Demi tries to reel in the happiness beaming across her face. I hope she has no wish to become an actor. Her skills are less than impressive.
After a couple of seconds of silent deliberations, she warns, “Don’t drink the water. It’s most likely laced with laxatives.” When my brows scrunch, her smile shines brighter than the moon on a cloudless night. “Ty can be a tad bit jealous. He’d rather you spend the night on the toilet than in my bed.”
Her reply has my emotions unsure which way to swing. I want to remove Ty’s smug grin with my fists, but I’m smiling just as smugly, stoked as fuck he too could feel the sexual chemistry bristling between Demi and me even with him only being in our monarchy for a couple of seconds. It makes me confident I made the right decision putting Demi before my fight tonight.
My eyes shoot back to Demi when she says, “By the way, Ty is gay. He isn’t saving me from you, Maddox. He’s saving you for himself.”
After hitting me with a frisky wink, loving my gaped jaw, she saunters back into the kitchen with the spring her step was missing when she left me gobsmacked only an hour ago.
4
Maddox
“How was your meal?”
I raise my eyes from my spotlessly clean plate to Demi. Even with her spending a majority of the past two hours in the kitchen, the electricity brewing between us is at an explosive point. The restaurant is full of patrons, so the floor staff enters and exits the kitchen every couple of minutes. Without fail, my eyes forever land on Demi’s between the swings of the door. She also hand-delivered my specially-crafted meal, so my stalker watch hasn’t just occurred from afar. It has also been front and center for the world to see.
After propping her slim hip onto the chair across from mine, Demi says, “You’ll be pleased to know it was snail free. I slipped them into Mr. Mosey’s dish after he complained the tomato paste wasn’t tomatoey enough for him.”
After laughing at her comment, I show her my spotless plate. “I think my plate speaks on my behalf, but in case it doesn’t, my meal was so delicious, I licked the fucker clean.” I grimace when my swear word gains me the stink eye of a group of elderly ladies on my right. “Sorry. My mom often threatens to wash my mouth out with soap. She just can’t bring herself to do it. I could be the biggest asshole in the world, but she’ll never see it.”
“If swearing is the worst thing you’ve done, I understand your mom’s objective.” After gathering up my dirty dishes like she’s one of the waitstaff, Demi locks her eyes with mine. “Dessert?”
I could be completely off the mark, but I swear her question is laced with hidden innuendo.
Always willing to push the boundaries, I test the theory. “What’s on the menu?”
There’s no doubt about my assumption when my gravelly reply causes Demi to pull her knees together. It’s the same heated, knee-knocking response she gave when I banded my arm around her waist earlier today.
After spotting my grin no amount of salt could tarnish, Demi balances my dirty dishes in one hand before she thrusts a dessert menu into my face. “You can pick something scrumptious off this…”
People who haven’t watched her for as long as I have could mistake her pause as allowing me the chance to reply. I’m not close to reaching that conclusion. She wants to say more, but she’s forever cautious she is about to make a mistake. It’s very much a Demi trait.
Although I could let her off the hook by ordering the first dish my eyes stumble upon, I strongly believe forcing her out of her comfort zone will do more good than harm.
“Or?” I ask like she left her comment hanging.
“Or…” she follows along nicely. “There’s an ice cream parlor a couple of blocks over. I’ve heard their vanilla cones are to die for.”
I can’t hold back my smile, so I let it free. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She bobs her head in sync with mine. “If you want. No pressure or anyth—” I steal her words by slotting the dessert menu back into its holder then standing to my feet. “Oh, I can’t leave now. I have to finish my shift.”
“I know.” I take a moment to relish the disappointment in her tone before saying, “But I see us getting out of here a lot quicker if I take care of them for you.”
When I nudge my head to the dirty dishes in her hand, her cheeks glow. “I can’t let you wash the dishes, Maddox.”
“Why not?” I ask while transferring the mess from her hands to mine. “If it’s good for you, it’s good for me.”
Demi doesn’t just cook here. She waits the tables, cleans the dishes, and turns a blind eye to the many shady deals that occur here every weekend, yet I’ve not once seen her accept a tip. Even the ones from the patrons who can’t take no for an answer are placed into the tip jar at the front of the bar.
With Demi too stunned to talk, I steer our walk into the industrial kitchen. Some of the waiters eyeball me with confusion. The twinkle in their narrowed gazes switches to amused when I fill the stainless-steel sink at the side of the large space with soapy water. They think I can’t afford the bill for my one-of-a-kind meal. If it keeps news of my backstage tour from Demi’s uncle’s ears, I’m more than happy for them to believe I’m poor.
“Is that it?”
“I think so.” Demi swings her eyes around the sparkling clean and empty kitchen before returning them to me. Even donning the apron she handed me partway through my new career as a dishwasher hasn’t stopped the front of my gym shorts from being soaked.
I take a couple of seconds to relish her hidden smile before asking, “It looks like I pissed my pants, doesn’t it?”
“No,” she replies while nodding, incapable of lying directly to my face.
When I arch a brow at her, calling out her deceit, she sets her smile free. It’s her biggest one tonight. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I whip her backside with the tea towel I haven’t been without for the past three hours. When it cracks on her backside, she squeals before darting to the other side of the kitchen. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”
“It’s not a secret if it’s untrue.” I follow her around the kitchen, playfully whipping her another two times before my campaign to whip her into line is ended by her splatting a handful of bubbles in my face.
When my exhale replicates a bubble machine on the brink of running out of detergent, the happy gleam in Demi’s eyes the past six hours amplifies. I haven’t seen her wear this look in years, and it’s taking everything I have not to ask her exactly how long it’s been. I wouldn’t hesitate if tonight were about re-hatching old memories, but I want us to create new ones.
“You know I’m going to need to retaliate, right?” I speak through the ghastly smelling bubbles coating my lips. I’ve got enough suds on my face to scrub my mind clean of the many inappropriate thoughts I’m currently having. In case you’re wondering, every one of them features Demi. “It’s a Walsh trait. We don’t let anything slide.”