Of All People,It's You

TABLE SEVEN.

"Bloody hell!"

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" I hurry toward him, my hands waving frantically in the air. "Here, let me help—"

"Don't touch me."

I freeze.

He looks pointedly at my hands….specifically, at the slimy rubber gloves I'm still wearing.

"...Right." I yank them off so fast they nearly fly into the alley bushes. "I'm really sorry. Are your eyes okay? Let me get you some water."

"Don't worry, I'm fine."

"You don't exactly look fine."

"Shit." He pulls a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"

Great. Now I've ruined the handkerchief, too.

"I honestly didn't mean to do that," I say, my voice softening into genuine guilt. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning."

He stops wiping his face and looks at me. "No, you won't."

"I will."

"You can't. Never mind. Just... just leave."

"I can! Please, let me. I'm not that kind of person, okay? I will take responsibility."

His green eyes lock onto mine, deadpan and completely cold. "Okay. This suit costs eight thousand pounds."

"Sure, let me just wire it to you..." The words leave my mouth automatically before my brain actually processes the numbers. I blink. "Wait. Sorry, how much?"

"Eight thousand pounds."

I stare at him. "Hold on." I raise a single finger between us. "So you're telling me..." I look down at the dripping, grease-stained fabric. "...this suit costs eight grand?"

"Yes."

A soft, disbelieving laugh escapes my lips. "Did it come with a house?"

"No. It was custom-made in Italy."

"That's still just fabric."

"And it was handmade by Lorenzo Vescari."

"I don't know who that is, but did he sew it with unicorn hair or something?"

A tiny, reluctant smirk curls the corner of his mouth. "It's not like I expect you to know him, but I'm pretty sure he didn't."

The smirk vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by that same rigid stare. "I expect you to pay for the damages."

I let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Look, I know I made a mistake, and I am genuinely, deeply sorry. But eight thousand pounds? I don't think you understand. That's more money than I've ever seen sitting in one place."

"You said you'd take responsibility."

"I did."

"Then do it."

I open my mouth, close it, and open it again.

"...You're actually serious."

"I've been serious this entire conversation."

For three whole seconds, I just stare at him.

*s**t. This crazy man is dead serious.*

What kind of trouble have I landed myself in this morning? I am just a waitress. Eight thousand pounds is what... five months of my pay?

Nope. Absolutely not.

I take a slow, deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and look him dead in the eye. I am panicking on the inside, but I refuse to let him see it.

"You know what, Table Seven?" I say, crossing my arms. "You must take me for a complete fool."

"What?"

"Too bad for you, I'm not one."

His expression hardens. "Excuse me?"

"I know people like you," I continue, stepping closer. "The moment you get an opportunity, you try to squeeze every last penny out of people who have less than you. But today isn't your lucky day."

I point a finger at his chest. "Sure, your suit might be 'worth' eight grand, but you sat in the café, looked through the entire menu, and still only ordered a plain coffee."

He stares at me, completely stunned.

I shrug, turning the tables on him. "So honestly? Just admit you can't afford lunch and stop using this accident as a cover-up."

For the first time since we’ve met, the statue looks genuinely speechless.

"I told you I'd pay for the cleaning," I say, reaching into my apron pocket. "The *actual* cleaning."

I pull out a crisp, slightly crumpled twenty-pound note and tuck it firmly into the breast pocket of his ruined suit. I pat the pocket once for emphasis.

"There. That should get you started." I smile sweetly.

“Once again, sorry about your suit. You can keep the change”.

I turn on my heel and march away before he can get a single syllable out.

Honestly, who walks around the back alley of a greasy spoon café dressed like they’re attending a royal wedding anyway?

...Though, as I push open the kitchen doors, a small pang of guilt hits me. That was probably a little bit rude.

I hurry back into the main dining area, trying to look like a normal employee and not someone who has just committed a white-collar crime behind the building.

My eyes scan the room for table fifteen. The lunch rush hasn't slowed down at all. Customers are chatting away, completely unaware that I almost went bankrupt five minutes ago.

*Please don't let Maggie be standing there.*

Instead, I spot Poppy setting down a tray of food with a bright smile. She catches my eye from across the room and gives me a quick wink, followed by a subtle, heavy look that clearly asks: *Where on earth have you been?*

I let out a quiet breath. Crisis averted. Looks like Poppy has saved my job yet again.

By the time the lunch rush finally settles, my feet are begging for mercy. I glance at the café clock.

3:07 p.m.

In exactly fifty-three minutes, I could be saying goodbye to The Copper Kettle forever.

The moment my shift officially ends, I practically tear my apron off. Poppy is leaning against the staff lockers, her arms folded.

"Already heading out?"

I nod quickly, slipping out of my uniform and into a pair of cream trousers, pulling a fitted black blazer over my top. "My Uber is already on the way."

She smiles warmly. "Best of luck, Dee. I really hope you get it."

"Me too." I give her a dramatic, cute little pout. "Thanks, Pops."

I slung my bag over my shoulder and head out into the cool Manchester air. The moment my boots hit the pavement, my phone vibrates in my palm.

*Your driver is arriving in 3 minutes.* Perfect.

I open the rideshare app to double-check the pickup point when a sudden, horrible memory clicks in my brain. The email. My smile completely fades.

This morning, I’ve been in such a frantic rush that I’ve barely read past the first few lines of the notification from Boisnoir Building Supplies. I distinctly remember a sentence near the bottom stating that *only candidates who received a final confirmation email should come to the office to collect their results.*

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I mutter, smacking a hand against my forehead. "I book an Uber before even checking?"

Real genius, Diane.

I scramble to open my inbox, my fingers typing frantically. There it is. The official email from HR. I tap it open, my eyes quickly skimming the first line... then the second.

My phone nearly slips from my fingers. My stomach plummets through the floor.

“Damn it. Not again.”