Sugar and Spice

Paid for Personality: Mallory

I didn’t think it was possible for someone to radiate pure audacity. Then I met Jay Dawson.

I stared at him, my hands tightening into fists. The morning light filtered through the window, highlighting the waxy red crayon “graffiti” that mocked everything I worked for. Free Breadsticks or Riot. It was childish. It was messy. Perfectly “Chaos Factor.”

“Soul?” I repeated, my voice sounding tight even to my own ears. “Jay, this is a corporate establishment. We have standards. We have a brand. We don’t have soul written in crayons on the windows.”

Beside me, Cole started spraying the glass with a fervor that suggested he was trying to disappear into the fumes. He didn’t look at either of us. He just scrubbed.

“Relax, Mallory,” Jay said, his voice that same low, gravelly drawl that made me want to scream. He stepped closer, invading that professional distance that I tried to maintain. “It’s a joke. People know the breadsticks are free. They come in for them and stay for the personality.”

“I don’t get paid for personality,” I snapped. I turned back to my messy tablet to ignore the way his messy bun was leaning precariously to the left today. “I get paid to keep this restaurant from turning into a disaster zone. Which is exactly what you’re making it.”

His eyes locked on me. Not like the creeps at the bar — something sharper, more observant. My skin prickled.

“You’re late,” I added.

“Eli already gave me the lecture, sweetheart.”

My green eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

Jay chuckled, a sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest.

My jaw clenched, “Go find your bus cart. We have a fifteen-top coming in at 11:30, and I need the family room pristine.”

He gave me a two-finger salute, his lips curving into that lopsided grin. “Pristine. Got it, Boss.”

He sauntered away, maddeningly slow. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I thought about Kingsport University. That was where I needed to be. Three hundred miles away. A student. Not playing babysitter to a guy that smelled like a dispensary and looked like he just rolled out of a surf shop.

“He’s just messing with you, Mal,” Cole muttered, finally stepping away from the now-clean window.

“He’s succeeding,” I whispered.

As I returned to the host stand, I saw Jay at the bar, trying to balance a spoon on his nose to make Tiffany laugh. My eye twitched.

By 11:25, the restaurant hummed with the usual mid-week crowd, but my focus was entirely on the double doors. A fifteen top — a local retirement community’s bridge club — was about to descend upon us. They were notorious for three things: separate checks, endless hot water refills, and a zero-tolerance policy for bread crumbs.

I checked the family room, and to my surprise, the long table was set. The white linens were straight, and the silverware was mostly aligned. Jay was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s pristine, boss,” he said, pushing off the wall as I entered. “Check it with your microscope.”

“Thank you, Jay,” I said stiffly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile. “They’re pulling into the lot now. Please, just…stay focused. No spoon balancing or jokes about the soup.”

“You have so little faith in me,” he sighed, though the glint in his eyes suggested he liked causing my heart rate to beat a steady 110 beats per second.

The bridge club arrived like a slow moving tidal wave of floral perfume and sensible shoes. I led them back and settled them into the family room.

As I did a quick menu run, I could see the bottleneck beginning. Riley was the server for the room, and he was already buried under a mountain of specific requests. Jay was supposed to be his shadow, clearing bread baskets and refilling waters. Instead, he was sitting in the empty chair at the head of the table.

My heart stopped. I watched as he leaned in, intently listening to Mrs. Gable describe her grandson’s recent wedding. He wasn’t just listening, he was nodding, chiming in, and looking like he had all the time in the world.

“Jay!” I hissed, sliding into the room under the guise of dropping off more napkins. I leaned down, pretending to fix a place setting next to him. “What are you doing? Get up! Riley needs the water pitcher.”

“Mrs. Gable was just telling me about her grandson, the marine biologist,” Jay whispered back. “He’s in San Diego. Very interesting stuff, Mal.”

“I don’t care if he’s the King of Atlantis. Get. Up.”

“Young man,” Mrs. Gable piped up, looking at me, then back to Jay. “Is this your supervisor? She seems very diligent.”

Jay grinned. It was the kind of dimpled, effortless look that made my blood boil. “That she is, Mrs. G. She keeps the missiles on track. I’m just ground support.” He finally stood up, but instead of scurrying off in shame, he patted the old woman’s hand. “I’ll go fetch that water myself. Don’t let her scare you; her bark is worse than her bite.” He winked at the table — the whole table — and they went into a frenzy of blushing and batted eyelashes.

I stood there, menus clutched to my chest, feeling like a villain. He was breaking every rule in the Stella Cucina handbook, yet the tension in the room had evaporated. The ladies weren’t complaining about the wait. Instead, they were talking about how “charming” the new busser was.

I retreated to the lobby, my face hot.

“He’s a natural,” Geri said, appearing beside me at the host stand. She watched as Jay navigated the room with the pitcher, making a refill seem like a social event.

“He’s a liability,” I corrected, tapping the tablet with a little more force than necessary. “He was sitting down, Geri. On the clock.”

“He’s got them eating out of his hand, Mallory. Look at Riley.”

I looked. Riley was actually catching up on the bread orders because Jay had distracted the table long enough to buy him five minutes of peace.

“It’s unconventional,” Geri admitted, “but it’s working. Maybe you could learn something from him.”

I felt like the world had just dropped out from under me. Learn something from him? The guy who thought crayon on the window was marketing and weed was a personality trait?