It’s not like we’ve ever been any more serious than a few drinks here or a wild night or two every other weekend, she mused silently to herself.

“Them’s the breaks, buddy you don’t pay my rent,” she muttered to herself as she cranked the engine and pulled into the late-night traffic to head home. Her phone buzzed in her purse, heralding what she was certain were angry messages from her on-again, off-again, sometimes-boyfriend, angry at taking second place to her job. Once she got the seat belt buckled, she just laid her forehead on the steering wheel, sitting and stewing in her own cynical misery. Already in a sour mood, she fumbled her keys twice before managing to unlock the driver’s side door to her car. I think I’m beginning to see a pattern here, was her next sarcastic thought. This was the third week in a row she’d been forced to cancel her own plans, and the same waitresses who’d failed to show up as it’d been both times before. As nice as it was collecting tips on a Friday night, she’d already had plans, which she’d had to cancel.Īs if they don’t do this shit on purpose every week, she thought to herself with a bitter smile as she closed out her register and turned it in, collecting her tips before she headed out the door. None of the other waitresses had been willing to answer their phones, so Morgan was stuck picking up a double shift. By the end of her shift waiting tables, her relief had yet to show up. Morgan Mackenzie was having a very bad day.

Scott browder skyclad book 2