This evening’s gig involved a catered meal for an after-wedding reception being held at a hotel featuring some of the most gorgeous people Charlotte had ever seen. Tall, muscular men, athletic women, graceful in a way that only made her ultra-conscious about her own shortcomings, like literally short. By at least a foot on most of them.
If someone called her fun-sized one more time, she might show them the biggest advantage to her height. She’d dropped a few guys in the past for thinking they could get fresh with her.
But what of the older women that had patted her on the head and asked if she shouldn’t be in bed? It seemed wrong to hit them, and at the same time, hello! She didn’t look that young.
“Are you going to stand there all night? Serve that food,” barked Viktor, the guy running the kitchen.
“Yes, chef,” she barked. She could do this. Just don’t drop it. Easy peasy.
Shoulders back, hands gripping the tray tight, with a bump of her hip, Charlotte went out the door and was hit by a wave of noise. The last time she’d gone out, placing fresh baskets of bread on tables, there’d been a few people. A fraction to what had arrived since.
The room overflowed, boisterous with life. The towering guests moved with a grace that slowed her as she hesitated in front of the door. She went from confident to awkward. Her feet tangled, and she pitched forward, the tray held out in front of her. So much food about to be wasted. “Please don’t let this come out of my paycheck.”
She shuttered her gaze for impact, only to jolt slightly as her upper body hit something hard. An arm curled around her waist to steady her, and the tray was plucked from her hands. At least it hadn’t crashed.
She cracked open an eye and then blinked them both at the sight of a man balancing her tray in one hand. The stranger knelt, offering his upper thigh as a cushion, while his other arm—the one that stopped her from faceplanting—remained around her waist. Holy smokes. The guy had the reflexes of a superhero.
“Superman, I hope,” was a deep, rumbled reply. “He always did look good in those tights. But I have to say that Cavill fellow looks even better as the Witcher.”
Oh, dear God, he’d heard her say it aloud. Her cheeks heated as she mumbled, “I said thank you.”
“In that case, you’re welcome.” His smile was much too perfect. He was too…just too much.
Charlotte pushed away from her savior and stood. “Thanks for stopping my fall.”
He rose to face her, still balancing the tray with only one palm. How did he do that? She doubted she could have held it for one second before it tilted.
“The pleasure is mine.” He practically purred.
The flirting was wasted on her. She held out her hands. “I’ll take that back now.”
“What if I want it?”
“You can’t have it. It’s for everyone,” she stated, fingers wriggling insistently.
“But I don’t like to share, and I love to eat.” He winked and popped one of the appetizers into his mouth.
“Does that corny line seriously work on anyone?” Horror engulfed her as she realized she’d yet again spoken aloud. She blamed fatigue. So damned tired. And still at least four more hours to go. She might need to chug some caffeine. And then hopefully not crash until she got home.
“Do you think I’m flirting?” he asked, flirting.
She ignored the charm. “Give me my tray.”
“Say please.”
She looked at his smirk. The way he tried to manipulate her into getting what he wanted. Not today, Satan. “You want it. Keep it. I’ll go get another.”
“Wait.”
She’d already turned her back on him, and lucky for her, her mishap was seen. While the sous chef harangued her, they found someone to take her spot and put her back on washing dishes. She didn’t leave the kitchen for a few hours, didn’t have time to breathe hardly as the rush was on. Food was cooked and served in a nonstop chain. Dishes moved rapidly. She scrubbed to keep up, content with the monotonous work, the kind she could do by rote that allowed her to think about her next move.
She almost had enough for a plane ticket back home, and at least three months’ rent. Her issue was she didn’t have a place to go, and should she even leave? She’d not yet found her brother.
Where are you, Peter? She’d yet to find any trace of him. Just a small apartment that she took over during her search. Five months of futility.
It hurt to contemplate, but even she had to admit it was time for her to give up.
As the evening waned, the party only got livelier. The music provided a thumping bass that gave her a rhythm she washed to. Even with the rubber gloves, her hands wrinkled from the moisture. Her skin felt dewy, or it might have been sweat. A kitchen wasn’t a place to cool off.
Around midnight, they sent her on a meal break. Thirty minutes all to herself, and she knew how she wanted to spend them. Outside and yet not because she smoked. With winter here, she took a moment to slide on her boots, not exactly fashionable but they were warm and waterproof. She tucked her pants inside them and then donned a sweater and jacket. A scarf was the last thing she wound around her head before heading outside, hands bare in her pockets. She’d either managed to lose her gloves since she arrived or someone borrowed them.
She exited the kitchen into the alley, anxious to get out of the steam and smells and into the fresh air. First, a run through the cloud of cigarette and weed smoke that hung around the exit. She shook her head when a hand offered her a hit.
No drugs. No booze. No nothing. Some might call her boring. They’d be right. She’d already lived her party years. She never planned on going back.
Escaping the smoke, she found herself basting in a miasma of garbage, the container overflowing with bags and filth. Quite pungent despite the cold. She didn’t even want to imagine the stench in summer.
Fresh air remained elusive, but she intended to find it. To give herself a quiet spot to just plain relax. Ducking her chin into the collar of her coat, she strode with purpose in the direction of the street behind the reception building. If she recalled correctly, it was a quiet road, the businesses being closed for the night.
The moment she popped out of the alley, she glanced around. Being not only a woman but also someone far from home, she had to be extra vigilant.
The road was empty in both directions.
Alone at last. The tension in her shoulders eased as she leaned against the cold brick and pulled out her phone, checking for the millionth time for a message from a contact labeled The Pumpkin Eater. A joke between her and her baby brother.
They’d been so close growing up, but then their parents died when they were teens. An aunt took them in, but a scholarship to college took Charlotte away. Peter seemed to be doing all right. He got a chance to play soccer overseas and did so for a few years until he hurt his knee. Even then, he remained on the other continent, claiming he was working on a special project that took him all over Europe and, most recently, Russia.
Seven months since she’d last heard from him. They’d never gone longer than a month before. By the end of the second month, she’d flown over. She’d spent the next five in a fruitless search. She didn’t have a single clue to her brother’s whereabouts or wellbeing. Not one. She was lonely and tired of eking out an existence. It was time to go home before officials kicked her out.