My heart sinks as I look at the tray, loaded with ten glasses that are full to the rims with ice and soda.

“Sure,” I say weakly. This will take a while. I grab two of the drinks and start to head out of the kitchen.

“Hold on!” Bev calls behind me. “Amanda, just take the tray. You can’t serve ten drinks two by two.”

“Of course not,” I say sheepishly. I backtrack, put the drinks back on the tray, and stare down at it. I can’t possibly carry it. Can I?

Okay, deep breaths.

I have great balance, I tell myself. After all, I’m a great dancer, and my Pilates instructor works with me on my core strength every week. I know I have poise; the modeling instructor I had as a preteen drilled the whole stand-up-straight-with-your-shoulders-back thing into my head long ago, and I haven’t forgotten it. And thanks to my workouts with Gunner, my arms are a lot stronger than they look. Logically, I should be able to carry the tray without a problem.

I’m just not so sure that it will actually happen that way.

I take a deep breath, struggle to pick up the tray full of drinks and only slosh them around a little bit. I stand there unsteadily for a moment, nestling the tray against my right shoulder, supporting it with my left hand. Okay, this isn’t so bad. I can do this. Hooray, I’m a real waitress!

As I walk slowly into the restaurant, I’m feeling much better. Why did I doubt myself, anyhow? Maybe this whole tray-carrying thing isn’t so bad after all. Sure, my arm is starting to ache, and the tray feels a little wobbly, but I only have a few more yards to go before I get there. I’m going to make it. I glance down to make sure that the path ahead of me is clear. And suddenly, I stop in my tracks.

He’s here. Cute Textbook Boy is here. Sitting in the same booth as last time.

He’s just to my right. I’m practically standing on top of him. I was so focused on waitressing that I almost forgot about him.

He looks more adorable than ever, which of course is immediately distracting. His dark hair is just a little bit wavy, and it curls gently over his ears. He has one curl that has escaped from the rest and has fallen haphazardly across his forehead. His eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses are a rich, chocolaty brown. And as he reads his textbook, his forehead is creased just a little, as if he’s thinking really hard. I feel a bit weak in the knees. I’m frozen to the spot.

I don’t even realize I’m staring until one of the kids from table thirty-four yells, “Are those our drinks?”