“Behind,” I mutter, ducking to avoid Flora’s shaker tins smacking me in the head.

“Wow, that smells amazing,” Flora says as I set the ribeye down — not in front of her, of course, but in front of the customer who’s way more interested in her neckline than the eighty-five-dollar steak I’m carrying. I sigh.

I like her. I really do. But she’s one of those people who are always nice. It’s exhausting.

Flora’s a bartender at Fosters, this upscale restaurant where I work as a food runner. I take things other people make and deliver them. Flora? She creates.

And everyone adores her — her drinks, her vibe, all of it. I get it. She’s talented. She’s passionate. She’s short, with bright curly orange hair and that magnetic, warm energy that fits perfectly into any hug. Her smile? Blinding. Effortless. No metal-mouth years like I had.

She barely wears makeup, not that she needs it. Her skin’s that glowing, poreless kind. Her lashes look like they came from a commercial. Her eyes — impossibly turquoise. And that nose? Small, with just the right hint of upturned roundness. It all fits perfectly on her stupidly adorable, heart-shaped face. She looks like she walked out of an anime.

Even when she’s not mixing a drink, she looks like a beautiful flame — always in something bold or floral or both. Her clothes wrap around her curves like they were made to. Curves men notice. A lot.

And the tattoo sleeve — a whole arm of black-and-white flowers and vines — somehow makes her look even cooler, like she’s edgy and graceful. She’s a year younger than me, but she’s been to three countries and has a boyfriend of two years.

She’s the opposite of boring.

She’s the opposite of me.