Chapter 2

• ZARIAH, 27 YEARS OLD, NEW YORK.
• “Order for table three!!” A voice bellowed from the kitchen and I groaned for the nth time that night.
• I made my way to the table to drop off their large order, putting that fake smile that was wearing thin as the night went on when I recited their order and place their dishes in front of the eight people around the two joined tables. “Enjoy your meal.”
• I was on my way away from that table to go get the next order from the kitchen counter when another customer stopped me to ask for more paper towels to wipe the table they had spilled a drink on.
• After getting the paper towels from its place behind the counter right in front of the kitchen, I grabbed the tray of food for table three that I had collected close to twenty minutes ago.
• “It’s another busy night.” One of the other waitresses called when I slipped into the backroom to grab a bottle of water. It was Christine, she was a blond with pretty blue eyes and a slender figure that attracted most of the patrons of this old restaurant. We never really got along, so her talking to me unprompted was… suspicious.
• She was known for pushing her work to other staff when she got, qoute-unqote ‘tired’. As if we weren’t working worse hours than she was. And unfortunately she got away with it too often because of her looks.
• It was a busy night as usual so we didn’t get as long breaks as we liked which meant we cherished every second of the little breathers we got in between when there was a minor lull on the orders. It was good sometimes when the restaurant was filled like this, it meant more tips and more tips meant more money towards my share of the rent.
• “There were these really hot guys that came in for table eight, close to the windows, but I’m almost sure those ones are gay so you can take their order.” She said dismissively already going back to scrolling on her pink-clad phone that made me have the inexplicable urge to try to see how far that iphone went down her pretty perfect mouth—
• ‘Calm down, Zariah’. A little voice at the back of my head reminded me so I could take a deep breath.
• I was never violent but Christine brought out the worst in me. I had to remind myself though that more work meant more tips and more tips meant more money to rent. I couldn’t ask Mira to handle it again this month, she’d done it two months in a row now.
• So I huffed and stuffed my water bottle back into my small backpack and made my way out into the noisy main space where the customers were. I was walking on a thin thread of patience so when Barry—a kitchen staff I was well acquainted with outside of all this—yelled out for table eight’s order I could see the mental image of the said thread, thin out even more.
• ‘I needed to find a proper job that wouldn't make me want to kill people every other second’, I think as I make my way to table eight with the tray of food I had picked up from the connecting kitchen counter.
• When I got to the table I met two men—just as Christine had said—but they looked like nothing of my expectations. I knew it was stupid to care but I was suddenly conscious of my stained sky blue blouse and dirty black apron tied over my worn-out black skinny jeans. I made sure to keep my head down. They looked rich from the little I allowed myself to see, so if I was pliant enough, it meant more tips.
• “Enjoy your meal.” I reiterated my practiced line before I could think much into it as I put their food in front of them.
• I was ready to leave when one of the men called out to me.
• The shock from the attention made me accidentally look right into the eyes of the man right across the table from where I was standing. His eyes were the most striking shade of ash in the warm lighting of the restaurant and I felt time stop for a second. No matter how cringe that sounded, it was true.
• He blinked once. Slow. Measured. As if he’s caught me mid-thought and was waiting to hear what I hadn’t said out loud. I didn’t know what kind of eyes those were—ash gray like smoke after fire—but I knew I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with whatever that look was, with the way it was trying to burn into my soul.
• “Yes?” I managed, barely, and I hoped the noise in the restaurant was too loud for him to hear the crack at the end of the single syllable. My voice had come out hoarse.
• He tilted his head and I saw his pink lips that had a sort of natural fullness to them curved slightly—he heard me. And he was now smirking at the reaction I’d had and I suddenly felt annoyed. He studied me for a moment and I took the opportunity to do the same.
• His expensive-looking navy suit stretching just slightly across his broad shoulders. He had that casual, boy-next-door charm—the kind that didn’t need efforts to turn heads. Tousled brown hair fell over his forehead like it had better things to do than behave and his gray eyes flickered with the kind of quiet mischief that could pull secrets out of you without trying. His jawline was a sculpture in the warm lighting, and there was something about the way he looked at me—something I couldn’t explain.
• “You forgot the wine.” He finally said. Calmly, like he hadn’t just disrupted the molecular structure of my entire night. Because what the actual fuck?
• “Oh,” I breathed out, blinking as I forced my annoyance aside. “I’ll… get that.”
• “Cabernet Sauvignon.” He added, almost lazily as he picked up the napkin to lay on his lap. “2018. If you have it.”
• I nodded, swallowing the urge to spit out something rude. “Right.” I turned on my heels, my mind reeling as I tried to figure out the reason for my annoyance. I knew I was tired and pissed and beyond the point of patience retention but I couldn’t see exactly why I was so annoyed at that beautiful man. Maybe it was the way the air around him gave off something superior that I recognized too well from the life I grew up in. Maybe it was because he sort of reminded of the man that had left me. All I had were speculations as I searched for the wine he ordered for.
• When I had searched our storage for about five minutes and asked Macy—our manager—if we had the wine and got a confused look, my thread of patience was snapped in half and I begrudgingly made my way back to the table after grabbing the next best thing I could find.
• The gray-eyed man was looking right at me, he hadn’t even touched his food while his companion was speaking to him in a low tone. It was too low but even with the noise I heard a snippet of what he said that made me snap my eyes to him instead of the gray-eyed man.
• His looks distracted me for a moment as my mind tried to comprehend what he had just said, I didn’t know what it was that he said but it made me feel a little uneasy, like they were scrutinizing me. He had impossibly blue eyes, sharp as glass and a face that carried the weight of knowing way too much—I could tell. Every put together part of him felt choreographed, like he had done this—being reserved and unapproachable—more times than he could remember.
• Beneath the perfection though, I could tell that there was something else—an ache, maybe. Or danger. Like he’s smile with his mouth but never his beautiful eyes.
• It was somewhat unnerving.