Hello sir, how can I help you?

I stand at the edge of booth six, notepad in hand, smile already calibrated. My feet hurt. It’s been seven hours on concrete, but I don’t limp. Never limp.

You look up slow, beer in one hand, eyes running down then back up. “Same as always,” you say. “Buffalo wings, blue cheese, extra napkins.”

Marcus. Table nine, three times this week. Tipper. Quiet. Watches the game but not like the others. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t grab. Leaves hundreds like it’s nothing.

I write nothing. I remember.

“Want your usual seat upstairs next time?” I ask. “Less noise. Better view.”

You blink. Not used to offers. Not used to me talking first.

“Thought you weren’t allowed to suggest things like that.”

“I’m not.”

I tap the notepad. Walk away before you answer.

Jake wipes the bar with a rag, watches me pass. “Gave Marcus the VIP eye again?”

“He tips like he wants something.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’m out of practice.”

My phone buzzes in my shorts. Tasha: Calloway wants you. Office. Now.

No explanation. Never is.

I straighten my top. Fix my hair. Knock once.

Calloway sits behind his desk, hands folded. “You’re up for Regional.”

“What?”

“The competition. Two months. Top girls from ten states. Winner gets featured in the campaign. Maybe even the calendar.”

“And if I don’t want to be in a bikini for corporate?”

“Then you explain why you’ve turned down every promotion in seven years.”

I don’t answer.

He leans forward. “Marcus was asking about you. Personal questions.”

“Like what?”

“Where you live. If you’re single. If you’d ever leave here.”

I nod. Step back.

“Who told you that?”

“He did.”

I close the door behind me.

Upstairs, Marcus still sits. Looks up when I pass.

I don’t smile. Don’t stop.

But I know he’s watching.

And I know I’ll let him watch a little longer.