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          Table of Contents  Copyright   Dedication   Prologue   Chapter One   Chapter Two   Chapter Three   Chapter Four   Chapter Five   Chapter Six   Chapter Seven   Chapter Eight   Chapter Nine   Chapter Ten   Chapter Eleven   Chapter Twelve   Chapter Thirteen   Chapter Fourteen   Chapter Fifteen   Chapter Sixteen   Chapter Seventeen   Chapter Eighteen   Chapter Nineteen   Chapter Twenty   Chapter Twenty-One   Chapter Twenty-Two   Chapter Twenty-Three   Chapter Twenty-Four   Chapter Twenty-Five   Chapter Twenty-Six   EPILOGUE   Acknowledgments   About the Author   Planes, Trains, and All The Feels, by Livy Hart    This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.  Copyright © 2023 by Kristen Alicia. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher. Preview of Planes, Trains, and All The Feels copyright © 2023 by Livy Hart. Entangled Publishing, LLC 644 Shrewsbury Commons Ave., STE 181 Shrewsbury, PA 17361 [email protected] Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com. Edited by Gwyn Jordan and Alexander Te Pohe Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes Interior design by Toni Kerr ISBN 978-1-64937-394-6 Ebook ISBN 978-1-64937-415-8 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition June 2023 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1        For Emerson and Desmond   At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage. https://entangledpublishing.com/books/youve-been-served   Prologue “The asshole at table nine sent his plate back again. He said this time it just didn’t taste right, whatever that means.” Sam rolled his eyes. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one irritated at table nine’s repeated requests for a new sauce. It was the third time our head waiter had brought the plate back to the kitchen with some kind of asinine complaint. First the sauce was too salty, then too sweet. Now it just didn’t taste right. What the hell. In the restaurant business, few things were worse than a customer that complained just for the sake of complaining, and I was starting to get the impression this guy was doing exactly that. “You know what? Screw it. I’m going to talk to him. I want to see for myself what his problem is,” I told Sam, rinsing off my hands and wiping them on my pristine white chef’s coat. Sam raised his eyebrows before moving out of my way. He knew me well enough to know that now wasn’t the time to ask questions. “Chef,” I called out to Jordan, the executive chef at Ipsa’s, “table nine sent back his plate again. I’m going to talk to him. Cool?” Jordan was busy reprimanding one of the new line cooks, so I knew he wasn’t paying any attention to what I said when he waved his hand and nodded. Perfect. I didn’t want him to stop me from figuring out who this jerk was and why he kept dismissing my sauce. My bearnaise was outstanding, and I knew it. Hell, it should have been outstanding. I’d been working for three years to perfect it, and I could make it with my eyes closed. Literally. I tried making it once with my eyes covered at home, and it was surprisingly successful. The fact that an unsophisticated patron was insulting my hard work didn’t sit well with me at all. Slamming through the kitchen doors, I eyed the crowded dining room, scanning the tables until I landed on table nine. There he was. Older than the usual techies that frequented Ipsa’s and dressed much nicer, the man looked harmless enough, but I didn’t appreciate his gall. Working overtime to keep my composure, I walked over to his table. “Hello, sir.” The man looked up at me and smiled, but it barely registered for me. “Hi there,” he shot back. “What can I do for you?” “I’m the saucier, and Sam, your waiter, has sent your meal back to the kitchen several times saying that you’re not enjoying the sauce. What’s the issue?” “Exactly what I told the young man earlier. It didn’t taste quite right.” And that was about the point I lost my shit on him. It had already been a long night, a long week, and, if I was being honest with myself, a long couple of years. “Listen, I’ve never seen you here before, and I find it hard to believe that you would know whether my sauce tastes ‘right’ or not.” I wasn’t proud of myself, but I did the quote fingers primarily to be annoying. “And by the way, I tasted it, and it’s perfect,” I said, getting angrier as I spoke. “So if you don’t like the sauce, order something else or leave the restaurant. I’m not making it again.” The shock and indignation on his face left me wanting to laugh out loud, despite my anger. Instead, I stormed back to the kitchen. Nothing irritated me more than overprivileged jerks coming into the restaurant and complaining about the food, and recently, everyone who came into the restaurant behaved like an overprivileged jerk. Or at least it seemed that way. “Did you get it worked out?” Sam asked as I burst back into the kitchen, narrowly missing a server going through the exit door. “Ugh,