The Rude Bride-to-Be Who Didn’t Know I Owned the Restaurant
I own one of Portland’s hottest bistros—a chic, farm-to-table spot where reservations book out weeks in advance. The kind of place where regulars greet me by name, and the food is so good, people beg for last-minute tables.
I built this place from the ground up. Five years of sweat, late nights, and passion went into making it what it is today. And because I love it, I’m always there—whether I’m hosting, managing the kitchen, or even jumping in to wait tables if someone calls out.
So when my brother, Mike, called to say he was bringing his fiancée to town and wanted to meet me over dinner at my restaurant, I was thrilled. Mike and I have always been close, and meeting his future wife was a big deal.
I reserved the best table, prepped the staff for VIP treatment, and planned to take the night off to enjoy the evening with them.
But of course, things never go as planned.
Our hostess called in sick, so I stepped in to greet guests while waiting for Mike and his bride-to-be. He texted saying he’d be late, but his fiancée would arrive on time. No problem—I’d get her settled with a glass of wine and some appetizers.
Then she walked in.
A tall, blonde woman in a skintight red dress that looked like it cost more than my monthly rent. Her stilettos click-clacked across the hardwood as she scanned the room like she was judging its worth.
I smiled politely. “Welcome! Can I get the name for your reservation?”
She barely glanced at me. Instead, her eyes raked over my outfit—black slacks, a crisp blouse, my hair in a sleek high bun. Standard manager attire. Professional. Polished.
Her nose wrinkled like she’d just smelled spoiled milk.
“Wait… you work here?” she said, giving me a slow, disapproving once-over. “No offense, but you’re kind of overdressed for restaurant staff. And that hairstyle? It’s a bit much. My fiancé’s about to arrive, and I’d prefer not to have someone looking this… done up near our table. Can you get someone else to serve us? Maybe a manager?”
I blinked. Did she really just say that?
The audacity.
Here I was, welcoming her into my restaurant, and she was basically telling me I looked too good to be serving her.
Ohhhh.
She thought I was a waitress.
Not that there’s anything wrong with being one—I’ve done every job in this place. But the way she said it? Like I was gum stuck to her designer shoe.
I could feel my staff watching. Sarah, our head server, shot me a “Did she really just say that?” look from behind the bar. Marcus, the bartender, froze mid-glass-polish, eyebrows raised.
But I kept my cool. Years in hospitality had taught me one thing: the best way to deal with rude customers is to let them dig their own grave.
So I smiled sweetly. “Absolutely. Let me get the manager for you.”
She smirked, victorious. “Perfect. And maybe someone who looks a little more… appropriate for the job? You know, less… distracting?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said, my voice dripping with fake sweetness. “I’ll make sure you get exactly what you deserve.”
I walked to the back office, took a deep breath, and grabbed my business cards.
This was going to be fun.
I returned to her table, business card in hand. “Hi again! Just checking in—everything okay with your table?”
She rolled her eyes. “You again? I asked for the manager. Are you slow or just stubborn?”
I placed my card in front of her with a flourish. “Oh, sweetheart… I am the manager. And the owner.”
Her face went slack. She picked up the card, staring at it like the words might rearrange themselves.
“This… this can’t be right,” she stammered.
Then—perfect timing—Mike walked in.
“There’s my sister!” he boomed, pulling me into a bear hug. “Sorry I’m late—work call ran long. You know how it is.”
I swear, the color drained from her face so fast, I thought she might pass out.
“You’re… you’re his sister?” she choked out.
Mike grinned. “Yep! Jill’s my baby sister—though she hates when I call her that.” He turned to me. “Jill, this is Ashley, my fiancée. The one I’ve been telling you about.”
Ashley looked like she wanted to melt into the floor. “Wait… you own this place?”
I crossed my arms. “Every brick, every plate, every drop of wine. Five years of my life went into this restaurant.”
“I… I didn’t know,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
Mike’s smile faded. “What’s going on?”
I tilted my head. “Well, your fiancée just told me I was dressed too nicely to serve you and demanded someone ‘more appropriate’ because she didn’t want me ‘distracting’ you.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “She what?”
Ashley looked like she wanted to disappear. “Mike, I can explain—”
“You insulted my sister?” His voice was dangerously calm.
“I thought she was a waitress!” she blurted.
“And that makes it okay?” I asked. “You thought it was fine to tell someone to change their appearance because you didn’t want them looking too good around your man?”
Later, when Mike stepped away to take a call, Ashley pulled me aside, her arrogance completely gone.
“Look, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “My ex cheated on me with a waitress. I have… trust issues.”
I nodded slowly. “I get that. Trauma sucks. But it doesn’t give you the right to treat people like dirt.”
She winced. “You’re right. I was way out of line.”
I accepted her apology—sort of.
“We all have scars,” I said. “But how you treat people says more about you than your past ever will.”
And while I’d be civil for Mike’s sake? That attitude of hers? Yeah, she’d need to work a lot harder to earn my respect.