The Fake Out: An utterly hilarious and totally heart-warming romantic comedy
The Fake Out: Chapter 8

If you were an open fire and I wanted to cook over you, so I had to adjust the grate to the right height and do the hand test and see how hot it was, I would only be able to hold my hand there for one or two seconds.

—BRET AND KRYSTALYNN B.

Dreamboat: Hey, babe, what’s on your mind?

Me: Very, very naughty thoughts.

Dreamboat: Really? Like what?

Me: Like where I can hide a body so no one can EVER replace it.

Dreamboat: Wait. Am I the body?

With a snort, I stuck my phone in my locker and stared at myself in the tiny mirror hanging there. It was Saturday and another shift at Chicky’s. Time to give myself one last pep talk.

“You are going to be charming and helpful. You aren’t going to worry about money or Mama, or if Iris is thinking about joining a cult. You’re going to focus on the task at hand. You are not going to hit anyone, even by accident.”

“Are you talking to yourself again?” Amanda asked, suddenly beside me.

I blushed. “Let’s pretend you didn’t hear that.”

“Not a problem.”

I liked Amanda. She was, like a lot of the women who worked here, just trying to get by. Her deadbeat ex-husband could not be counted on. Which meant she’d had to replace a way to take care of her kids. She’d been at Chicky’s for over two years. How she’d managed to never whack a customer over the head with the nearest heavy object, I’d never know. I guessed she probably made better tips than me.

Amanda opened her locker and grabbed a tube of lipstick from the shelf. “If you haven’t heard, there’s some bigwig coming in tonight.”

I groaned. We didn’t get celebrities often but, when we did, it amped up my anxiety tenfold, along with everyone else in the restaurant. “Who?”

“I have no idea. But Shane is having heart palpitations over it.” She smacked her newly painted lips together.

“Poor Shane,” I muttered, closing my locker.

“Don’t worry, he’ll put Heather on their table.”

“Of course.” Heather was the perfect Chicky’s Girl. Perky, looked great in virtually no clothes, never complained about the handsy patrons, and kissed Shane’s butt like she was permanently attached to it. It also meant she was given the “special” tables when the need arose. Sure, these tables almost always came with better tips, but they made you work for it. I just wanted to lay low, do my job, and get out of here.

The evening rush hit hard. It seemed like every man with too much time on his hands had wandered into Chicky’s for hot wings and to watch an inning or two of the Astros’ doubleheader. I preferred it like this. It made the evening fly by. My autopilot switch flipped on and that kept me from thinking too much.

My tables kept me too busy to even think about our esteemed visitor. Snippets of excited whispers here and there made it to me, but I didn’t have time to piece them together. I was waiting on an order by the kitchen window when Heather popped up next to me, her soft brown eyes and slightly vacuous smile on full display.

“Would you mind helping me getting these out?” she asked, pointing to the line of plates under the warming lamps. “It’s a special table and I want to make sure everyone gets their meals at once.”

Special table, pu-lease. At least I would get to see what all the chatter was.

“Sure, lead the way.” I grabbed a folding table, tucked it under my arm and balanced three plates.

If I hadn’t been trying to be as careful as possible, I might have gotten a clue sooner. Maybe I would have noticed the guy at the end of the table.

But I didn’t.

Not until right about the time he noticed me.

Chris Sterns was in the building.