Chapter 7 - The Hallway Went Quiet After the Dining Room
I didn't make it more than six steps past the doorway before my arms gave out.
The hallway was narrow and dim compared to the dining room, just a runner rug and a row of framed prints and that low hum from the vent over the kitchen. I set the edge of the tray down on the sideboard there, slow so the tureen wouldn't slide again, and I stood with both hands still on the rim while I breathed. My apron had a wet star across the front where the soup had splashed. It was cooling fast against my blouse.
I heard his chair move before I heard his steps. I thought it would be Mrs. Ellis coming to pull me off the floor.
It was Luca.
He didn't come all the way into the hall. He stopped in the doorway with one hand high on the frame, the way he'd been sitting with his chin resting on his hand, only now he was standing and watching me up close. The candlelight from behind him cut around his shoulders. I could smell cigar smoke and something clean, like soap.
"You okay?" he said.
I straightened up too fast. The tray rattled. "Yes. I'm sorry about — about the splash. I'll get it cleaned."
He glanced down the hall toward the kitchen, then back at me. "I asked if you were okay."
"I'm fine," I said. My voice sounded thin in that small space.
He nodded once toward the tray. "Can you carry that safely? Honestly."
For a second I wanted to tell the truth. My left hand was throbbing under the glove all the way up to my wrist, a deep pulsing burn that made my eyes water if I thought about it. But I'd already lost half a shift last month when I called out, and rent didn't care about throbbing.
"I can finish," I said. "I need the hours. Please. I can finish the shift."
He studied me. Not the way Vanessa did it, like she was looking for a mistake. More like he was trying to figure out what kind of problem I was. His eyes moved from my face to my gloved left hand still pressed white-knuckled against the silver edge, then down.
That's when he saw it.
My name tag had twisted when I caught the tray. Underneath it, clipped to the apron pocket, was the little blue staffing card the agency made us wear for private events. TEMP STAFF — PREMIER SERVICE GROUP. My photo looked tired even in miniature.
Luca tipped his head. "Premier Service Group," he read.
I reached to straighten the name tag to cover it, but he already had.
"Who hired you?" he asked. "Them direct, or through the house?"
My stomach dropped. It was a normal question for a host. Rich people asked all the time when something went wrong at a dinner, who was responsible, who to call. But all I heard was background check. Forms. A phone call where someone said, oh, her, she has a gap, she didn't put down—
I opened my mouth. I didn't have a clean answer ready that wouldn't sound like hiding.
From inside the dining room, glass clinked. Vanessa's voice cut through, sharp and bright.
"Luca? Are we doing dessert or are we just — Luca?"
He didn't turn right away. He held my eyes one more beat, like he was giving me a chance to answer fast before he had to go back in there.
I couldn't get air enough to say anything useful. "I —"
"Luca," Vanessa called again, closer this time. I could hear her chair slide.
He dropped his hand from the doorframe. "Stay here a minute," he said quietly. "Get yourself steady."
It wasn't unkind. That was the worst part. If he'd snapped at me I could have braced for it.
He stepped back into the candlelight, and the doorway filled again with warm noise — low talk, ice in a glass, Vanessa saying something under her breath I couldn't catch. I stood alone in the hall with the cooling tureen and my stained apron and my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my burned hand.
May you like
He had the agency name now. That was enough to find everything I hadn't written down.
I picked up the tray again and waited to be called back in.
