Page 6 of A Little Christmas 4: Teller
“I don’t actually eat here. The food isn’t very healthy, but if you’re set to eat here, the best thing you could get would be the chicken wings with celery and carrots—and then don’t eat the wings.”
Mr. York nodded with a bright smile. “I’ll have that with blue cheese, please.”
I jotted it down and went to the bar, pecking in the order on the register, adding a note to double the veg. I stood at the end of the bar and stared at Mr. York as he scrolled through his phone. Damn, the man was fine.
When the drink came up, I carried it to his table. “Macallan’s 15, neat. You ordered an app, which should be up in a few minutes. Did you want to order an entrée?”
Mr. York glanced from his phone. “When’s your break? Can you sit for a minute?”
I glanced around to see that those in my section were fine, so I sat across from him. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” That was no damn lie. How had he found me?
He took a sip of his drink and placed it on the table. “You mentioned that you worked here on Friday and Saturday nights. I’m sorry you got screwed out of your commission at Bloomfield’s. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“My comm— Oh, that’s not your fault. That’s Mr. Kerry’s fault. He couldn’t resist taking over the transaction. I’m afraid that’s how he operates. I’m used to it by now, Mr. York. No worries.” I stared at him, waiting for any reaction. He only nodded, taking another sip of his drink.
The bell at the pass-through rang. “Teller!”
“Excuse me, Mr. York. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I left the table to grab Mr. York’s wings and another customer’s burger and tots from the window, delivering the burger to a table in my section. The customers dug in and didn’t engage me in conversation, so I hurried over to Mr. York’s table, placing the wings in front of him.
“Sorry about that, sir.”
“What time do you get off?” Mr. York’s gaze was steady on me, giving my nerves a run for their money.
Why’s he asking me that?“Uh, I have another hour.” I glanced at the digital clock over the prep station to confirm the time.
Mr. York nodded. “Okay. I’ll have another drink and a side salad with Italian vinaigrette. Take your time bringing the salad.”
I nodded and hurried away, tapping Mr. York’s second order into the register as I stared at him. The man was certainly an interesting mystery.
His eyes were a light green, and they settled on me as I moved around the wait station. His gaze had my heart pounding.
Ida, another unfriendly waitress, stepped behind me and touched my shoulder. “Can you get the fuck out of the way so the rest of us can work while you stare off into space?”
The woman didn’t like anyone, but especially me. She professed to be a holy roller, and I was a gay twink. The antithesis of her moral Christian beliefs. Working in an Irish pub and her colorful way of turning a phrase told me she wasn’t the good Christian she professed to be. She was a horrible bigot who justified her ugly criticisms with Bible verses.
“You know, apleasewould go a long way toward supporting your Christianity myth.”
Ida gave me the evil eye. “You can go to hell, though your lifestyle has already secured that trip for you.”
How nice was that?
“Thank you, Ida. I’m sure I’ll see you there.” Once I finished what I was doing, I moved out of Ida’s way.
Hurrying to the bar, I collected Mr. York’s second drink and carried it to his table. “Here you go, Mr. York. Your salad will be right up.”
“Sure. Do you like working here? Some of the servers don’t seem to enjoy their jobs.”
I giggled. “It’s sad to say, but that’s the consensus around here. You’re quick to pick up on the general disdain. I like many of the customers, and the tips are pretty good, which helps with the housing and food habits we discussed the other day. It’s a family-owned pub, so if you don’t do as the family says…” I scraped my thumb over my throat, mimicking a slit throat. They weren’t that bad, but they wouldn’t win any prizes for bosses of the year.
Mr. York smirked. “I’ve found myself in similar positions from time to time.”
A few customers in my section were finishing up, so I turned to Mr. York. “Excuse me, please.”
The bar register was unoccupied, so I quickly hurried over to ring up checks and distribute them. I cleared the tables as I went, helping Craig, the only busboy on shift that night. I grabbed the bottle of cleaner and a rag to wipe down those tables for the next day. College football on Saturday was popular, and the games started early.
“Teller!” The bell in the pass-through rang, so I walked over to see Mr. York’s salad and a side of Italian dressing waiting for me. I plucked a few cracker packets from the large bin and went to the table where he was sitting, surprised to see he’d changed seats at the four-top table so he could face the room. It was kind of odd.
