she knows his type.    trust-fund, son of a gun, never worked a day in his life and probably never will.  not that that’s necessarily a bad thing  —  especially not for a waitress like may.  she takes things almost painfully slow, fingertips barely trailing along the aluminum length of the countertop as she makes her way to his booth, walking with that slight swing of curved hips, that signature smile cracked across soft features.  it’s all in the game, the only one she’ll ever win.  and a lithe hand tosses chocolate curls behind one shoulder, playful, as the other pulls a small steno pad  &  pencil from the deep pocket of her apron.  her palm is pressed flat against the table, an anchor to steady her as she leans in close.    “  what can i get ya, sugar?  ”    the word drips from full lips like molasses or miel  ;  slow, sensual.  a girl’s gotta get tips somehow.    “  we’ve got café con leche, sweet tea, you name it.  ”