“Aww, big night last night, Mas?”
He groaned and pocketed an order pad, passing another apron to Em. “Don’t remind me.”
The sea foam green color of the apron clashed horribly with Em’s purple sweater, but it wasn’t like there was any kind of dress code at Bart’s, or the type of patrons who actually cared.
The ding of the kitchen bell drew their attention to where Bart was sliding the day’s first plate of food onto the serving counter. Ash laughed out loud as Mason’s face turned nearly the same shade of pale green as the somewhat questionable eggs.
“You sure you’re okay to work?” Em asked.
He smiled at her concern. “I think I’ll survive, but tequila and I are having a serious conversation about our love-hate relationship after this.”
“It does sort of look like it’s hating you right now.”
“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual.” Mason scooped up the plate and headed for a table where a silver haired couple sat waiting, stopping just long enough to shoot her a grin at the end of the counter. “But it loved me last night.”
Ash actually snorted with laughter as she pushed past Em to scan their section assignments for the day. The restaurant was broken up into three sections—front, rear, and bar area—each with its own server. It was a seat yourself sort of situation, so tips depended largely on where the customers chose to sit. Em groaned inwardly when she saw she was assigned to the rear section. Bar was the best—drinks led to bigger tips—and the front section did well since people tended to sit at the first empty table they came to, which meant she wouldn’t see customers until the place started filling up.
“Score!” Ash spun around in a little circle causing her apron to flare out, and Em to wish she could bottle up some of the girl’s energy and drink it.
She headed over toward her first customers near the bar, wide grin on her face, while Mason rejoined Em behind the counter.
“Did you want to switch sections today?” No doubt Mason knew she could use the money, but Em wasn’t keen on being anyone’s charity case.
“No. I’m fine. I can just—”
“I could really use the break, actually.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his golden brown hair. “Remind me never to party with Tom again. That guy’s nuts.”
“Isn’t he working today?”
“I seriously doubt it. If he’s smarter than I am, he’ll call in sick. That is if he even wakes up before sometime next week.”
Mason seemed sincere enough in his request that she took pity on him. “Okay, I’ll cover the front.”
“Thanks, Em. You’re a lifesaver.”
Within the hour, the place was hopping. Especially considering it was a weekday. Didn’t these people have jobs? Em’s feet were sore, but the heavy tug of tips in her apron pocket was a constant reminder of why that was a good thing.
Calls for refills, order changes, and checks came at her from all sides, making her head spin. Sleep deprivation was doing a serious number on her jangled nerves. She was in the middle of taking an order from the world’s most indecisive woman—how many questions could you really ask about an omelet?—when the table next to her requested more ketchup. The woman chose that moment to make up her mind and started rattling off a customized order that did not include any kind of omelet at all.
Em had to bite back a frustrated scream as she scrambled to jot down what the woman was telling her, while the irate mother of four screaming children waved an empty ketchup bottle at her.
“Relax.” Mason’s hand folded over her shoulder in a quick squeeze. “I’ll handle the Great Ketchup Shortage on table two.”
He was gone again before she could thank him, and her nerves settled a bit. On her way to put in the order, Em surveyed Mason’s section. It wasn’t as jam-packed as hers, but he had several of his own customers to worry about. He didn’t need to be picking up her slack.
Bart’s knuckles brushed over the back of her hand—accidentally she was sure—as she passed him the order. Jerking away from him, Em turned to find the three tables she’d just cleared had already refilled with waiting customers.
Part of her wanted to throw in her apron and call it a day. But then Mason was there, stepping up to one of her tables and pulling out his order pad. Dammit. She could do this.
“Mason, you don’t have to—”
“I got this. Why don’t you go take care of tables five and seven?”
She wanted to argue, but he was right, other things required her attention first. He kept at it all morning, stepping in whenever she got overwhelmed, covering extra tables, and even helping to bus them. But as she passed each vacated table, the tip money sat untouched on top. Collecting the nearly twenty dollars, she managed to corner him behind the ticket counter.