Page 8 of To Her

Geri

T he morning coffee rush at the Harborview was exactly as brutal as I'd expected.

Hungover revellers stumbled in seeking caffeine salvation, bleary-eyed families with cranky children demanded pancakes, and the occasional bright-eyed morning person bounced in with entirely too much New Year's Day enthusiasm.

By eleven, I'd been on my feet for four hours straight, and my lower back was starting to protest.

"Two more cappuccinos and an avocado toast for table seven," I called to James as I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

"Coming right up," he replied, not looking up from the grill where he was flipping a perfect row of hash browns.

Despite being the sous chef, James had volunteered to help with the breakfast shift when our regular morning cook called in sick.

That was James—always reliable, always there when you needed him.

I leaned against the counter for a moment, taking the brief respite to check my phone. No messages. No missed calls. No sign of Matt.

He'd said he would come by. He'd seemed sincere about it. But it was already past eleven, and the lunch crowd would start arriving soon. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. It wasn't like we had concrete plans. It wasn't like he owed me anything after one night.

One incredible night.

I shoved my phone back in my apron pocket and grabbed the fresh coffee pot. No time for disappointment when there were tables to serve.

By one-thirty, the rush had finally died down. I was wiping down tables when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I nearly dropped the spray bottle in my haste to check it.

Hey, it's Matt. Got your number from Anna. Sorry I wasn't able to make it down, something came up. I'll call you tonight.

I stared at the message, conflicting emotions washing over me. Relief that he'd reached out. Disappointment that he hadn't shown up. Annoyance that he hadn't bothered to text earlier. Hope that he still wanted to talk.

"Earth to Geri," James said, waving a hand in front of my face. "You planning on cleaning that table or just staring at it until the crumbs get scared and run away?"

I blinked, realizing I'd been standing frozen with the cloth in my hand. "Sorry. Just got a text."

"From tall, dark, and tattooed?" James asked, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. News travelled fast in our friend group, apparently.

"Maybe," I said, resuming my wiping with renewed vigour.

"Ooh, details please. Haley said he stayed over last night."

I shot him a look. "Don't you have some chef-ing to do?"

"Kitchen's clean, prep for dinner is done, and I'm officially off the clock until tonight," he said, dropping into a chair at the freshly cleaned table. "So spill."

I sighed, knowing he wouldn't let it go. "Yes, he stayed over. Yes, it was nice. No, I'm not giving you the play-by-play."

"Nice?" James repeated incredulously. "That's all I get? Nice?"

"What do you want me to say? That he rocked my world? That I'm already planning our wedding? He's shipping out in two weeks, James. It's not exactly the foundation for a lasting relationship."

James's expression softened. "Hey, not every connection has to be forever to be meaningful. Sometimes a good fling is exactly what you need."

"I know," I said, moving to the next table. "It's just... I don't know if I'm built for casual."

"Says the girl who just had a one-night stand with a guy she met yesterday."

I flicked the cloth at him, spraying him with a few drops of cleaner. "It wasn't a one-night stand. We didn't even... you know."

James's eyebrows shot up. "You didn't? Then what did you—actually, no, don't tell me. I'll just use my imagination."

"Please don't," I groaned.

He laughed, then checked his watch. "Aren't you supposed to be at the spa soon?"

I glanced at the clock on the wall and cursed. "Shit. Yeah, I need to go." I untied my apron and tossed it in the laundry bin. "See you back here at six?"

"I'll be the handsome one in the chef's coat," he called after me as I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of facials, waxing, and listening to wealthy women complain about their husbands' golf habits. By the time I made it back to the Harborview for the dinner shift, I was running on fumes and caffeine.

"You look like hell," James greeted me cheerfully as I tied on a fresh apron.

"Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear."

"Did Prince Charming call?"

I checked my phone for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Still nothing. "Not yet."

James gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "His loss. Now help me plate these salads before Marco has an aneurysm."

The dinner rush kept me too busy to dwell on Matt's silence. By the time we closed at ten, I was dead on my feet and emotionally drained. All I wanted was a hot shower and my bed.

The mansion was quiet when I got home. Haley and Anna had both texted earlier to say they were staying at Jake's for the night, which meant I had the place to myself. Under different circumstances, I might have invited Matt over. Now, I was just grateful for the solitude.

I took a long shower, letting the hot water soothe my aching muscles and wash away the day's disappointments. As I dried off, I caught a glimpse of myself in the steamy mirror—the faint marks on my neck from Matt's stubble, the memory of his touch still lingering on my skin.

"Stop it," I told my reflection sternly. "He's just a guy. One of many who will disappoint you."

But even as I said it, I knew Matt wasn't just any guy. There had been something different about him, something that had gotten under my skin in a way no one had since... well, since Ben. And look how that turned out.

I pulled on an oversized t-shirt and crawled into bed, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. Still no call. It was after eleven now—late, but not too late. Maybe he'd been busy. Maybe something really had come up.

Or maybe he'd gotten what he wanted and was already moving on.

I tossed the phone aside and reached for my headphones instead. If there was one thing guaranteed to match my mood right now, it was Five Finger Death Punch. Grabbing my phone again I scrolled to my favourite album, cranked up the volume, and let the aggressive guitars and raw vocals wash over me.

I must have fallen asleep like that, because the next thing I knew, my alarm was blaring and sunlight was streaming through the windows. I groaned, fumbling to silence the noise, my head pounding and my stomach growling in protest.

Right. I'd forgotten to eat dinner. Again.

I checked my phone out of habit, but there were no missed calls. No texts. No explanation for why Matt hadn't called as promised.

"Whatever," I muttered, dragging myself out of bed. I didn't have time to dwell on it anyway. I had to pick up James in forty-five minutes, then open the restaurant, work a shift at the spa, and come back for another dinner service. The glamorous life of the perpetually broke.

I showered quickly, threw on jeans and a sweater, and managed to scarf down a bowl of cereal before heading out. The morning was crisp and clear, the kind of winter day that reminded you why people paid ridiculous amounts of money to live near the coast.

James was waiting on his front step when I pulled up, looking about as awake as I felt.

"You look like hell," I greeted him, echoing his words from the day before.

"Bite me," he grumbled, sliding into the passenger seat. "Not all of us got to sleep through the night. Some of us were up late texting hot guys."

That got my attention. "Oh? Do tell."

"After I hear about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Did he call?"

I kept my eyes fixed on the road. "Nope."

"Really? That's weird. Anna said he was really into you."

"Apparently not enough to keep his word," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "It's fine. I knew it wasn't going anywhere."

James studied me for a moment. "You're disappointed."

"I'm tired," I corrected him. "And hungry. And not in the mood to dissect my non-existent love life. Now tell me about this guy you were texting."

He hesitated, clearly wanting to push the Matt issue, but then seemed to think better of it. "His name's Liam. We matched on Tinder last week, and we've been talking ever since. We're meeting for drinks on Friday."

"Liam," I repeated. "Wait, was he at the new year party? Blond guy with a man-bun?"

James's eyes widened. "You know him?"

"I met him briefly. He's friends with Jake." I grinned. "Small world."

"Is he hot in person? His pictures are insane, but you know how that goes."

"Pics or it didn't happen, I didn’t get a good look at him at the party,” I said, holding out my hand for his phone at the next red light.

James unlocked it and pulled up Liam's profile. I scrolled through the photos—Liam at the beach, Liam hiking, Liam with a dog. He was undeniably attractive, with the kind of symmetrical features and easy smile that belonged in commercials.

"Damn," I said, handing the phone back as the light turned green. "He's hot as fuck."

"I know, right?" James sighed dramatically. "All the good-looking ones are gay."

I laughed. "That's what I was just thinking."

"They are," he agreed with a smug smile. "And I'm glad, because I get them all to myself. I don't have to share."

We were still laughing as we pulled into the restaurant's parking lot. Despite my exhaustion and the lingering disappointment over Matt, I felt my mood lifting. James had that effect on people—he could make you forget your problems, at least for a little while.

As we set up for the morning, James connected his phone to the kitchen speakers. "What are we feeling today? Upbeat to match our sleep deprivation?"

"Surprise me," I said, counting out the register.

A moment later, the unmistakable opening notes of "Crank That (Soulja Boy)" filled the kitchen. I looked up to find James already doing the dance, complete with exaggerated movements and a completely serious expression.

"Oh my god," I laughed. "What are you, twelve?"

"Don't pretend you don't know every move," he challenged, continuing to dance as he checked the prep list.

He was right, of course. The song had been inescapable during our high school years, and we'd spent countless hours perfecting the dance at parties.

"Come on," he urged. "You know you want to."

And because it was James, and because sometimes you just needed to be ridiculous to forget your problems, I joined in. There we were, two sleep-deprived adults, dancing to Soulja Boy in an empty restaurant kitchen at 6:30 in the morning.

"Superman that ho!" James sang at the top of his lungs, nearly knocking over a stack of plates with his enthusiastic movements.

I was laughing so hard I could barely keep up with the dance, but it didn't matter. For those few minutes, I wasn't thinking about Matt or Ben or my exhausting schedule or my uncertain future. I was just having fun with my best friend, being completely and utterly silly.

As the song ended, we collapsed against the counter, still giggling.

"Feel better?" James asked, his eyes knowing.

I nodded, catching my breath. "Much."

"Good. Now help me prep these muffins before the caffeine-deprived hordes descend."

As we fell into our familiar routine, I found myself grateful for the constants in my life—James's friendship, the rhythm of the restaurant, the comfort of knowing exactly what was expected of me. Maybe Matt would call today. Maybe he wouldn't. Either way, life would go on.

And if he didn't? Well, his loss. I had muffins to bake and dances to perfect.