Melinda snapped her head around to me, her dark blond ponytail flicking behind her like the end of a very short whip. He walked away and I continued “petting” the fake orchid in front of me as I watched his legs eat up the long aisle leading to the kitchen.
“You may as well forget about whatever fantasy you’re cooking in your head,” she sneered.
I shook my head in fervent denial—like I suffered any delusions that someone as hot and powerful as Devlin might look at me twice. I knew who I was. I wasn’t the type of girl who snagged the attention of a guy like him.
“He doesn’t date the help,” she continued. “He flirts with me, but I’d never.” She cut a look in the direction he’d disappeared, biting her lip. A brief flicker of longing lit her hazel eyes before she muttered, “I don’t have any interest in him.”
Oh, the lies she told. I rolled my eyes as she walked to the hostess station. I knew damn well that Melinda, or any other female in this restaurant, would trade an ovary to be under Devlin’s intense blue-eyed stare for fifteen minutes.
To be under him, period.
Devlin
I cut through the clatter of silverware and tinkling of crystal glasses wearing a smile on my face. Oak & Sage Restaurant had been my second home for as long as I could remember. My dad opened it when I was in diapers, and I’d cut my teeth on the corner of table 31. You could say I was born into this life. Along the way, I had inherited another.
We were busy tonight, even by Thursday standards. I smoothed my tie and buttoned my jacket. As I stepped out of the way of an incoming server carrying a platter of ribs, I nodded at the guy sitting at table 31. Benny was one of the regulars, his shirt buttons nearly popping as he polished off a very large piece of chocolate cake. He lifted his fork to signal he had money for me, but my sights were set on Sal Crawford, the older man at table 36.
Mr. Crawford sawed into an overcooked rib eye—why patrons insisted on ruining a forty-dollar steak by ordering it well-done was beyond me—and gestured at his wife, who primly flaked her salmon and listened with half an ear.
I’d never be the kind of prick to say I had it all, but I had it pretty damn good. When my father died, he left Oak & Sage to me. I was eighteen at the time, and his friend, Sonny Laurence, taught me the ropes of running a restaurant. Thanks to our history, and my being Sonny’s go-to guy in this small town, I knew every degenerate who placed bets within a fifty-mile radius.
But “degenerate” wasn’t a term I’d use to describe the Crawfords. They were wealthy, thanks in part to me, I reminded myself as I approached the table. Which made this visit almost pleasant.
“Sal.”
“Devlin,” he greeted, cheeks rosy from the bottle of Merlot on the table. At my arrival, his wife perked up, batting her lashes and adjusting her pearls. Never mind I’m thirty years her junior, Annabelle Crawford would have me for dinner instead of the fish if I said yes.
I wouldn’t.
He patted his mouth with a black cloth napkin as I leaned over the table and winked at his wife. “Anna. Looking beautiful this evening.” My lips tipped into a wry smile and her hand landed on mine.
“Oh, you.” She toyed with one of her earrings. Women were one of the things I was really good at. The other was what I did to them to make them howl. Too bad for Anna. Another ten years closer to my age and I could’ve had her clawing the bedsheets.
“I believe we have business to attend to,” I told Sal. Mrs. Crawford fished a small compact from her giant purse and powdered her nose, intent on ignoring this part of the meal.
He nodded, his lips twitching slightly at the sides. I made people nervous. Not that I was some massive block of muscle with a thrice-broken nose or anything, but I was the man with the power. I carried the weight of Sonny Laurence, and had a frame that was six-two and two-twenty to back that up. In a town like Ridgeway, Ohio, reputation was worth more than any fortune Crawford could amass.
“Next time”—I reached into my jacket pocket and Sal’s eyes widened the slightest bit—“I’ll be the one collecting from you.” I proffered an envelope with curly gold script on it that read, Gift Certificate, but we both knew it contained a few cool thousand Crawford had won fair and square. “Sonny says hello.” Which was code for, Call him to place a bet today.
Sal smiled, receiving the message, and accepted the envelope. Mrs. Crawford shut her compact with a snap. I pressed my palms together in typical manager-of-a-restaurant fashion and said, “Your meal is on me this evening.” I raised a brow at Sal. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” I flicked a glance at the envelope.
“A pleasure, Mr. Calvary.” He nodded. Once. A sign he’d be calling Sonny later to give back some of those crisp hundreds in his hand now.
I turned for Benny’s table to relieve him of the eight hundred dollars he owed Sonny feeling the slightest bit smug. Sal had addressed me as Mr. Calvary. Twenty-four years old and I garnered more respect than an orphaned kid from West End had ever dreamed.
This was the game. Thanks to Sonny, a game I’d mastered.
Rena
My fingers shook over the computer screen as my mind threw information at me at ninety miles a minute. I looked down at the scrap of paper where I’d written my table’s order, and suddenly, I couldn’t make out my own handwriting.
Is that an L or an R?
A server behind me huffed his frustration. I blew out a breath and closed my eyes, willing my pounding heart to calm.
You’ve been through worse traumas than the Thursday night rush at a restaurant.
So much worse.
Centered by that reality, I threw the guy behind me a smile. He shook his head. I was the new girl impeding his progress and he didn’t appreciate my learning on his time. After I’d keyed in the last dish, I realized I had no idea how to take an item off the baked potato. I practically felt the angry vibrations at my back as I navigated out of one menu and clicked on another.
Beside me, a few other servers blurred by, shouting to the guys on the line, filling baskets with warm bread, and calling “Corner!” as they rounded the blind-spot wall leading to the dining room.
It had to be here somewhere. Sour cream, sour cream…
“Come on!” the impatient server behind me shouted.
I flinched, backing out of the on-screen menu and preparing to let the server go ahead of me when a hand landed on the touch screen in front of my face. A wide hand with blunt nails, not perfectly manicured. I caught the flash of a black opal cuff link as the jacket slid away when he tapped the screen, selecting three buttons I couldn’t have told you the name of if you put a gun to my head.
I inhaled, the smell of soap obliterating the cacophony of food smells behind me. There was only the scent of clean man, only the feel of heat enveloping my body.
I peeked over and caught the sharp angle of Devlin’s jaw, full lips, and lashes shadowing his cheeks as he squinted in concentration. He flicked a look over to me, those summer-sky-blue eyes freezing me in place as I struggled to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I’d been doing it since birth but somehow needed to remind my lungs how to pull in air.
With a blink, he turned back to the screen, punched the order in and brushed by, just a whisper of expensive suit against my restaurant-issued, dry-cleaned cotton shirt.