Read Online Too Stupid to Live(Romancelandia) by Anne Tenino - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Tenino
Ads: Link
three younger sisters,” Sam said over his shoulder. “I know what ‘commiserate’ means.”
She just smiled.
By the time Sam got back to the dining room, the first of the drink orders was ready to go. And great, Ian’s was on the tray. That would be the one order he did know.
Okay, he could do this. Sam steeled himself and picked up the heavy tray, balancing it on his shoulder.
As he was coming up behind Ian’s end of the table—approaching Ian from the back; he needed all the advantage he could get—he heard the guy next to Ian say, “Looks like the waiter has a crush on you, Ian.”
Sam stopped dead. Could the humiliation get any worse?
It could. It did when Ian chuckled in reply. He clearly forced it out, but he chuckled . It was a vaguely familiar sound that, for a split second, drew Sam back into the laundry room of his mind.
Andrea leaned forward, looking past Ian to the guy who’d made the comment. Sam cringed, waiting for whatever she was about to say.
“Tierney, that was uncalled for,” she said. The guy spluttered.
Sam blinked. Oh. That was . . . not mean.
As Andrea sat back, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Sam. She must have made a noise, because Ian turned, too, and then the other guy, Tierney. They stared at him with different degrees of embarrassment. For just a millisecond, Ian closed his eyes. Then he stood up. “I’ll help you with that,” he said, taking a step toward Sam.
“No.” Sam was surprised to hear how hard his voice sounded. He cleared his throat, looking Ian in the eye, and kept his voice low so only Ian would hear. “I don’t need your help.”
Ian looked away. “Sorry.” He hesitated a second before sitting back down.
Sorry for what? The one-night stand, or laughing at what that asshole said, or for assuming I’m too weak to lift my own damn tray of drinks?
Did it fucking matter?
Suddenly Tineke was there with the second tray of drinks, looking at him in concern but smiling for the customers, most of whom didn’t even know anything was wrong. It was too loud in Fatty’s for normal voices to carry far.
With Tineke’s help, Sam made it through distributing drinks, and even taking orders—she took the shadowy end of the table, which Sam refused to look at. She even whispered something into Juan Miguel’s ear in the kitchen, resulting in his growling and casting hateful glances toward the dining room.
Ian and that dick sitting next to him both got screwed up orders, and Juan Miguel’s normally attractive plating was sloppy.
The whole staff rallied around Sam, even Sheff, and Sam hadn’t known the man had a clue how to rally. In the end, the group containing Ian left without Sam having to speak with him again, or even meet his eyes.
Afterward, Tineke arranged most of their dinner break together. Sam didn’t know how she did it, but Sheff actually helped the other waitstaff when the bar wasn’t busy.
“Okay,” Tineke interrupted after listening for ten minutes to Sam whining about what had happened, how humiliated he was, and how he was now getting pissed off , dammit. “Which pisses you off the most: him saying sorry for the sex, the chuckle, or him offering to take the drinks tray?”
She always asked the hard questions. Sam slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared.
She laughed. “Dude, I’ve got a ten-year-old son. Do your worst. I can take it.”
There was only one reasonable response to that. Sam stuck out his tongue at her.
Sam made it through the rest of the night. By the time he helped Tineke shut the place down at eleven thirty, he felt tired, dispirited, and sick. Not really sick, just the sort of sick he got when something icky happened in his life and he had to deal with it. Because what else was he going to do? He was a too-tall, too-skinny, not-very-attractive, very-obviously-gay dork. He had shit to deal with on occasion. So he dealt.
It was moments like this Sam wished he was a drinker. Or
She just smiled.
By the time Sam got back to the dining room, the first of the drink orders was ready to go. And great, Ian’s was on the tray. That would be the one order he did know.
Okay, he could do this. Sam steeled himself and picked up the heavy tray, balancing it on his shoulder.
As he was coming up behind Ian’s end of the table—approaching Ian from the back; he needed all the advantage he could get—he heard the guy next to Ian say, “Looks like the waiter has a crush on you, Ian.”
Sam stopped dead. Could the humiliation get any worse?
It could. It did when Ian chuckled in reply. He clearly forced it out, but he chuckled . It was a vaguely familiar sound that, for a split second, drew Sam back into the laundry room of his mind.
Andrea leaned forward, looking past Ian to the guy who’d made the comment. Sam cringed, waiting for whatever she was about to say.
“Tierney, that was uncalled for,” she said. The guy spluttered.
Sam blinked. Oh. That was . . . not mean.
As Andrea sat back, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Sam. She must have made a noise, because Ian turned, too, and then the other guy, Tierney. They stared at him with different degrees of embarrassment. For just a millisecond, Ian closed his eyes. Then he stood up. “I’ll help you with that,” he said, taking a step toward Sam.
“No.” Sam was surprised to hear how hard his voice sounded. He cleared his throat, looking Ian in the eye, and kept his voice low so only Ian would hear. “I don’t need your help.”
Ian looked away. “Sorry.” He hesitated a second before sitting back down.
Sorry for what? The one-night stand, or laughing at what that asshole said, or for assuming I’m too weak to lift my own damn tray of drinks?
Did it fucking matter?
Suddenly Tineke was there with the second tray of drinks, looking at him in concern but smiling for the customers, most of whom didn’t even know anything was wrong. It was too loud in Fatty’s for normal voices to carry far.
With Tineke’s help, Sam made it through distributing drinks, and even taking orders—she took the shadowy end of the table, which Sam refused to look at. She even whispered something into Juan Miguel’s ear in the kitchen, resulting in his growling and casting hateful glances toward the dining room.
Ian and that dick sitting next to him both got screwed up orders, and Juan Miguel’s normally attractive plating was sloppy.
The whole staff rallied around Sam, even Sheff, and Sam hadn’t known the man had a clue how to rally. In the end, the group containing Ian left without Sam having to speak with him again, or even meet his eyes.
Afterward, Tineke arranged most of their dinner break together. Sam didn’t know how she did it, but Sheff actually helped the other waitstaff when the bar wasn’t busy.
“Okay,” Tineke interrupted after listening for ten minutes to Sam whining about what had happened, how humiliated he was, and how he was now getting pissed off , dammit. “Which pisses you off the most: him saying sorry for the sex, the chuckle, or him offering to take the drinks tray?”
She always asked the hard questions. Sam slumped back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared.
She laughed. “Dude, I’ve got a ten-year-old son. Do your worst. I can take it.”
There was only one reasonable response to that. Sam stuck out his tongue at her.
Sam made it through the rest of the night. By the time he helped Tineke shut the place down at eleven thirty, he felt tired, dispirited, and sick. Not really sick, just the sort of sick he got when something icky happened in his life and he had to deal with it. Because what else was he going to do? He was a too-tall, too-skinny, not-very-attractive, very-obviously-gay dork. He had shit to deal with on occasion. So he dealt.
It was moments like this Sam wished he was a drinker. Or
Similar Books
