Broken plates, spilled coffee, eggs smeared on the floor.
There’s butter on my boot and jam on my jams.
Nearly dropping that container of maple syrup last week is nothing compared to the destruction that I just caused.
I dropped an entire tray of breakfasts, and it’s all his fault.
“What the hell, Izzy? You suddenly forget how to do your job?” Clyde asks, shaking his head as he grabs the broom and brush and shoves them into my hand.
I stoop down and start sweeping the food into the pan, but my attention isn’t on the floor. It’s on him.
James.
He walked in, alone, and two seconds later, twenty dollars’ worth of food was on the floor.
“Do it quickly. The rush is about to start, and I can’t have our customers slipping and breaking their neck. God knows we can’t afford a lawsuit,
