Smitten Kitten

chapter twenty two

"I DON'T KNOW WHO you think you're trying to fool here, but that is not Perrier," the dark-haired woman says in a clipped tone, thin lips pressed together, unimpressed. Her eyes narrow.

I blink. "I'm sorry, what? That- that is Perrier."

She rolls her eyes as if responding is a waste of precious breath, and I have to take a quick survey of the restaurant to make that sure she's talking to me, and not an actual toddler. Not that the annoyance on her face can make the distinction. When I continue to stand there, silent and absolutely bewildered, she heaves a sigh.

"Are you trying to imply I don't know what Perrier tastes like?" She arches a pointed brow.

"Of course not," I blurt out, eyes widening. "I just- with all due respect, I poured the drink straight from the bottle at your table. And the bottle is still right next to your glass. That is, um, that's Perrier."

When I gesture to the bottle of Perrier that is, for everyone to see, sitting dutifully next to her glass, she clicks her tongue. I wonder if it's her hair drawn so tightly into the bun piled on her head, or maybe an after-effect of the Botox that has given her temporary blindness. Any other reasonable explanation escapes me.

"I don't know what kind of operation you're running here, but I know what Perrier tastes like, and this is not Perrier," she says, low and sharp, venom in her eyes as they lock onto mine. "Now, I don't want to speak to your manager, but-"

"I will definitely grab you another unopened bottle and bring it here," I quickly reassure her, hands formed into fists by my sides. The thought of Christian's steely eyes draws shivers down my spine, still recovering from the accidentally-shattering-an-entire-bottle-of-Cristal incident, name self-explanatory. "And I'd like to sincerely apologize for this upset."

She leans back, apparently satisfied with this answer, and flashes me a predatory look. "And it's ruined my meal."

The polite smile is frozen on my face and only enduring through sheer will-power alone. "Of course, of course, I'll see what I can do about getting some of it compensated, and free dessert as well. For the pain we've caused. My apologies, again," I manage through gritted teeth.

Suddenly I was all types of on board with whatever Karl Marx had to say. The bourgeoisie can suck a dick.

"At the minimum," she adds, brows climbing up her chemically-smoothed forehead in a challenge.

I have to turn on my heel and stalk away to stop myself from going absolutely mental on this sixty-five-year-old woman that I'm absolutely positive I could best in a physical confrontation if necessary. Despite finally warming up to the POS system, the table numbers, and the natural flow of work at Viva La Breakfast, the clientele still makes me want to legitimately orchestrate a revolution.

And that includes both current and past patrons, honestly. Not that thinking about particular dark-haired and brown-eyed men is helping calm me down at all.

There's a groan climbing up my throat when I return to the server station, pressing the woman's table with a little more force than necessary on the screen. I barely even notice when Malia, the other server working, slides in behind me until she's peeking over my shoulder.

"I totally knew that she was gonna pull something from the second she walked in," she says, sighing. "You should've heard her last week- she was throwing a fit because she couldn't bring in her little rat of a dog."

I snort, turning to face the dark-haired girl. "Thank god she thinks our operation is only pouring non-Perrier water into Perrier bottles and not a total front for money laundering. She is really keeping our city safe."