Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All recognizable characters belong to the SMeyer. I'm just playing.

Just a short look at Bella before the good stuff-coughLemonscough-start.

Service was done. It was a good night. Ticket times were solid. Well, we got a bit slow in the thick of it, but nothing major. I think there were only 2 trashed pies and only 1 trashed hanger steak. All the apps were solid. Only one sent back plate. No one cut themselves. No one dropped anything. And no one tried to plate dead food. A very good night.

Since I was Swing tonight, I just hung back to do some minor cleaning after Chef left. I ran to the cook's bathroom. The mirror told me that I looked okay. A little sweaty. To be expected when you worked next to a 700-degree wood fire oven. Can I fix it? Not without make up. I think I can work it.

I pull off my hat. Damn health codes. Bun out. Shake head. Flip hair. Fingers. Fluffing. Mirror. It stayed curly in my bun and is doing a nice twisting thing down my back.

I take off my chef jacket. I wore a red tank top underneath tonight. Luckily it was one of my cuter ones. Seriously, somebody up there liked me. I looked down at my pants. Nothing I can do about my Checks. Not like I planned to get asked out by Venti Soy Latte. If I knew I was going to have to get my flirt on with my Starbuck's crush I would have packed a bartending outfit.

Whatever. It's not like he hasn't seen me at 5am.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck.

Deep breath. In. Out. In. Out.

Walk out of the bathroom. Look at the kitchen. The kitchen boyos look at me at me and open their mouths. I stopped them.

"Shut up. Pendejos. You know I'm verga. Fuck you."

They laugh. I knew they would. I walk out of the kitchen to calls of "Baby, baby, baby" and "sexy chica."

They love me, my boys.

The bar is crowded. I figured he'd be there. The dining room closed 45-minutes ago. I hope he is not one of those douches that stays at the table and makes the servers stay late.

I see him.

In the dark of the bar he is some how more beautiful than in the dark of the morning.

One step. Two step. Three step. Four.

Right in front of me. So close. He opens he mouth but I stop him with a smile and a hand. I look over to Angela and out up two fingers. Please, please, please, please let me have a beer before I have to talk to you Venti Soy. Just. Fucking. Please.

Angela, God bless her bartending soul, brings over two Shiners with a smile. "Let's call 'em shifties," she says before she walks back to paying customers.

I lift the bottle to click against his and he complies with a smile. We both take a sip while staring at each other.

With a pop I take the bottle away from my mouth. "My name's Bella."

He smiles, "I know."

I smile too. Bastard. "Do I get to know yours?"

"What do you call me?"

I lean close then. Too close. My lip brush against his cheek. His temple. His ear. Then softly. So, so, softly, I whisper, "Venti Soy Latte."

He didn't laugh. I thought he would laugh. But instead he looks at me with eyes that scream "fuck me." I was hoping my eyes were saying "take me now" when I heard someone yelling from the kitchen.

"Bella! Donde esta la escoba? Fucking shit drop el vidrio. Kill him dead."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Venti Soy Latte laughs and I feel something that I haven't felt in a while. A blush. A fucking blush.

"Shit. I said that out loud, didn't I?"

God, his smile was brighter than a fucking high flame. "I like it," he said. Then he leaned close. Too close. And whispered, "I like you."

Eyes. All eyes, all the time. Eyes and lips and man. I just wanted to grab him and—

"Bella! Chica! Donde?"

We are still incredibly close, "I gotta go and deal with this." I think I whispered it. It was definitely sighy.

"I'll be here."

I pull away from him and back up a few steps before the crowd makes me turn away so I can make my way back toward the kitchen. And there is Sam standing there holding the fucking broom he was asking me for with a shit-eating grin on his face.

With a punch in the arm I say, "Asshole!" His smile fades. In a kitchen curses are thrown around without a thought. "Fuck" is pretty much a preposition. "Shit" is the only way anyone knows to express extreme displeasure. "Douche" is a term of endearment. But the word "asshole" still holds some weight. You can tell a big ass grill guy that you fucked his mother in the ass last night and he'll laugh with you, but call him an asshole and he will stop and think about what he did to deserve it.

"Oh, Bella. Lo siento. You my sexy chica. Quien es el gringo?"

Fuck it, Sam. Out of the mouths of babes. Or, in this case, Ecuadorians. Whatever. The point is there. Who is that gringo? I have no idea who he is. I just know his drink. And he is playing with me. And I let him.

"I don't know, Sam. No se."

I turn away from the kitchen and looked at the bar. He was still there, pulling on the Shiner and waiting for me. I looked at Sam and the kitchen beyond him. I could go and help them clean. Get another beer. Fuck around with the boyos and then go home and go to bed. Normal night. I have to be up soon anyway.

Or I can give this beautiful fucking douche bag a chance. He waited. He's here.

Fuck.