Karate Champion Picked the Wrong Waitress to Impress His Friends — Then the Room Fell Silent
Chapter 2
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She walked over to the booth, pulling a notepad from her apron. "Welcome to the Rusty Anchor. Can I get you started with some drinks?"Derek didn't look up at her. He was busy animatedly describing his final match to Trent, his hands slicing through the air. "I'm telling you, bro, the guy didn't even see the spinning backfist coming. Boom! Lights out. I have lethal hands. My instructor says I have to register them as weapons if I go to California.""That's insane, babe," Brooke cooed, batting her eyelashes."Excuse me," Harper said, slightly louder. "Can I get your drink orders?"Derek finally turned his head, looking Harper up and down with a sneer of pure condescension. He took in her stained apron, her tired eyes, and her cheap sneakers. "Bring us two pitchers of the IPA, a round of tequila shots, and whatever your biggest steak is, sweetheart. I need protein. I just went to war today.""Congratulations on your tournament," Harper said politely, writing down the order. "I'll have those drinks right out."As Harper turned to leave, Derek decided to put on a show for Logan's camera. Without warning, he snapped his right hand out in a lightning-fast jab, stopping the fist a mere half-inch from the bridge of Harper's nose.It was a classic bully move—the flinch test. Most people would gasp, jump backward, or drop their tray. It was designed to make the victim look foolish and the aggressor look dominant.But Harper didn't move. Her eyelids didn't flutter. Her breathing didn't hitch. She simply stood perfectly still, her dark eyes locking onto Derek's with an intensity that sent a sudden, inexplicable chill down his spine. For a fraction of a second, the bustling restaurant seemed to go completely silent.Derek held his fist there, waiting for the reaction. Harper just stared at him, looking mildly bored."Are you finished?" Harper asked quietly.Derek pulled his hand back, his face flushing a deep crimson. His friends snickered, but it was an uncomfortable sound; the joke had fallen flat."Yeah, get the drinks," Derek muttered, breaking eye contact and turning back to his friends. "See how fast that was?" he covered up, loudly boasting to Trent. "She didn't even register the movement. Average citizens just can't process elite speed."Harper walked away, her face impassive. Beneath her apron, her left hand slowly uncurled from a tight, white-knuckled fist. The muscle memory was still there: when Derek had thrown the fake punch, it had taken every ounce of her willpower not to slip the jab, secure an overhook, and drive his face into the hardwood floor.She took a deep breath, walking into the kitchen.Just a waitress, she reminded herself.Just get through the shift.By 10:00 p.m., the situation at the corner booth had deteriorated from annoying to entirely unmanageable. The two pitchers of IPA had turned into four; the single round of tequila shots had multiplied. Derek's table was a wasteland of half-eaten ribs, crumpled napkins, and spilled beer. His voice had risen to a deafening volume, dominating the dining room and causing neighboring tables to glare in their direction.