I usually hate working the breakfast shift. It isn’t that I have anything against bacon or waffles, but people rarely order booze at breakfast. Generally I support not drinking before nine a.m., but booze drives up the check, and my tip depends on the size of the bill. However, on the plus side, I had a far better chance of avoiding running into Chase working breakfast. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to order a giant cholesterol-laden feast first thing in the morning. He seemed more like a grab-a-muffin-and-coffee-in-the-lobby kind of guy. At least I hoped so. I had no idea how I would explain the fact I was working as a waitress if I ran into him. The dining room was formal, with starched white napkins and a soft loop of classical music playing in the background. Most people who came to the dining room for breakfast fell into two categories: couples who stared deeply into each other’s eyes, leaving no doubt that they were simply carb loading so they would have enough energy to go back upstairs to their room and resume earlier activities, and couples who seemed to have completely run out of things to say to each other.
