An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 22

I had just retrieved two highchairs for a family of five when Melanie cornered me at the bussing station, fuming and inconsolable, as usual. "What the hell, Mona."

I frowned at her accusatory tone. "What is it?"

"I just clocked in. How long have those guests been sitting at 110?" she demanded.

My heart dropped to my stomach. Those were the last words any hostess wanted to hear. "110 is a closed section."

"No shit."

Son of a bitch.

I spun on my heels, setting the highchairs down at the table of screaming, crayon-wielding toddlers—noting the lack of gratitude from both parents. Then, with dread clotting my bloodstream, I urgently strode to the front of the house to investigate.

Lo-and-behold, a family of boomers sat at the corner booth in the bar, shaking their heads and glaring at the host stand.

Dammit.

I whirled on my freshly trained coworkers, failing to hide my distress. "Who sat that table in the bar? We don't have a server in that section."

The girls exchanged timid glances. "We assumed you did," Angelica said. Her sheepish voice clashed with her dark eye makeup and stiletto nails, but I knew her concern was genuine. "We thought you asked the bartender to handle it during the shift change. That's what we do in that situation, right?"

I swore my eye twitched. "Did they seat themselves?"

Grace, the redhead, shook her head and pointed to our seating chart. "It's in the computer. That's why we didn't ask."

I glanced at the screen and the green icon over 110. Someone had changed the table from 'turning' to 'seated,' and that was over twenty minutes ago.

Twenty fucking minutes.

"Shit," I hissed.

Melanie stormed past us on her way to deliver drinks to the agitated guests, and if her look of contempt wasn't clear enough, she tacked on a bitter, "Thanks for robbing me of a tip, guys. Great job."

Angelica opened her mouth to defend us, but I waved her off. This was the name of the game here at the Orchard—liaising with servers, guests, kitchen staff, and management, and always pissing someone off no matter what we did or how beneficial it was for everyone involved.

Several parties arrived after that, so I took my position as lead and sent my peers to their designated tables, trying my best to keep track of the servers clocking out, the servers walking through the door, and the mismatched sections due to picky customers, late staff, and upcoming reservations.

It was a mess, honestly. If our manager would simply invest in better technology—or at least consider shutting down different parts of the restaurant—these shift changes wouldn't have to be such a headache. But the woman would rather die than listen to her subordinates, regardless of the quality of their insights.

"So...a table didn't receive service for half an hour?" came the shrill, passive-aggressive voice that haunted the restaurant. "Are you kidding me?"

Lindsay.

I turned to address my behemoth of a manager, dragging my gaze over her muscular torso to her square, pulsing jaw, and I felt Baker's Napoleon complex wash over me. Something about Lindsay's massive, imposing nature made me want to throw fists, and I didn't possess a violent bone in my body.

Yet my disdain was visceral.

"I'm not sure how it happened," I admitted. "The three of us didn't seat them, so someone—"