The Fortunate Ones

We’re halfway back to the building when Ellie shoots me a text.ELLIE: You left before I could give you the details about the shift!

BROOKE: Sorry. Had to get out of there. What should I know?

ELLIE: Make sure you check that the tables are set up right when you get there. The servers are responsible for their own sections, but I’m pretty sure Jared works tonight and he always slacks off.

BROOKE: Got it. Anything else?

ELLIE: Check in with the chef and make sure he doesn’t have any special requests for you. He likes to go over the specials with the hostess just in case a member asks about them.I make a mental note to do both things before Ian speaks up.

“I took some new headshots today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Marco shot them for me before he left for a job. We posed in front of the graffiti wall downtown.”

“That’s great.” I smile, feeling the buzz of another text in my lap.ELLIE: Oh! I almost forgot! Guess who’s coming in for dinner tonight.“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”BROOKE: Who?“Brooke.”

“I am enthusiastic!” I insist, dropping my phone and turning my attention back to him. “New headshots will really help you book jobs.”

My lap vibrates and I ignore it.

“Who are you texting anyway?”

“My sister,” I answer honestly, though I don’t like that he’s even asking me that question. Ian and I don’t owe each other anything. We’re friends, buds. We live in the co-op together, and sometimes he gives me a ride if he happens to be free. Twice in the last three months we’ve hooked up. It’s the definition of a no-strings-attached fling, but when he glances over to me, I have a sneaking suspicion that he wants us to be something more.

“Do you want to hang out tonight? Like a date?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. For a while, I’ve been getting the feeling that Ian is looking for something a little more serious, and that question confirms it.

“Sorry. I have to work,” I say, both relived to have an excuse and sad to have to turn him down. Ian is nice, even if his room at the co-op smells like a coffee roaster exploded inside of it and his greatest ambition in life is to become an “influencer” on Instagram. I just don’t want a boyfriend at the moment. I’m actively trying to find a new position as an au pair or a tutor and chances are that when I do find one, I’ll be forced to relocate for it. Ian knows this, and he’s agreed to keep things light, but now I’m wondering if I need to take a step back.

When we arrive at the co-op, I make sure to thank him profusely for the ride and even offer him the extra cookie I stole from the charity luncheon. I was going to enjoy it after work—maybe with some cheap wine—but giving it to him helps assuage my guilt over potentially leading him on.

Damn. I wanted that cookie. Boys suck.

I don’t remember that my sister texted me back until I’m upstairs in my room getting ready for my shift. I smooth down the silky material of my black cocktail dress and slide into some block-heeled black sandals before I reach for my phone and open our conversation.

His name jumps out at me in ALL CAPS, and my stomach turns over in anticipation.

I read the last few texts again, just to confirm it says what I’m hoping it does.ELLIE: Oh! I almost forgot! Guess who’s coming in for dinner tonight.

BROOKE: Who?

ELLIE: JAMES ASHWOOD.CHAPTER THREEJames Ashwood is celebrating. That’s what the note says by his reservation. He’s requested a table near the fireplace for him and 10 guests. There will be champagne and multiple courses, and Brian has assigned three servers to the table so every need can be met right away. When I first arrived for my shift, the chef called an all-hands meeting just to go over his table specifically. The gist: don’t fuck it up.

I’m standing behind the podium now, waiting for the first dinner guests to start arriving. It’s 5:30 PM, and James’ reservation is at 7:00 PM—an hour and a half that will feel like an eternity. Unlike when I work in the cabana, shifts in here tend to drag because I’m not constantly running around like a chicken with my head cut off. My job is to stand behind the podium in a semi-revealing yet sophisticated cocktail dress and greet guests as they walk in. I smile and offer up a polite hello then toss in a bit of tasteful small talk as I lead them on a short walk to their table. Easy peasy. In total, it takes about 30 seconds, maybe a minute if their table is across the dining room.

I use the time between guests to check my email. The tutoring agency should be getting back to me soon. They’ve informed me that positions are tight at the moment, but I have stellar references and a great education. The problem, I know, lies in the requisite headshot sitting at the bottom of my application. I wish I could add a little caption underneath that reads, Hey, by the way, I’m not trying to sleep with your husband.