Why am I such a dick around him? Just because I can’t handle this inconvenient attraction? Man up, Banks.

I redirect my attitude. “Rosie loves softball. And she wants to try hockey too,” I say, aiming to inject more goodwill in my tone, and also to talk about anything besides clothes, so I don’t mention how good he looks in that tight not-a-T-shirt, not-a-polo, I-have-no-idea-what-it’s-called, but it’s short sleeve and just the right amount of snug to show off his pecs, and his biceps . . .

And that’s not helping.

We head inside, and I hope this fitting ends mercifully fast.

THIRTEEN

Stick With The Usual Favorites

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.”