CHAPTER ONE
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
I slip my pen into my apron and rest my elbow on the bar. “And I take it you’re the single man in this particular instance?”
“I am,” says the new guy with all due seriousness.
“Any ideas who the lucky lady will be?”
“You.”
“Huh.” I frown, feeling mostly bemused. My Jane Austen T-shirt aside, this seems a little excessive. “Has this ever worked for you as a pickup line?”
“Never tried it before. How am I doing?”
“Well, there’s one main problem.”
“Just one?”
“Not to come across as a gold digger or anything, but since you raised the subject, you get that I’m going to need proof of this supposed fortune, right?” I ask. “What with you currently working as a busboy and all.”
“Harsh, but I can see where you’re coming from. What evidence do you need?”
At the other end of the bar, the manager pours a drink while not so subtly watching us out of the corner of his eye. Same goes for the other waitress on duty. Perhaps they dared him to talk to me. Bet him whatever amount of dollars to see if he can get me to agree to a date before standing me up and making me look the fool. Nothing surprises me here. There are reasons staff turnover is so high. For starters, Rob, the manager and owner of the dive bar, is an asshole who enjoys being unreasonable and inflicting his shitty sense of humor on others. While Kari, his new girlfriend and my fellow waitress, is somewhat of a raging bitch.
Not that the new dude isn’t cute. Don’t get me wrong; his attentions aren’t entirely unwelcome. Truth be told, I’ve been oh-so-subtly checking him out ever since my shift started. He’s in his mid to late twenties, at a guess. And I’ve been observing how good his rear looks encased in faded denim as he bends over tables to wipe them down. I’ve noticed the cool-looking tattoo only half-visible beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. Then there’s the way his thick longish dark hair has a tendency to artfully fall over his forehead as if he were some cinematic hero.
As for his face, let’s just say he has a nice one.
So given that he’s about a ten physically, and I’m a high six at most, you can understand my suspicions. But we haven’t hit the evening rush yet and time feels like it’s crawling, so the new busboy is pretty much the highlight of my shift. And a little harmless flirting can be fun. Especially when the dude knows Austen and the work environment is as dire as this one.
“Let me think.” I give my long blond braid a tug. “Asking to see bank statements seems crass. Also, they could be falsified.”
“True.”
“But bringing me a suitcase full of cash seems…excessive.”
“Probably be really heavy too.”
“Hmm.”
He sighs. “Tell you what, why don’t I just go ahead and get you a ring?”
“You mean an engagement ring to celebrate our impending nuptials?”
“Right.” He crosses his arms. And I did not get distracted by the movement of his muscles beneath his tanned golden skin. Nope. Like the well-bred young lady I am, I keep my gaze glued to his pretty green eyes. “What if I prove my good fortune and excessive wealth by buying you the perfect ring?”
“All right, then. Just make sure you get something big and flashy without being ostentatious or over the top. No one likes that.”
“Understood.”
“Great. Materialistic, but acceptable. What was your name again, good sir?”
“Beck.” He holds out his hand and we shake. His hand is big and his grip firm, but not overly so. “Can I just call you ‘wife’? That’s easy to remember.”
“Ha. I’m—”
“Alice. I know.”
“Nice to meet you, Beck.” I retrieve my hand and pull my pad and pen out of my apron. “Now, as great as this has been, I have customers to serve.”
“One last question. Would you like to go out sometime? With me?”
I pause.
“I hear they have great coffee and pie at the bakery.”
“Yes, they do. But I don’t think we should move too fast. We’ve only just settled the marriage question. Already moving on to coffee seems like a big step.”
“That’s a fair point and I certainly wouldn’t want to rush things. It’s just that there are a few things I’d like to discuss regarding our upcoming nuptials. The floral arrangements, in particular. You can never start planning that too early. What font to put on the invitation. That’s a close second. You can’t just roll with Comic Sans and think it’s going to be okay. Then of course there’s your trousseau to be organized. I could help with that.” He’s amusing, I’ll give him that. But are his intentions pure? That’s the question. “What do you say, wife?”
“I’ll think about it.”
And oh what a smile. The swoon is strong with this one. “Good.”
The bar is located way back from the water. It also lacks the wine or craft beers list that other, cooler bars in the Santa Monica area have. Our clientele reflects this. We’ve had a busy night with the regular crowd shuffling in along with tourists in search of cheap beer, loud music, and big-screen TVs.
Regulars and those wanting service this century sit in my section. My tips are okay. I’m polite and affable, without being overly familiar. It’s a fine line. Some dickheads, however, will never understand that being a waitress doesn’t mean you’re there for their sexual gratification. Tonight, that dickhead’s name is Phil.
“There you go, sweet-thing,” he says as he drops the twenty-dollar bill onto the ground. “Oops. How clumsy of me.”
This is not a new game. I keep the smile plastered on my face as I pick up the money. I crouch down, one hand holding my shirt in place to avoid gifting the asshole a shot of my bountiful cleavage (a common habit among bargirls). But there’s nothing I can do to stop my black jeans (dark colors match my soul and it’s important to accessorize) tightening over my equally bountiful ass. Most likely, watching me do this is as close as this man ever gets to real live action. Phil is a sad sack of shit.
“Keep the change,” he says, licking his lips.
As tempting as it is to smack him upside the head, I smile and walk away.
“Don’t,” says a deep voice behind me.
Next comes Phil’s outraged spluttering. “Get your damn hands off me!”
“You don’t touch her.” Beck’s grip on the dickhead’s arm is fierce. And Phil is no match for the new guy. “Not without her permission.”
“I wasn’t gonna—”
“You were.”
“What’s the problem?” Rob appears all red in the face from hauling his ass out from behind the bar in a rush. “Beck, Jesus, let him go. Phil, buddy, you okay?”
“This idiot just assaulted me.” Phil puffs himself up, rubbing at the red marks on his arm. “Almost ripped my arm off.”
“He was going to grab her ass,” says Beck, voice tense.