BELLE

THREE MONTHS LATER

My feet were killing me. The heels my boss forced me to wear definitely did not provide enough support for a shift at a busy diner. It probably didn’t help that I had worked every day this week without a break.

I was exhausted.

I sighed, brushing my hair out of my face as I carried a tray of food to a table of drunk men who hadn’t stopped staring at my ass since they’d walked in.

They all gave me grimy looks as I set down their food. I asked if they needed anything else before shuffling away quickly.

Thanks to my uniform, I was...