Page 5 of Counterfeit Connection

Kaitlyn

If working at Wilder, Hawkings, and Grant is like trudging through the desert with a sixty-pound pack on your back and zero sunscreen, then working at Elliot’s is a refreshing float in a perfectly cool swimming pool, with a cocktail in one hand and the smuttiest of novels in the other. It’s a damn breeze, and I am grateful for the reprieve.

“Happy Saturday, my dear. Did you get some rest after the brunch push?” Elliot Amato says when I walk in through the back entrance, just before the dinner seating begins.

I came to eat here, at this restaurant, during one of my first trips to New York. I was with one of my best friends, we were starving and wandered in and ended up having some of the best Italian food to ever exist. Elliot, the owner, was here andI fell in love with him in all of his grandfatherly glory. He’s absolutely delightful, so when I came to see if they needed any help on their extra busy days, mostly so I could be surrounded by the positivity this place exudes, but the extra money from tips certainly helps, he said yes without a second thought.

“Si, Padrino.” I call him the Italian word for godfather. He’s a father to me when I need one here, my father approves of his care and compassion for me, and more than that, I think my mother sent him to watch over me when no one else was here to do it. “I napped in the sun on my couch for an hour. It was glorious. Now I’m ready to go again.”

“I don’t know how you do it, mio caro. I tell you every time I see you that you work too much.”

“When I’m here, it hardly feels like work.” I plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “Where do you want me tonight?”

“Ah, you make this place brighter, trust me,” he says. “We are expecting a full house tonight, so if you could manage the dining room with Katarina? She will take the left side by the kitchen, you will take the right side, by the window.”

“You got it, boss,” I reply with a smile. He hates when I call him that.

“Ehh.” He waves me off before heading back to work in the office.

I head through the kitchen, saying hello to a couple of the line cooks, who are already hard at work preparing for the last service of the night, and put my bag into one of the small cubbies in the back corner designated for our belongings.

I pull my hair up into a high ponytail, adjust the white apron I’ve tied around my waist, and pull out a small mirror to touch up the slight bit of makeup I’m wearing. I applied my signature red lipstick before I came in. It makes me feel powerful, and thankfully, the uniform for Elliot’s doesn’t require foot-destroying stilettos.

Katarina pops her head on my shoulder in my mirror view. “Hey, girl. I can’t believe you’re working a double again.”

“I wish people would stop making me feel like I’ve got horns growing out of my head because I like being here.”

“Meow. I was just giving you a hard time. Did you recalculate your retirement from Elliot’s after the morning tips?”

“I’m never going to retire. I’m going to be a lifer, just like you.”

Kat’s eyes grow wide. “I can’t be doing this forever. I need to book a show. This audition drought is real.”

Kat has dreamed of Broadway since she was five. I don’t know why she’s not working at one of those singing diners instead. Her voice is so powerful and beautiful, she could shatter glass if she tried.

“Your time is coming. I feel it. Just keep putting yourself out there. Don’t hold back.”

“Me? Never.”

The dinner service is steady and keeps me on my toes.

Elliot’s isn’t the fanciest place in the world, but it’s certainly a staple on this side of the city. We see everyone from politicians to celebrities to the husband and wife, who have lived around the corner for twenty-five years. When you walk through these doors, you belong here.

The table by the window ordered a bottle of merlot and while I’ve certainly opened many bottles of wine in my day, this damn cork is giving me a run for my money.

“Come on,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just come out.”

“Need me to get that for you?” Kat asks.

“Oh my God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This brand always gives me fits.”

“Here, give it to me. For table ten, right? Take the suit brigade at table twenty for me. I’ve got this. Apparently, they’re popular because there is some asshole with a camera posted up outside, trying to get a shot of them. I’m not suitable for photographs.”

“Suit brigade?” I laugh. “That’s a new one.”

“It sounds better than tightwad assholes with accents.”

If I’d been sipping on my emergency water at the time, tables two and three would have been drenched. “What are you on today? I can’t with you.”

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