It Must Have Been the Mistletoe(47)

“Sorry, were you wanting to place an order?” she asked as she subtly shifted her now-empty tray into a weapon-worthy position. “I can recommend Paul’s coffee if you need some help sobering up.”

“Screw coffee—I’d rather have a buttery nipple,” the pudgy guy said with a sloppy grin. “Better yet, why don’t you sit down here on my lap and let me taste yours?”

His companions, all equally take-their-keys-away drunk, laughed uproariously. Paul, the bartender, caught Rita’s eye and raised a brow in question. A quick shake of her head let him know she could handle it. She’d been doing so half her life.

Why was it some jerks looked at her and saw easy? She knew she put off a sexy vibe, but sexy and disrespect didn’t go hand in hand. She leaned forward to ask why the hell he thought her looks gave him permission to grab her ass. Then she took a deep breath. What was the point?

“How about I bring you that coffee on the house,” she offered instead. After all, there was a tip on the line.

“How about I show you my candy cane,” the guy leered. Then he lurched forward to grab her again.

Screw the tip. She shifted sideways so his arm slammed into the table. Just before she blasted him, Rita heard her mother’s voice in her head. Try a little honey before you lose your temper.

So she sucked in a deep breath, reined in her irritation and refocused. She glanced across the table and arched her brow at the drunk’s buddies.

“A good-lookin’ bunch of guys like you, letting him ruin your chances with the ladies?” She shifted her gaze, taking in the group of women watching from the table she’d just served. She leaned in closer, speaking in a loud whisper. “Nothing more impressive than a guy who comes to the rescue.”

Forcing herself to keep her smile in place, Rita waited. Their responses dulled by booze, the drunk’s companions eventually clued in. They exchanged glances, then one of the guys reached over and smacked the drunk on the shoulder.

“Dude, you’re being rude. Apologize and pay the sexy…I mean, pay the nice waitress.”

Their drunk friend looked belligerent. Rita balanced on the balls of her feet, just in case. But the guy’s buddies, so focused on posturing for the ladies, glared. One even half stood, flexing.

Finally the drunk’s frown shifted into a hardy, slightly embarrassed laugh. One eye on his pals, he handed over a twenty to pay for his five-dollar drink and told Rita to keep the change. His friends quickly followed suit before moving their chairs around to flirt with the women at the next table.

“And that’s how it’s done,” Rita murmured to Kimmi as they passed again, pretending her heart wasn’t hammering with leftover nerves.

“Maybe for you,” Kimmi shot back. “You go through life like it’s a big ol’ party.”

“Networking at its finest,” Rita claimed as she tucked the tip into her bra and tried to reclaim her upbeat mood.

“With your looks and people skills, you’ll be waitress of the month in no time,” Kimmi said, gesturing to the photo wall. “It’s hokey, but you do get a hundred-dollar bonus.”

“Nope, I’m not sticking around that long,” Rita told her. “Not even for a C-note. Humoring drunks isn’t one of my career goals.” Even if it was the job she ended up doing ninety percent of the time. “I’m just here to get enough money to pay for my trip home to Ponder Hill for the holidays.”

Kimmi’s grimace said it all.

Home. Holidays. Family.

Ugh.

Exactly.

Still, loyalty had Rita saying, “It’ll be great. I haven’t been home for Christmas in years.”

“You like your family?”

“Yeah,” Rita said, shifting to take some weight off her left foot, then her right. “Yeah, actually they’re all great. Perfect, in fact.”

Which was why Rita had never quite fit in. The only thing she was perfect at was being a pain in the ass. After a while, seeing that look in her parents’ eyes, that where did we go wrong look, got to be too much. It was easier to stay away than to deal with their disappointment.

Over the years she’d made excuses at the holidays or talked one of her sisters into suggesting a family trip instead.

Until this year. After six Christmases, her mom had insisted Rita come home. Apparently, without her presence, her father’s holiday would be ruined. Amanda insisted that without all three of his daughters around the tree, her husband would sink into depression.

What choice did Rita have? She was pretty sure it was mostly bullshit, but how could she risk her father’s happiness at the holidays?

“Perfect, huh?” Kimmi made a face. “Is that why you look so thrilled?”