"Rough. Bad tippers?"

"Zero tippers," I replied. "Apparently some guys don't believe in tipping the waitress unless she agrees to go home with them."

A cloud seemed to pass over Dylan's eyes. "Does that kind of thing happen to you a lot?"

"I'll tell you when I've done this for a little longer. But according to my friend Sylvia, the answer is yes."

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. "We've got to get you out of there. I'm going to keep my eyes open for any research assistant jobs."

"Thanks." I shrugged. "It's a learning experience. I should have realized anyone with a name as pretentious as Todd J. Hamilton Jr. would be a jackass. Note to self-always check out the credit card when they open a tab. If they've got a jerk name, expect jerk treatment."

Dylan said nothing for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Tess."

I didn't need his pity. I just needed to get to work.

Friday night at Verde passed without incident, and the Saturday lunch crowd was especially genteel, seeing how it was made up of all the locals who hadn't gone out to the football game. As the afternoon waned, however, the patrons grew rowdier and the restaurant filled with football fans eager to celebrate Canton's win. Half the booths held diners wearing Canton T-shirts and hats and jackets.

"You've got table twenty-eight," Annabel said as she swung by me at the prep table. "Six top. They asked for you specifically."

"Requests, already?" said another waitress. "Gee, someone's popular."

I was baffled. I hadn't been at Verde long enough to get regulars. I approached the table with no small amount of curiosity, and my stomach clenched as I recognized Todd J. Hamilton Jr., surrounded by some older people. But then the guy in the corner looked up and smiled at me. Blue eyes, dark hair. Dylan.

I'd been complaining to him about his friend?

"Hi, Tess!" Dylan said brightly. "Guys, this is my friend from Bio-E, Tess McMann. She just transferred to Canton this semester and unfortunately, she had to work during the game."

"Awww...," everyone echoed sympathetically.

"Tess, these are some Canton Chem folks I met at the last career day. You want to be friends with them in case you ever do get to come to the tailgates. They always have the best tent." He winked at one of the older women, and she smiled.

"Nice drinks, not the usual frat boy rotgut," she said. "I'm Kathleen Hamilton, VP of Human Resources at Canton Chem."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"And of course," Dylan continued, "you know her son, Todd."

Todd wasn't looking up from his menu.

"Yes, Todd and I met the other night," I said, passing out the menus.

"I was a waitress when I was in college, too," Kathleen went on. "Tough gig. Always jerks drooling all over you."

"You don't say," said Dylan, looking at Todd. "Sounds terrible. What kind of person would be so disrespectful to a woman who's just trying to do her job?"

"Exactly," said Kathleen. "Well, Tess, if you ever want to apply to an internship at Canton Chem, here's my card." She handed me a glossy rectangle. "Dylan's been singing your praises the whole game."

"Oh. Has he?" I got their drink orders and managed to keep our interactions to a minimum through the rest of the meal. As I was ringing up their bill, Dylan found me at the computer.

"What was that all about?" I asked him, punching the buttons on the screen with a bit more force than strictly necessary. "Waltzing in here with him and his mother!"

He held up his hands in a feigned display of innocence. "What? You told me he'd been hassling you. I had an opportunity to fix it. And get a free meal in the process."

"I don't need you to fight my battles, Dylan."

"I know that," he said softly. "But I hate guys who pull shit like that. Who act like bullies toward people-toward women-they think are beneath them. I just thought I'd give him a little lesson in perspective."

I printed out the receipt, jammed it in the billfold, and slammed it shut. "And I think all you taught him is to be careful about who he pulls his shit around. He might be kinder to me because he knows I'm Bio-E and so Canton Chem will suck up to me, but what's to keep him from being a jerk to other waitresses-say, my friend Sylvia?"

Dylan stared at me for a second. "Maybe. But it's a start. He shouldn't have hit on you."

"Hmph."

"He has a girlfriend."

I looked away. "That doesn't stop some guys." And look who was talking. Had I pegged Dylan wrong? Had Annabel been right, that he was really just trying to be kind to me when he'd offered to let me stay at his place? When he'd invited me out to the game? Had he been planning nothing more insidious than trying to hook me up with an internship at Canton Chem?

"Plus, he has no idea what a heartbreaker you are."

Still safely facing the register, I laughed.

"Plus...he doesn't deserve you."

I turned back to him. The look in his eyes was raw, unrestrained, and brimming over with longing. I drew back in shock.

"Tess..." He reached for me, then stopped himself. "I'll-take the bill back. You can see to your other tables." He grabbed the case out of my hands and vanished.

I pressed my hand to my chest. Under my palm, my heart pounded like I'd run a mile. What was that? What was that? One second he was telling me it was inappropriate for guys with girlfriends to hit on other women, and the next second he looked like he wanted to tear my clothes off right there by the cash register.

At least he'd gone away. If he hadn't, I might have let him tear my clothes off.

The next time I passed table twenty-eight, it was empty. Along with the tip Kathleen Hamilton, VP of Human Resources at Canton Chem, had written in with the credit card slip, I found a twenty. On the top was scrawled, Sorry -TJH.

Okay, I didn't need Dylan to fight my battles. But I couldn't argue with the results.

On Sunday, Dylan showed up at Verde again, around two, right as the brunch crowd was dispersing. I was working the bar again, mixing Bloody Marys and mimosas all morning. I finally thought I'd get a break, and then I saw the hostess setting a place at the bar. Moments later, Dylan sat down.

I folded my arms. "Are you my first regular?"

"Looks like it." He grinned and opened the menu. He was in Sunday casuals-jeans, a Canton T-shirt, and those damn glasses. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was wearing them just for me. "What's good here?"

"Well, you just missed the brunch prix-fixe, so I'm afraid it's going to be a lot of sandwiches and salads."

He eyed me over the top of the menu. "What do you like?"

"The BFG." I pointed. "It's bacon, fig, and goat cheese. Perfect for you."

He snapped the menu shut. "Aww. You remembered."

I remember everything, I very nearly said but stopped myself just in time. I wasn't going to add to the collection of vague and confusing statements he'd thrown at me in the last few days. "So, the BFG?"

"And a Coke."

I put in his order and busied myself chopping lemons the bar didn't need until I delivered his meal. But as I was about to turn away, he stopped me.

"Are you so very busy?"

"Did you come in here just to hang out with me?"

He unfolded his napkin. "Truth?"

"Truth."

"Maybe."

I smiled. "What, five hours a day Monday through Wednesday isn't enough?"

He looked at me. "No."

I caught my breath. This wasn't fair. The bartender reaction would be to keep things light and flirty-friendly enough for a tip but not so friendly that the customer thought there was something really going on between you two. The lab partner reaction was to tell him we'd have plenty of time to work when we were actually in our lab. And the ex-lover-trying-to-be-friends reaction was to tell him to go home and call Hannah.

I did none of it. "I was about to take my lunch break as well. It's cooling down here and I get a free salad with every shift."

"Eat with me?"

So I did. For the next forty-five minutes we sat across from each other at the bar, talking about our project, about our classes, about our favorite foods and movies and what we thought of current environmental regulations regarding GM foods. Dylan joked about how hard it was to be simultaneously a foodie and a budding bioengineer.

"I can appreciate an heirloom tomato without trying to ban all other types," he said with a laugh.

"I think you might be wasted in biofuel." I pointed my fork at him. "Obviously your calling is food."

He shrugged. "Still that fat kid on the inside, I guess."

I let my gaze travel over the part of his chest and arms I could see over the bar. Trim, lightly muscled, like a runner. "Don't worry. It doesn't show."

He said nothing, and I dragged my eyes back up to his face. He'd stopped eating and was staring at me, watching me look at him, an expression I didn't dare to identify in his deep blue eyes.

"I mean-"

"I know what you meant." He popped the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth and wiped his hands on his napkin. "I should probably head out. Hannah will be back in town this evening."

Inwardly, I flinched. "Okay. Have a nice day."

"And I have some work to do before then," he finished awkwardly as the ramifications of his words sank in. "Tess, I didn't mean 'my girlfriend's back, so, later...'"

"I know what you meant," I echoed, clearing away his plate. And boy, did I ever. How many weekends had my father spent in our apartment when his wife was away on a spa trip with her rich friends, or off on a shopping weekend in Manhattan with Hannah? How many Sunday afternoons ended with him saying those exact words to us?

"Thanks for lunch," he said.

"Don't thank me," I said. "You're paying for it."

"I meant for you having lunch with me."

"Oh." I actually hadn't known what he meant that time. "Well, like I said, I was taking a break anyway."

"You didn't have to take it with me."

"You didn't have to come to Verde."

"I did," he said, and from the tone of his voice, he sounded like he wanted to say so much more. "If I wanted to see you."

After Dylan had gone, I opened the leather folder. His bill had come to twelve dollars. Inside was a twenty-dollar bill. I swallowed. Had it been anyone other than Dylan, I wouldn't have thought twice about that tip. Sure it was big, but it wasn't outlandish, and it wasn't that unusual from a single diner who'd gotten some extra conversation from the wait staff. Yet from Dylan it felt like he'd paid me to have lunch with him, like he was saying, "Poor Tess, not rich enough to attend Canton without filling your days with menial labor, not nearly as rich as the girlfriend I should be spending my time with."

Sometimes, when Mom was between jobs or feeling blue, Dad would write her checks. Big ones. Dad would pay for her to get a new wardrobe or have a Botox treatment or some other lavish indulgence that felt really good until you thought about it and realized that it was nothing compared to what he gave his wife.

Eight dollars from Dylan. Twenty from Todd, which Dylan had also arranged. One hundred and fifty from the rest of the weekend. At this rate, I'd have that Tissue Engineering textbook paid for in no time.

The next three weeks passed in much the same manner. Monday through Wednesday, as soon as class was done, Dylan and I would meet in the bioengineering labs to work on our project. We'd decided to resurrect our work from Cornell and do an advanced version, using the skills we'd gained after two years of college and, of course, Transport Process Design. On Thursday and Friday, as soon as I was done with class, I hurried to Verde for my shifts. Either way, I never came home before 11:00 p.m. On lab days, I smelled like the nose-tickling chemicals they used to keep things clean. On waitress days, I smelled like garlic and frat boy sweat. Mom had stopped waiting up for me. I never saw my father, which I think suited both of us pretty well. After that, it was at least two hours of homework before I set my alarm for six and got up to start all over again.

Dylan's crazy email schedule didn't let up, and it was soon clear that every hour I spent at the restaurant, he was spending working on the project. I hated the idea that he was doing so much more work than me, but what option did I have? There was literally zero time for anything else. I'd been at Canton for a month and so far, I didn't even know the names of most of the other students in my classes. I'd often see them leaving together for lunch or playing Frisbee on the quad while I rushed from class to library to class to work to lab. My fellow students would head off to eat in the cafeteria or any of the little shops dotting campus, and I'd bring a bag lunch to save cash.

I tried to tell myself that it was okay. I wasn't at Canton to make friends. I was here to get my name on a Canton diploma. Besides, it wasn't as if I'd had so many friends at State, either. I'd had acquaintances in class and people I called friends who I went out with on weekends, but no one I was really close to. And hadn't it always been that way, anyway? Maybe I just wasn't the type of person who had close friends. Even Sylvia, whom I'd always thought of as my best friend, didn't know the truth about me.

It was safer that way. The more people who knew about my father, the more chances there were that the story would become public. These were the rules. I knew the rules.

On the weekends, I worked all Saturday at Verde, then Sunday afternoons, too. Dylan always came in on Sundays, once the brunch crowd had departed. He always seated himself in my section. He always cajoled me into having lunch with him.

On Sunday morning of the third week, after what seemed like an endless weekend of Halloween revelry by the entire Canton student body, I met my mom, bleary-eyed, over the coffee pot.

"You look like hell," she offered and poured me a cup.

"Thanks, Mom," I grumbled. I had, in fact, worn a sparkly devil horn headband most of the weekend, to play off Sylvia's angel wings and silver glitter halo. Quite a pair we'd made behind the bar, but the tips had been worth it.

"You can't keep this up," she continued. "Look at you. Something's got to give, Tess, and the way you're going, with work and school and this Symposium project, I'm afraid it might be you."

"What, old before my time?" I snapped. "Guess I'll never find a man, then."

She sighed. "I don't care about you finding a man, sweetie. I do care about you getting sick and flunking out of college, though. How are you ever going to prove your father wrong if that's what happens?"

I looked at her. A hint of a smile ghosted across her face.

"Mom!" I said, impressed. "What did you put in your coffee this morning?" Prove Dad wrong? I'd never heard her so much as disgree with him over the weather.