands the menu to me, holding onto it longer than necessary, causing me to look at him. I tug on it, and he smiles again, finally letting go.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Coffee with cream and sugar.”
“Coming right up.”
I walk away, but I can’t help looking back. When I do, he’s watching me. Normally, that kind of behavior would either gross me out or freak me out. I’m not a stranger to inappropriate advances working in a place like this. I can hold my own. But something about his attention unnerves me. Glancing back one last time, I see he’s turned back to the window, and take a second to appreciate his profile. It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous.
“I should’ve warned you he’d want pie,” LuAnne says, snapping me out of my trance. “He always orders pie for breakfast.”
“No problem,” I tell her, cutting a large slice, a wee bit larger than normal, and putting it in a white ceramic bowl.
“Blueberry, huh?”
“Yeah, with cream.”
“You sold him on your cream?”
I laugh somewhat nervously, pouring cream into a small pitcher. “I guess so.”
When I walk back to the table, I set his pie, cream, and coffee down in front of him.
“Do I just pour the cream on it?” he asks, picking up the small pitcher.
“Yep, that’s why I put it in a bowl for you, so you can use as much as you’d like.”
I watch as he pours a little and then a little more. Without wasting any time, he picks up the spoon and digs in, moaning in pleasure as soon as the cream-laden pie hits his tongue. His eyes are closed as he groans. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Are you talking to the pie or me?” I ask with mock casualness in my voice, because I’m feeling anything but casual. My heart is thundering and my body feels warm and tingly and I need to run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face while I get control of myself.
He quirks an eyebrow. “Both,” he replies, taking another bite and then licking a bit of filling off his lip. My knees practically buckle at that remark and I stare at him dumbfounded.
Nervously, I chuckle, unable to play the part of the unaffected, because with his eyes on me and him eating pie like he’s devouring his prey, my entire body is affected. By him. And his intense stare.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” I force out, leaving before I embarrass myself.
“Don’t worry. I will,” he says in a low, husky voice that shoots straight to my core.
I turn quickly, refusing to look back this time. I need to get a grip. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. Maybe that second cup of coffee was a bit too much.
Returning to the kitchen window, I wait for the next order to be up, taking a much-needed breather and trying to clear my head of hot, older guys in suits, with scruffy jawlines, who moan when they eat my blueberry pie.
Stop.
I really need to stop. Guys like him only want one thing from girls like me, and it’s not anything past a one-night stand. And that’s not my thing.
“Order up,” Mack yells, sliding a plate onto the counter. I happily take the plate and place it on my tray, needing the distraction.
On my way to table two, I nearly trip over a briefcase that’s sitting in the aisle. Instead of telling the guy to watch where he puts his shit, I apologize, making sure I didn’t spill anything on the expensive leather.
Just as I turn around from that fumble, a guy runs smack dab into me, and the omelet I was carrying is now on his loafer.
I glance up at him and then back down to the yellow yolk running off his shoe onto the floor. My face feels hotter than forty hells and I swallow down my nerves, getting ready to apologize, but before I can, the man growls loudly in frustration.
“What the hell?” he exclaims, looking at his foot in disgust. It’s then I notice a piece of egg on the leg of his slacks, but other than that, he’s fine. It could’ve been so much worse.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bending down and wiping his pant leg and then his shoe.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” he yells.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him again, just wanting to appease him so he’ll go away and stop making a scene.
“You’re making it worse,” he roars. “Just stop!”
“It’s just a little bit on your pant leg, sir. And yo
ur shoe is completely clean.”
“I have a very important meeting this afternoon. I can’t go into it with egg on my pants.”
For some reason, the way he says “egg on my pants” strikes me as funny, and I fight back a giggle. “No, absolutely not. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll be sending these pants over to be dry-cleaned before lunch.”
“What?” I ask, confused why he’s telling me this.
“You heard me. Dry-cleaned. Before lunch. Or are you not competent enough to understand?” He sneers, leaning down closer to my face.
“I—” I begin, but stop when I feel a hand on my arm, pulling me up from the floor. I think it’s Mack or LuAnne coming to my rescue, but when I look over my shoulder, the guy from table ten is staring back at me. He looks angry, and I assume it’s because of me. I seem to be the one to blame today.
“Look, asshole,” he snaps at the guy in the three-piece suit. “She apologized. It was an accident. You need to calm down.”
“Send the pants over. I’ll get them dry-cleaned for you,” I mutter to the man, wanting the whole situation to be over. I hate confrontation, and I hate being the center of attention. And right now, the entire restaurant is staring at me and the two men who look like they might come to blows over a little spilled egg.
Egg Guy shoves me out of the way and into the hard chest of Pie Guy. Protective arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me in, and I think I hear a growl deep in his chest. I don’t know what to say or do, so I pull away and bend down to continue my job of cleaning up the floor. I try to ignore the mad man stomping out the door and the proximity of the man standing behind me. LuAnne comes over with a mop and grumbles under her breath about pretentious pricks as she helps me clean up the rest of the mess.
After a minute or so, I finally see the expensive shoes of Pie Guy leave my peripheral vision. I wish there were some way I could repay him for standing up for me. I want to at least thank him, but glancing back at his table and then at the door, I see he’s gone.
I need a do-over on today.
As I go back to cleaning tables, I notice money sticking out from under his bowl … his very empty bowl. I pull it out and about choke on my tongue when I realize it’s a hundred-dollar bill.
Chapter 2
When the breakfast rush is over, LuAnne and I are standing in the kitchen.
“There’s a large amount of money in an envelope under the register. It belongs to Pie Guy.”
“Who?” LuAnne asks, looking up from her crossword puzzle.
“The guy who gets pie for breakfast.”
“Did you mess up on his change?”
“No. I actually thought he’d taken off without paying, which was fine because I owed him, but then I found a hundred-dollar bill under his bowl.”
“Girl, you should take that money and thank him properly the next time you see him.”
I swat at her with my towel I’ve been using to dry dishes. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. It’s easy. Here, let me show you.” She stands up and walks to the register, pulling out the envelope and then the cash. “You just do this,” she says, taking the money, folding it up, and sticking it in my bra.
“LuAnne!”
Her laugh makes me laugh, so we’re both laughing when the door chimes. A very prim and proper lady with a tight bun and even tighter pencil skirt walks in carrying a garment bag. She walks up to the counter and drapes the bag over the register.
“Mr. Lucas needs these no later than noon.”
I look at her with what can only be a stupefied expression.
“He was serious?” I ask to her retreating form, but she doesn’t turn around. “He was serious,” I say, turning to look at LuAnne, who’s standing beside me with her hands on her hips and her nostrils flared.
“I’d like to do more than wipe egg on his leg,” she sneers. “What an asshole.”
I sigh and pick up the bag. “I don’t even know where to take something like this. And by noon,” I say, my voice becoming louder. “There’s no way anyone will have these clean by noon.”
“Come on,” she says taking the bag. “We’ll call Glen and see if he’ll give us a discount and rush delivery.”
She picks up the phone and dials a number.
“I’m not letting the diner pay for this. It was my mistake. I ran into him.”
“No, he ran into you.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just get the stupid pants cleaned and be done with it.”
“Next time, it might be a nice hot pot of coffee on his dick,” she mutters as she waits for Glen to answer the phone.
I can’t help but laugh. It’s either that or cry. And there’s no crying at the diner. There’s nothing Mack hates more than tears.
Table 10
“What’s this?” he asks, looking at the envelope and then back at me.
“It’s your change from Monday.”
“I left that for you.”
I shake my head. “No, I can’t accept that.”
“You can. I gave it to you.”
“I’m not taking a ninety-five-dollar tip for a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.”
“It’s the best piece of pie I’ve ever had.”
“Still.”
“It wasn’t just for the pie and coffee. I wanted to help with the cleaning bill from the prick who made you drop your tray.”
“That was my fault.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I grip the edge of the table and let out a frustrated sigh because he’s being ridiculous. There’s no way I can accept a ninety-five-dollar tip. Dry cleaning bill or not. Although, that little dry cleaning, with rush service did set me back a pretty penny. A pretty penny I didn’t have.
“Take it,” he demands, sliding the envelope across the table until it’s touching my hand.
“I can’t.”
“Is there a cap on how much tip a person can leave?” he asks, looking around like there might be a sign or notice posted somewhere.
“No, but …”
“But nothing. Now, I’d like another piece of pie. What do you have today?”
“I made cherry and caramel apple today,” I grumble, realizing that I’m not going to win this argument.
“Wait. You made?”
“Yes. I made. I make all the pies.”
That damn eyebrow shoots up and those dark eyes look at me so intensely that my knees feel weak.
“Well, well, well. And here I thought my love affair was with LuAnne.”
I swallow hard, telling my heart to settle down. “Nope.” The funny thing is that even though LuAnne has worked here for decades, she can hardly make a grilled cheese sandwich. The thought of her baking a pie is hysterical.
“Well, Kadi.” The sound of my name coming out of his mouth is erotic. And I don’t even know why I think that. I’m not sure I even know the real meaning of erotic, but that’s the only way I can describe it. The two syllables that make up my name have never sounded so good. “I’ll have a slice of your cherry pie.”
Shit.
A pie order should not make you lose coherent thought.
“Right, cherry,” I say, clearing my throat and pulling out my order pad. I scribble something down and then turn around and walk toward the kitchen.
“Kadi,” he calls out, and there it is again—the weak knees, the rapid heartbeat, the heat in the pit of my stomach. “You forgot something.” He’s holding up the envelope, and the tables closest to him are watching us, so I walk quickly back to the table and take the envelope from his outstretched hand.
Table 10
“You have a customer at table ten,” LuAnne says, walking into the kitchen.
“But Carla’s here,” I tell her, continuing to plate the food that’s coming off the grill.
“But he asked for you,” she says and I pause. The butterflies I feel every time I’m near him flap violently in my stomach. Maybe they’re not butterflies. Maybe they’re bi
rds.
I wipe my hands on the towel and take a deep breath before walking out to the table. This is the second time he’s asked for me to wait on him. I’m not complaining. I like waiting on him and not for the excessive tips. He’s nice. He’s easy on the eyes. He’s interesting. He’s kind of demanding but in a way that makes my insides do funny things.
“Good morning.”
“It is now,” he says, looking from his phone up to me and sliding the device into the inside pocket of his suit coat.
I smile an awkward smile, unsure of how to take him sometimes. “Pie?” I ask, cutting out the small talk.
“What did you bake today?”
“Coconut cream and peach.”
“Coconut cream.”
I nod and walk back to the kitchen to retrieve his pie and coffee.
“What’s that all about?” LuAnne asks.
“Beats me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“I think someone is sweet on you.”
“That’s crazy. He’s … well, him. And I’m me. That doesn’t even compute.” Me and Pie Guy are complete opposites. He’s at least five years older than me, and while that’s in reasonable range, it’s more of an age gap than I’ve ever crossed before. Plus, he’s all tailored suits and expensive shoes, and I’m all diner uniform and sneakers. He probably lives in one of the high-rise apartments surrounding downtown. I live in a walk-up with a questionable landlord and even more questionable utilities.
We’re complete opposites.
“Yeah. It does. He’s a handsome guy, and you’re a beautiful girl. It computes.”
“Someone like him would never like someone like me. Not like that, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she says, peeking out the small window and over to where he’s sitting.
“Besides, I don’t even know his name,” I admit. “He just likes my pie.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
I groan, rolling my eyes. Leave it to LuAnne to make this sexual. I mean, she didn’t get five kids by keeping her legs closed.