I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt…
Now everyone knows it’s a bad idea to introduce your long-time crush to your messed-up family. But I really do need a date for Thanksgiving, even if I’m not willing to say why. So I tear his phone number off of that flyer… and accidentally entangle our star defenseman in a ruse that neither of us can easily unwind.
Because Weston's family is even nuttier than mine. He needs a date, too, for the most uncomfortable holiday engagement party ever thrown.
There will be hors d'oeuvre. There will be faked PDA. And there will be pro-level awkwardness…
Abbi
Thursday nights are always busy at Moo U’s favorite bar and grill. By nine o’clock, I’ve been hustling burgers and wings for eight hours. But my apron pocket is full of tip money, so I can’t really complain.
I have one party that just sat down, though—three women about my age wearing matching hockey jackets. “Welcome to The Biscuit in the Basket." I pull out my order pad. “The special salad tonight has spinach greens, apple slices, and a warm bacon vinaigrette. The special wings are Cranberry Almond.”
“Did you say Cranberry Almond?” one of the girls asks, lifting one eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe me.
“You heard correctly.” I lean a little closer and whisper. “Nobody likes them. Stick with the usual favorites.”
“Got it,” she says with a smile. “I’d like a half dozen of the Honey Garlic wings, in a basket with fries.”
“Wait—what are the flavors again?” one girl asks.
I could rattle them off in my sleep. “We’ve got Honey Mustard, Honey Garlic, Tikka, Thai spiced, General Tso’s, Chili Bacon, Chicken Parm, and—of course—Buffalo style in mild, hot, or wild.”
And that’s just the regular menu. The chef does a special flavor every week. Whiskey Maple is always a winner. Teriyaki is pretty good. But this week’s special has been a disaster. Making a Thanksgiving-themed recipe was a nice idea, but I can’t give away the Cranberry Almond wings. Not for love or money.
The other two girls make their choices, and I rush the order to the kitchen before it closes. Then I take up a position leaning against the nearly empty bar with my friend Carly, who’s also on shift. She worked the bar tonight, while my section was in the dining room.
“We survived another one,” she says, passing me one of the mints she keeps in her pocket. “What was your best tip of the night?”
“Depends how you look at it,” I tell her. “A six-top tipped me fifty bucks. But my history professor tipped me fifteen bucks, and warned me to look over the Articles of Confederation before tomorrow’s quiz.”
“He gave you a clue?” Carly looks scandalized. “And a fat tip? I think he wants your body.”
“Think again.” I give her a smile. “He was here with his husband and their baby. I think he just felt bad that I was serving his dinner while the rest of my classmates are studying at the library.”
And the man has a point. I work a lot of hours, and I go to school full time. There’s no time for anything else. But that’s just the way it is.
“Fine, fine. So he’s not going to be your new boyfriend.” Carly drops her voice. “Besides, I know you only have eyes for that crew over there.”
My glance jumps involuntarily to table number seventeen. She’s not wrong. Who wouldn’t be interested in an entire table full of sizzling-hot hockey players? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
"Uh-huh,” Carly says, eyeing them. Then she lets out a little sigh of yearning. “More for me then.”
“You wish,” I tease.
“You bet I do, Stoddard. Let’s face it, table seventeen is the best thing about working here.”
Once again, Carly is right. Neither of us can quit until springtime anyway. The owner pays a $1500 bonus to wait staff who work for him for an entire year. I need that money. So I’m going to smell faintly of chicken wings for the next several months, no matter what.
At least I can ogle the hockey players. Table seventeen is a long, high table surrounded by a dozen bar stools. And it’s usually open by the time they wander in at eight o’clock, after practice. They’re always starving for wings and fries.
For Carly and me, it’s like a delicious buffet. The hockey team has as many flavors of hotness as The Biscuit in the Basket has flavors of wings. First