She ignores me. “I think you should let down your hair.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Jesse, you realize that I have to write performance reviews at the end of each and every job we do, right? So far, I’ve never had to write anything other than praise where you’re concerned. Don’t let this night be any different.”
“I’m a chef, not a waiter,” I say, sticking my chin out. “This is not my job.”
“Unfortunately, your job is whatever the client says it is,” she says sternly. “Now, let down your hair and add a little makeup. You’re on in five minutes.”
“Five? But service doesn’t start—”
“You have to get out there to start pouring drinks.”
I shake my head as humiliation rushes through me.
It’s not that I think of waitressing as a demeaning job. It’s just that it’s not my job. I’ve worked my ass off to work in a kitchen. I’m supposed to make the food, not deliver someone else’s.
And now, in a matter of seconds, Anton the Asshole has relegated me to waiting on him hand and foot.
Despite Eloise’s request, I refuse to add more makeup. But I let my hair down and head into The Gilded Room where the event is supposed to take place.
The moment the head waiter spots me, he beelines straight in my direction. I suppress a sigh when I see the annoyed expression on his face. His name tag reads “Douglas Henning.”
He doesn’t bother with a hello. “I don’t need to tell you this is highly irregular.”
I shake my head. “No, you don’t.”
“But since neither one of us has a choice in the matter, let’s make the most of it, shall we?”
“Fantastic. Sounds like a plan.”
He narrows his eyes at me. They’re the color of burnt umber. He’s handsome for an older man, distinguished, with an air of class. I bet clients love him.
“You’ll have to show a little more enthusiasm than that when the guests arrive,” he reprimands. “Is that clear?”
I nod.
“Do you have experience waitressing?”
“Some.”
“What does that mean?”
“Two years in a café when I was a teenager. And a year during college.”
“Not ideal, but it’ll have to do. Be polite, be efficient, and don’t fuck up.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?”
“I can handle this,” I say quickly.
“Good. Now, go grab a tray. The guests will be arriving any second.”
As I move to grab a tray, I survey the rest of the waitstaff and the room. All the men and women are in a neat line, expressions serious. This gig is a big deal for all of us.
And it makes sense. The venue is insane. With the gleam reflecting off the walls, every single one of us in here looks like the gold-painted girl from that one James Bond movie.