Booth Three

2

"Almost done, almost done, almost done," Karla mumbles under her breath, placing the last bits of cheese on the sandwich. "I make so many of these, just the thought of eating one makes me want to gag."

"Only old men eat ham and cheese sandwiches, anyway," I joke.

"Look, don't get me wrong... toasties and grilled cheese sandwiches are delicious, but just a plain, uncooked, raw slice of bread? No thank you."

"A raw slice of bread," I laugh at her wording.

"Bread may have been baked, but it's still raw until it's crispy. It's the rules."

"According to who?"

"Me, obviously."

"And who are you — the Head Mistress of Bread Dough?"

"Well, I do consider myself somewhat of a bread connoisseur..."

"Oh, god," I snicker.

"How could I not be when I'm stuck making a million of these sandwiches every day?" she angrily tosses the empty packet of cheese into the garbage can.

"Did you end up getting an interview at Nordstrom?"

"Nope. They never got back to me."

"Seriously?"

"They never do, but it's okay, though. At least here, I have you," she shoots me a sweet smile, but I know she's just being polite. She's desperate to get out of here, and I don't blame her. She should get out of here.

"Amy!" Eric enters the kitchen. "It's 12 o'clock already. Why aren't you out there?"

"Right, yes. I'm going right now," I wipe my hands off on my apron. I'm sure I still smell like cheese, but what's new? At least it's not baby puke.

"Remember to smile, will you?"

I ignore Eric's comments and step out into the dining area. It's already much busier than it was this morning, and lunch has only just started. I spot the Ferrari's in the doorway, and by the time the door shuts behind them, I'm already right beside them.

There's three of them today; the usual three — Oliver Ferrari, Diego Ferrari, and Roman Sainte. You don't have to be a member of that family to know who they are. Everyone knows their names. Roman Sainte was just on the cover of Vogue along with his girlfriend, Valeria Ferrari.

The press had a field day last year when they caught Valeria and Roman out on a date. Nobody knows much about Roman's backstory, but everybody knows he's been best friends with Diego since they were kids. And your best friend dating your sister is less than ideal. Everyone expected the boys' friendship to be over, but it wasn't. The three were seen out together just a few days later, and they still come in here for dinner every now and then.

Diego and Oliver are our most frequent customers. They come in about three times a week, always for lunch. Even though they're father and son, they seem to get along incredibly well. They'd have to. They work together. I don't know what exactly they do, but their family owns the Ferrari Corporation, or FiCo — one of the biggest businesses in the world. They run America's largest postal service, Ferrari Freight, and just about a thousand other companies. They're American Royalty.

"Afternoon, boys," I greet them politely. "How are we all doing today?"

"Not too bad, Amelia. Good to see you again," Oliver smiles.

"The usual table again today?"

"Sounds good."

"Perfect," I lead the group through the restaurant, towards the largest booth in the back corner — table number three. Nobody else has sat here in years. We always keep it free, just in case the Ferrari's show up. "Shall I grab the drinks menu or are you happy to order right away?"

"Nah, we can just order," Diego says. "I'll have an Americano."

"Just a G&T for me, thanks," Oliver responds.

"Same here," Roman nods.

"Great," I smile. "Have a look through your menu's and I'll be right back with your drinks."

Their orders are always easy to make. They pretty much always order the same things, but Diego sometimes mixes it up with a simple soda. I suppose he isn't as comfortable drinking alcohol during work hours as the other two. It's surprising, considering he's the one who seems to get into the most trouble.

I pass the order onto the bartender and take a moment to join Karla at the coffee machine. She looks as bored as ever, barely paying attention to the milk pouring into the beaker. She's not cut out for a job like this, where we rarely have any more than 15 tables occupied at once. We usually only have to cover 3 or 4 tables each, but I suppose that's what the customers pay for. They pay for the calm environment and fast service. And better yet, they tip very well.

"Roman's looking sexy today," Karla comments.

"You think?" I glance over at their table. Roman and Oliver are laughing at something, while Diego just shakes his head, an amused smile on his face. "Diego's way hotter than Roman."

"Really?"

"For sure," I nod. Roman is too neat. He's always in a perfectly pressed suit, with his hair slicked back, and not a single flaw on his skin — no wrinkles, no acne scars, no razor burn, nothing. His nose is completely straight and pointed, and everything else is completely proportionate to it. His face is perfect... like he was made in a factory. Don't get me wrong, he's hot. He's insanely good looking, but he's far too neat for me. Diego, on the other hand, looks far more casual. He's rugged. He doesn't wear a full suit, but instead, just slacks and a white business shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone. Tattoos cover his skin, including underneath his curly quiff.

His head is too big for his body, but only slightly. He's a big guy in general, too. He's at least 6'4 with large biceps bulging beneath his shirt. His shoulders are so broad, he could squash me without even trying. He'd be intimidating if it weren't for his goofy, Health Ledger smile.

"What about Oliver?" Karla shoots me a teasing smile. "He's a total DILF."

"Oh my god, gross," I laugh. He's definitely attractive for an older man, but he's still an older man, and that's enough to turn me off.

"He is!" she insists. "If I had a sugar daddy, I'd want it to be Oliver Ferrari."

"I doubt he's looking for a mistress at the moment." Everyone knows he's happily married. His wife wrote a book about their relationship more than 20 years ago and it's still a bestseller.

"Maybe you shout ask him."

"Hell no," I snicker. "There's no way I'm doing that."

"I was kidding, oh my god. Could you imagine?"

"They'd never come here again. Eric would be so pissed. He'd probably fire me."

"He'd fire all of us."

"Well, good thing that won't happen," I grab the drinks the bartenders placed on the counter. "Because I'm going to go over there, with a sweet smile on my face, and cater to their every need so they can continue paying my bills."

"Yes, girl!" she laughs. "You kiss those asses!"