"That #$#$$#$$$$#," I muttered under my breath. I was in a foul mood, truly foul, and now some i***t had almost run me over and didn’t even apologize. Instead, he kept honking at me like I was the one who jumped the red light. Tch.
My bad mood had started earlier, courtesy of the so-called "important guest" we had to make breakfast for, despite being told we had the day off. Dragging ourselves out of bed, we shuffled into the kitchen, only to have Lucy work us like slaves preparing a ridiculous spread for someone who didn’t even bother to show up. Five freakin’ main courses! I even had to pull up YouTube tutorials for some fancy Italian dishes because the guest supposedly liked Italian breakfasts best. And for what? Nothing.
The people we made food for didn’t see—or care about—the effort
