"Close the hatch," Janessa snapped as the sunburned trucker bent his head farther into the counter and tried to haggle for an extra biscuit.
"You sure you don't want—" he started.
"No," Janessa cut in. "You paid for a plate. You do not get two servings of pity."
"Easy, sweetheart," he grumbled. "Been a long run."
"Long enough to tip," she said. "Or long enough to buy water from the cooler like a normal human."
He shoved a wrinkled five toward her. "Keep the change."
"Keep it," she said, and shoved it back into his hand. "You're not my charity case. You're my table number nine."
"You're sharp," he muttered, and finally shut the hatch.
Daphne leaned on the pass, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted towel. "Jan, if you keep picking fights with the regulars, we'll lose them."
"They were laughing at Ian this morning," Janessa said. "At the way he loaded the van. They talked over my order for thirty seconds."
"Then you tell 'em to shut up," Daphne said. "You don't charm folks. You corral 'em."
"Fine." Janessa squared her shoulders. "Table twelve wants extra gravy, table three wants no onions, table two insists they know the owner. Move, move, move."
"Janessa!" Ian's voice cut over the clatter. He was coming in from the alley, sleeves rolled, face flushed with the day. "We got a stall."
Janessa didn't turn. "Who?"
"The lunch rush outside. Someone's parked with
