With love comes fried chicken

The Boy at Table Seven

The smell of fried chicken filled the air as seventeen-year-old Lily Morgan rushed between tables carrying trays.

"Table three, extra fries!"

"Coming!" she shouted.

Being a waitress at her family's restaurant wasn't exactly how Lily imagined spending her summer.

While her friends were posting beach selfies and going to parties, she was stuck working twelve-hour shifts at Golden Crispy Chicken, the small restaurant her parents had owned for twenty years.

And today was especially terrible.

The air conditioner was broken.

Her uniform was covered in flour.

And some customer had just spilled soda all over her shoes.

"Best summer ever," she muttered sarcastically.

Then the restaurant door opened.

And everything changed.

A tall boy walked inside.

Dark hair.

Warm brown eyes.

A black hoodie despite the summer heat.

The entire restaurant seemed to pause for a second.

Even Lily's coworker Sarah nearly dropped a tray.

"Whoa," Sarah whispered.

"Don't start."

"You saw him."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

Lily rolled her eyes.

Unfortunately, Sarah was right.

The guy was ridiculously attractive.

The kind of attractive that looked unrealistic.

Like he belonged in an MSA thumbnail.

The boy quietly sat at Table Seven near the window.

He opened a notebook and started writing.

That was strange.

Most teenagers were glued to their phones.

This guy seemed more interested in his notebook.

For almost twenty minutes he sat there alone.

Writing.

Thinking.

Occasionally staring out the window.

And somehow looking mysterious while doing absolutely nothing.

Finally Lily grabbed a menu.

"Fine," she sighed.

"I'll serve him."

Sarah smirked.

"Sure. For work reasons."

"Exactly."

Lily approached Table Seven.

"Hi, welcome to Golden Crispy Chicken."

The boy looked up.

And smiled.

A simple smile.

Yet somehow Lily forgot every word she'd planned to say.

"Oh."