“Move!” came the server’s shout behind me.
I stepped aside, shakily closing my little black waitress book. I hazarded a glance to the side and saw Devlin’s tall form disappearing around the corner, and my heart leapt into my throat.
Devlin. Since I’d started working here last week, he’d been occupying my mind. Which might have explained why I still couldn’t navigate the touch screens. His medium-length black hair and contoured lips were distractions. Even if he hadn’t had a pair of cerulean blues or walked with a proud, straight back, his face set like steel, there was something about him I responded to. On a cellular level.
I’d gone home after my first shift wishing I could have met him at a bar instead of a restaurant where he was my boss, but then, I’d never have been as close to him in a bar as I had been a moment ago. Outside of this restaurant, his arms would be dripping with elegant women, and there was no way I’d be one of them.
Devlin Calvary was best left to the fantasies of my feeble mind, not the reality before me.
“Whose side work is butter?” The shout sliced through the kitchen and brought me out of my daydream.
“M–me.” I raised my hand as I turned toward the voice.
Melinda stood at the computer, hands on her hips, looking disappointed. Her brows slammed down and she banged an order into the touch screen with blurring speed.
“Remember your training?” she asked without looking at me. “You have to do your side work in between taking care of your tables.”
Heat reddened my face from a combination of anger and embarrassment, but I stayed silent.
She faced me, her full-frontal fury intimidating, but I straightened my shoulders, refusing to become her whipping girl because she’d been given an ounce of power. She lifted a small ramekin of whipped butter—the last one—from a tray next to the bread oven, then tipped the stainless steel mixing bowl next to it to show me it was empty.
“I’ll take care of it.” I didn’t have time to “take care of it,” though. One of my tables needed a refill. I can handle this. I closed my eyes and thought of Joshua’s funeral.
Whenever I was about to blow something out of proportion, I thought of that day. Joshua’s accident had been the most defining moment of my life. Thinking of him lying there helped me realize that whatever was upsetting me wasn’t important in the grander scheme. Remembering how I’d survived the loss of the boy I’d loved for two years helped me stay strong.
The Butter Crisis paled in comparison.
Perspective in place, I walked to the back of the kitchen, stopping short for the dishwasher hurrying by with a stack of platters. Sidestepping him, I turned and nearly ran into the guy at the fryer dropping a batch of soft-shell crabs into a basket.
I will survive this night if it kills me.
And it might.
A broad, well-dressed chest rounded a wall without the helpful call of “Corner!” they’d taught me on my first day. Had I not been seeing red, I might have recognized the blur for what it was—a tie. I didn’t put “tie” and “Devlin” together until after I’d growled, “Excuse me!”
I craned my head, locking eyes with him. His dark eyebrows shot to his hairline, then lowered over his nose.
“Yes. Excuse you.” This might’ve been the first time he’d spoken to me. I swallowed thickly, displaced attraction flooding my chest.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I—butter.” I stepped past him, wincing as I ducked into the walk-in refrigerator. Hopefully the temperature in here would cool my flaming face.
I butter? Really? That’s what I’d replied?
I scanned the plastic bins on the shelves. Some were filled with soaking potatoes soon to be fries, others held fillets of fish on ice, and still others, cut vegetables. As I searched, I muttered “Diet Coke” to myself. That’s why I’d come in the kitchen to begin with. To put in the order and take the woman at table 29 a refill. How many minutes had I been back here now? “Shoot.”
I started to give up and rush from the fridge, but stopped short when Devlin entered, the door whispering shut behind him. The space was large enough for two people, three or four actually, but him in that cool space made it shrink.
The several feet separating us crackled with awareness, and my breaths went shallow again. I hadn’t been aware of a man in four years. Part of my self-imposed penance for leading Joshua astray, for leading the golden boy down the road of ruin, had been to avoid men altogether.
Devlin came deeper into the cooler and I backed up, my ass hitting the shelf behind me. He penetrated my personal space, leaning over me without touching me, his heat blanketing my side. He pulled down a stainless steel bowl wrapped with cellophane, his eyes on mine as he handed it over. I took it, allowing a brief inventory of my helper. Charcoal suit, red patterned tie, shiny shoes. Every inch of him smacked of warmth and power and…
Danger.
My earlier thoughts of Joshua scattered in the wake of Devlin’s presence like a flock of birds spooked by a sound. Joshua’s smile, abandoned for the full set of Devlin’s unsmiling lips. Joshua’s jovial laugh for Devlin’s silence. Joshua’s cold, still body, the color of clay, for Devlin’s sun-kissed skin and thick black lashes.
“What table?” he asked.
My forehead pulled in confusion.
His nostrils flared, his beautiful face hardening like stone. “Diet Coke. What table?”
Oh. Right. “Twenty-nine.”
He left while I remained, metal bowl filled with whipped butter in my hand, my jaw slack. Maybe tomorrow would be better. I yanked the door open and headed into the bustle of the kitchen, nearly plowing into one of the servers yelling for butter.
Then again, maybe not.
Don’t miss Devlin’s and Rena’s journey to happily ever after! Purchase Daring Devlin today.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my friend and speech guru, Amy Wade, for your advice and guidance on the type of accident that ultimately stole Cade’s speech, and to Jeannie Moon for your input on physical therapy assistants. (All errors are mine.) Thanks, too, to editor Jennifer Miller for your guidance on this one. I really appreciate your eagle eye! As always, thanks to Nicole Resciniti, advice givers Lauren Layne and Shannon Richard, and readers everywhere who continue to read and support me. I couldn’t do this—any of it—without you.
About the Author
A former job-hopper, Jessica Lemmon resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.
Jessica loves to hear from readers. You can learn more about her at www.jessicalemmon.com.
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