I stepped out onto the roof of the building. It was amazing. The large expanse of space overlooking the city was lush with greenery: like a yard sitting on top of the world. There was a lawn, potted plants, trees, and flowers. I’d never seen anything like it.

Draped tables and chairs sat in the center, and all around the perimeter were drink stations. There weren’t any guests yet but it was a bustle of worker activity.

Micah was talking about which tables I’d be serving and busing, but my gaze had stopped on the centerpieces. Huge pink peonies the size of my open hand were packed into golden vases. White hydrangeas and pale green succulents were in the mix as well. I’d never tried that combination before but it was stunning. I instantly imagined girls in flowy pale-pink skirts and draped white tops walking barefoot through a garden of green.

“Hello?” Micah said. “Do I need to leave you alone with the flowers?”

“They’re so pretty. Can you imagine anyone in our town requesting a centerpiece like this?”

“Take a picture and maybe you can suggest them to Caroline for a future event.”

“My phone is in my bag in the locker inside.”

“Ask Andrew to take a picture,” she said.

I looked over my shoulder, thinking she meant he was out here somewhere. He wasn’t. “I’ll just draw it later. I left my journal at home.” I wished I hadn’t, because I really wanted to sketch.

I was still struggling with what was unique and different about me as a designer. But thankfully, I had managed to eke out a couple of sketches in the last several weeks that didn’t completely suck. Maybe I’d make my December deadline after all.

“You’d rather draw this than ask Andrew for a favor?” Micah was saying. She clucked her tongue. “Wow. This is worse than I thought.”

“It is not.” I pointed to the group of tables around me. “So these are my tables?”

“Yep. Just five. Easy peasy.”

“How many do you have?”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s not my first night.”

“Okay, I just don’t want you taking on more because you think I can’t pull my weight.”

“It’s good, Soph. We’ll be fine.” Something caught her eye behind me. “Oh, look, there’s Andrew. He can take a picture for you. Andrew!”

I knew she was trying to get me to admit that there was something more going on with us, but I wasn’t going to do it. I put on my indifferent face. Because that’s what I was. Very indifferent.

Andrew came over, his phone in hand. “These centerpieces are amazing,” he said.

“That’s what Sophie was just saying. Will you take a picture of one and send it to her?” Micah asked cheerfully.

Andrew held up his phone and snapped a few pictures. “You going to try to copy them?” he asked in that condescending way of his.

“What? No. I don’t copy things.”

“There’s no shame in that. Don’t they say imitation is the best form of flattery?”

“There’s a difference between imitation and inspiration,” I said.

“What is the difference?” he asked. “The level of guilt you feel?”

Good. He was proving to me that our kiss was a total fluke. “Don’t be a tool,” I said.

“But I’m so good at it.”

I raised my eyebrows at Micah as if to say, See, nothing going on here.

She just shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Nice pants, by the way, Sophie,” Andrew added, tucking his phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Good choice for your first pair ever.”

“Nice suit,” I said. “How does it feel to spend so much money on a dozen that look exactly the same?”

He gave a faux gasp. “I have at least two dozen.”

I smirked. “I don’t doubt it.”

I wasn’t sure if Micah and I had more to do on the roof, but I walked back toward the door like suddenly I was the one in charge. I was grateful when Micah followed me.

“You know,” she said, once she’d fallen into step beside me, “you didn’t have to act that way for my benefit.”

“I didn’t. That’s who we are.”

“Perpetual flirts?”

My mouth fell open. “That was not flirting!”

“You two are impossible. Let’s just talk about anything else.”

“Gladly.”

We pushed our way into the kitchen. We’d already come in briefly to drop off our stuff and say hi to Micah’s dad before going outside to see the roof. Now Jett Hart was standing at one of the stovetops, adding vegetables to a large skillet. My entire body went tense. Jett looked up and, much to my surprise, a smile came over his face. I tried to remember if it was the first one I’d ever seen there. It made him look much more like Andrew.

“Micah,” he said. “My worker bee.”

Ah. That’s who the smile was for.

My brows went up and I looked Micah’s way. “We get along,” she said under her breath before she moved forward to talk to Jett. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Your father is bringing up some boxes. Can you see if he needs extra hands?”

“Yes.” She gestured toward me. “You remember Sophie.”

Jett gave a single nod, the scowl back on his face.

“Hi,” I said tentatively. “It’s …” Several adjectives about how I felt to see him again went through my head all at once—nice, good, lovely, great—none of which I meant, so I ended up spitting out, “A good night for a party. I mean, great weather and everything.”

“Yes,” he said.

Micah tugged on my arm and I followed her out of the kitchen.

“Since when did you start getting along?” I hissed.

“Since he thinks I’m excellent at my job.”

“You are, but … you like him now?”

“He’s not so bad. He gets a little gruff when he’s stressed or under pressure, but don’t we all?”

“Really?” She was going with Andrew’s standard line now.

“I know, he can be a jerk. But, Sophie, I have to work with him. I’m trying to like him at least a little bit.”

I held up my hands. “I get it. But I don’t have to like him.”

“Just for tonight,” she said.

I groaned.

Waitressing was hard. My arms felt like Jell-O as I carried yet another tray of dirty salad plates to the kitchen.

Mr. Williams smiled at me as I moved the plates onto the counter by the other stacks. “You’re doing great, Ms. Sophie,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to hire you for our next event.”

“Only if I gain some arm muscle by then.”

I went to the counter where entree dishes were waiting.

“You’re moving at half-speed,” Jett said to me. “Pick it up.”

He’d been short with me all night, tougher on me than he had been on the other waiters, I felt. I wondered if he was still angry from our last interaction. I just clenched my teeth.

“Sorry, sir,” I said, loading up my tray.

“I don’t care about words, Ms. Evans, just actions.” Well, at least he knew my name.

I lifted the heavy tray to my shoulder and left without saying those words he didn’t care about.

A woman at my first table raised her finger at me. “Can I get a refill of wine?” she asked.

I nodded my head toward the closest drink station. “You have to go to a drink station, ma’am.” There were at least four and none of them busy.

“You can’t get it for me?”

“I’m underage. I’m not allowed.”

She pushed air between her lips. “I won’t tell.” She held up her glass.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She sighed and pulled out a small handbag, fished through it, and came up with a twenty-dollar bill. “How about now, sweetheart?”

“I’ll get that for you,” Andrew said, lifting the woman’s glass and giving her a smile as well.

She tried to hand him the money but he refused it.

“What a gentleman,” she said.

I had been clenching my teeth an awful lot tonight. I finished passing out the rest of the plates and moved to get another load when a man called out, “Girl, please take this dish with you.”

“Of course.” I picked up his half-eaten food and looked around for others. I ended up walking away with another full tray.

“Want me to carry that tray?” Andrew asked, joining me as I made my way inside again.

“No, and thanks for making me look bad with the wine lady back there.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“It didn’t help. It just made it look like I wasn’t willing to fill her drink.”

“You weren’t,” he said.

“Because I’m not allowed to,” I shot back.

He shrugged. “Well, I am. I don’t work for Mr. Williams.”

I laughed. “Like you’d ever work a real job.”

Andrew furrowed his brows. “What’s that supposed to mean? I work.”

“For your dad.”

“Micah works for her dad.”

“How much does your dad pay you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like, do you buy your own suits?” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. Just go”—I nodded toward the phone I knew was in his pocket—“work.”

“And you call me a jerk,” he said before he turned and walked back outside.

I took a deep breath, stung. But he was right. I’d been a big jerk. To him. I hated who I was around him—this insecure, small version of myself. I hated that I knew, deep inside, it was because I cared what he thought about my talent, my work, my creativity … me.