Maybe This Time(52)

“Gladly.”

We pushed our way into the kitchen. We’d already come in briefly to drop off our stuff and say hi to Micah’s dad before going outside to see the roof. Now Jett Hart was standing at one of the stovetops, adding vegetables to a large skillet. My entire body went tense. Jett looked up and, much to my surprise, a smile came over his face. I tried to remember if it was the first one I’d ever seen there. It made him look much more like Andrew.

“Micah,” he said. “My worker bee.”

Ah. That’s who the smile was for.

My brows went up and I looked Micah’s way. “We get along,” she said under her breath before she moved forward to talk to Jett. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Your father is bringing up some boxes. Can you see if he needs extra hands?”

“Yes.” She gestured toward me. “You remember Sophie.”

Jett gave a single nod, the scowl back on his face.

“Hi,” I said tentatively. “It’s …” Several adjectives about how I felt to see him again went through my head all at once—nice, good, lovely, great—none of which I meant, so I ended up spitting out, “A good night for a party. I mean, great weather and everything.”

“Yes,” he said.

Micah tugged on my arm and I followed her out of the kitchen.

“Since when did you start getting along?” I hissed.

“Since he thinks I’m excellent at my job.”

“You are, but … you like him now?”

“He’s not so bad. He gets a little gruff when he’s stressed or under pressure, but don’t we all?”

“Really?” She was going with Andrew’s standard line now.

“I know, he can be a jerk. But, Sophie, I have to work with him. I’m trying to like him at least a little bit.”

I held up my hands. “I get it. But I don’t have to like him.”

“Just for tonight,” she said.

I groaned.



Waitressing was hard. My arms felt like Jell-O as I carried yet another tray of dirty salad plates to the kitchen.

Mr. Williams smiled at me as I moved the plates onto the counter by the other stacks. “You’re doing great, Ms. Sophie,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to hire you for our next event.”

“Only if I gain some arm muscle by then.”

I went to the counter where entree dishes were waiting.

“You’re moving at half-speed,” Jett said to me. “Pick it up.”

He’d been short with me all night, tougher on me than he had been on the other waiters, I felt. I wondered if he was still angry from our last interaction. I just clenched my teeth.

“Sorry, sir,” I said, loading up my tray.

“I don’t care about words, Ms. Evans, just actions.” Well, at least he knew my name.

I lifted the heavy tray to my shoulder and left without saying those words he didn’t care about.

A woman at my first table raised her finger at me. “Can I get a refill of wine?” she asked.

I nodded my head toward the closest drink station. “You have to go to a drink station, ma’am.” There were at least four and none of them busy.

“You can’t get it for me?”

“I’m underage. I’m not allowed.”

She pushed air between her lips. “I won’t tell.” She held up her glass.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She sighed and pulled out a small handbag, fished through it, and came up with a twenty-dollar bill. “How about now, sweetheart?”

“I’ll get that for you,” Andrew said, lifting the woman’s glass and giving her a smile as well.

She tried to hand him the money but he refused it.

“What a gentleman,” she said.

I had been clenching my teeth an awful lot tonight. I finished passing out the rest of the plates and moved to get another load when a man called out, “Girl, please take this dish with you.”

“Of course.” I picked up his half-eaten food and looked around for others. I ended up walking away with another full tray.

“Want me to carry that tray?” Andrew asked, joining me as I made my way inside again.

“No, and thanks for making me look bad with the wine lady back there.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“It didn’t help. It just made it look like I wasn’t willing to fill her drink.”

“You weren’t,” he said.

“Because I’m not allowed to,” I shot back.

He shrugged. “Well, I am. I don’t work for Mr. Williams.”

I laughed. “Like you’d ever work a real job.”

Andrew furrowed his brows. “What’s that supposed to mean? I work.”

“For your dad.”

“Micah works for her dad.”

“How much does your dad pay you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, do you buy your own suits?” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. Just go”—I nodded toward the phone I knew was in his pocket—“work.”

“And you call me a jerk,” he said before he turned and walked back outside.