It’s no joke. One of the other managers wouldn’t give Dion the day off, and he ended up on the toilet all night. Dion won’t admit it, but rumors spread around the restaurant that massive amounts of laxatives were to blame.
I groan and push up to welcome the lunch rush. I’ve worked in this POS restaurant since I was sixteen, and the longer I work here, the more it feels like a black hole sucking my life away one year at a time. As pathetic as it is, feeling sorry for myself isn’t going to get me through my shift any faster.
By the time I make it to the hostess stand, people are already showing up for lunch.
“Eve, Cristof called in sick.” One of the waiters tosses me a note as he heads to his section to greet a new table.
I read the damn message and crumple it up. “Shit.” Guess that means I’ll be running food in a skirt. I hate this job.
After a quick trip to the back to tie on an apron, I take my place at the line and wait for orders to show up in the window. It’s not long before the kitchen is slammed with orders. Garlic, oregano, and fresh pizza dough swirl though the air as orders scream through the kitchen printer. I roll up the sleeves on my starched white shirt and wish I hadn’t worn my fitted BCBG button down, but rather my Target special. I’m so sick of all my nice clothes smelling like a damn Italian food festival.
“Order up!”
I nab the ticket from the line and layer plates on a large tray, hoping I’ll be able to bring this table their order in one trip. I dip low and hoist the massive platter on my shoulder then swerve around staff and negotiate my way through the tables. I grab a stand, bend at the knees to lower the tray, and peek up at the table of guests. “Hope you guys are hung—”
A dark scowl hits me right between the eyes.
Holy fucking shit.
He’s here.
Cameron is sitting at a table for four with Jonah and Owen.
I expect his eyes to widen with recognition, but instead they narrow in that signature glare that I feel between my legs.
The cool air burns my eyes. Blink, dammit! I do and then wave pathetically. “Hi, uh—”
“I was hoping you’d be working today.” Jonah stands and gives me a chaste side hug. “Any chance you could hook us up with that scampi on the dinner menu?”
“That shit’s the bomb.” Owen shoves a piece of French bread in his mouth.
“Uh—”
“You remember Cam?” Jonah sits down and nods to the gorgeous man I know all too well.
In the light of day, he’s even better looking than I remember—if that’s possible. He’s dressed in a similar shirt—rolled-up sleeves and open at the neck—but this one in a deep blue.
My gaze slides up his corded neck, traces the lines of his jaw, and settles on the fiercest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t tell in the dark, but here in the light, even through his glare, they’re almost the same color as his hair.
“Yeah, uh, hi again. Thanks again for the lift.”
He nods in greeting and then turns his attention to Jonah.
That’s it? I mean one night of meaningless sex surely deserves a little more than that?
The tension in the air is thick as a million things that could be said are not.
He engages in conversation with Owen. “Like I was saying, I’m hoping with the addition of these new fighters we’ll . . .”
Clearly he hasn’t lost his ability to speak in complete sentences since I last saw him. I tune out his voice and continue to stare stunned.
Is me giving up my body to him not worth a single-word reply? The whisper from my past says it’s worth less than that, but I ignore it and move straight to the tray.
Deliver their meals and then get the hell away. I refuse to check the ticket to see who ordered what and drop the plates on the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Owen and Jonah exchanging uncomfortable looks, but Cam has his eyes dead set on me. I try to avoid him, but it’s hard as he’s pinning me with a scowl so intense that it charges the air.
With the last of the plates off my tray, I grab it and kick closed the stand to make a hasty exit. “If you need anything—”
“Could I get another tea, princess?” Owen reaches over the table for the linguine he must’ve ordered.
“No, but I’ll send over your server. I mean”—I fix my eyes on a scowling Cameron—“unless you’re opposed to communicating with a woman.”
He doesn’t even flinch but continues his death stare.
I swing my gaze to a very confused-looking Jonah. “Oh, I can’t get you any scampi.” I narrow my eyes at Cameron who still hasn’t taken his off me. “We’re out of garlic.”
Scooping up the tray, I stand and head back to the kitchen and into the stinky office. There’s no way in hell I’m going back out there. Not after the way he just brushed me off as if he didn’t have his dick in my body less than forty-eight hours ago.
I’m not asking for a damn marriage proposal, but a little common courtesy would be fucking appreciated.
And there I go with my inflated expectations. From now on, I should expect to be kicked in the gut by men, Then maybe I’ll start being thankful for the constant brush-offs.
*