Page 5 of Set to Love

I pause halfway to the kitchen and look back at him. “You know my name?”

“Yes?” He arches a brow.

Heat creeps up my neck. “I figured I’d just be the waitress.”

“You weren’t to me.” He takes a step closer. My pulse picks up a few beats. “And I’m still sorry about Miller. He deserved a pint in the face.”

“I was sorely tempted,” I admit.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “But you stayed calm and handled it like a pro.”

I focus my attention back on my flour-streaked apron. “It’s all just part of the job. Even when the customers are . . . testing.”

I notice a few other stains on my work shirt that even black can’t hide. I inhale deeply. Why is it that Max is here when I look like a sweaty mess? Besides my stained uniform, my arms are dusted with flour up to the elbows, and my face is probably still pink from hauling trays in and out of the ovens all morning.

“Well, you’re far better at your job than Miller is at being a decent human being,” Max says.

“I’ll go grab that wallet,” I mutter, needing a second to breathe. I duck into the back and take a moment to press my palms against the cold steel safe. Get it together, girl.

This guy is good-looking, that’s for sure. And his accent . . . it’s really testing me this morning. But I have to remember that he’s a customer. Nothing more. Once he gets what he came for, he’ll be out of here. And I’ll be a random footnote from his trip to the States. There’s nothing special about me. No matter what he says, I’m just a waitress.

When I walk back out, Max is studying some of the framed vintage travel tickets and the colorful, defunct Italian lira hanging on the wall near the register.

“Here you go,” I say, handing the wallet over.

“Thank you so much,” he says, breathing a heavy sigh as he tucks the item into his back pocket. “I panicked this morning when I realized I’d lost it.”

“I can imagine.”

“Here, this is for you.” He pulls out a small white envelope.

I glance at it. He’s offering me a cash tip? It’s the last thing I expected, especially given how he’s dressed. My fingers twitch. I’m tempted to take it. I could really use the money. But I’m also not a charity case. And my stupid pride will get in the way. Every. Single. Time.

As much as it hurts, I wave him off. “Oh, um, thanks, but no. I can’t accept it. Lina pays me well, and honestly, everything is fine. You don’t owe us anything.”

Max’s smile falters, and he lets out an awkward, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. “It’s, um, it’s not a tip.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks so fast it practically makes my vision swim. “Oh.”

I sheepishly take the envelope, my fingers brushing against his. That brief contact sends a zing right through me, leaving me even more flustered. “Right. Sorry. I’ll just shut up now,” I mutter.

“No worries,” he says, his grin returning, though it’s a bit more bashful now. “I know the lads didn’t exactly leave a stellar impression, and after the mess we made . . .well, I felt like a verbal apology wasn’t quite enough.”

I turn the envelope over and slide out the contents. I nearly choke. Inside are theatre tickets. And not shabby ones either. They’re orchestra-level seats for Les Misérables.

“Max, I can’t accept these.” My eyes dart from the glossy cardstock back to him. “I know exactly how expensive these are. I almost bought them when this season’s Broadway in Orlando Series lineup was announced. But I’d already splurged on tickets for Hadestown and The Great Gatsby, and there are only so many irresponsible decisions my bank account can survive in one month.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. He gives me one of those classic “cheeky” British grins. “You’re a proper theatre junkie?” he asks, leaning an elbow against the host stand with a newfound energy.

“I am,” I confess.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.” He winks, and a small horde of lightning bugs awakens in my stomach. “Gatsby and Hadestown? You’re a real fan.”

“Guilty as charged.”

I try to nudge the envelope back toward him, but he taps it lightly. “Take them. They’re comps. I’m one of the dance captains on Les Mis. I get a few house seats in each city, and they’ll go empty if no one uses them.” He shrugs. “Think of it as a favor to me. I’d much rather have a fellow theatre nerd in the audience than a ghost.”

“Wait, you’re a dance captain? Does that mean your friends are in Les Mis too?”