He gives me a look out of the corner of his eye as if he has more to say.
“Spit it out,” I say, securing my apron around my waist.
Hopping off the counter, he hands me a pen he borrowed yesterday. “If you need me to screw a guest to take the heat off you, let me know.”
His eyebrows waggle before he walks away, and I sigh, doubting that’s what he truly wanted to say, but I appreciate the offer regardless.
The shift starts out as I expected. Hostesses skip me in the rotation, servers refuse to run my food, and they knock into me while I balance trays full of drinks. And then in the middle of it all, Mr. McGuire comes in, insisting to sit in my section again.
The fifty-something media mogul is the kind of guest to pick his favorites at the start and stick with them all season. Although, I’d happily shove him off on someone else. I might be on my way toward making several grand off him this summer, but I can’t stand the way he looks at me.
He’s about halfway through his meal when I stop to check on him, and he wipes his napkin over his mouth, openly sweeping his eyes over me.
“I missed you at the beach last night,” he says, stalled out on my legs.
“Sounds like it was a lot of fun.”
He finally makes it up to my face and grins. “I was really hoping we’d get a chance to chat away from the clanging silverware.”
And cue the creeps.
“My company takes on interns every fall across the country, and I’d love to sway you into applying for a position with us. We’re always in need of people with your assets on our team.” He winks, in case I didn’t already think he meant my physical assets.
“I really appreciate the offer, but I highly doubt I’m qualified—did you want another glass?” I ask, nodding to his wine.
He takes the last swallow before handing it to me. His fingers graze over mine, and I force a smile, stepping back until he tugs at the front of my shirt, pulling me closer.
“Careful,” he says, looking behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and notice the server I almost ran into, his hand still fisted in my shirt when my head turns back.
“Thanks.” This time I sidestep out of his grasp and wiggle his glass. “I’ll be right back with this.”
“Take your time, sweetheart.”
Walking away, I know his gaze is glued to my ass, and I have to shake off the cheap feeling it gives me. I usually consider it a hazard of the trade. Today, though, it bothers me, and I can’t tell if he’s being more handsy or I’m extra sensitive to it because of the note.
Either way, between him and all the servers, I once again make the mistake of thinking the day has hit its low point. And that’s when Cole comes into the private dining room, his sights set on me.
He ducks in close as we pass each other and whispers, “Cabot’s on the prowl.”
Shit.
When I step into the server hallway, Knox rounds the corner, and our eyes lock.
Okay, now this day can’t possibly get worse.
Chapter Sixteen
Knox
I step into the hallway just as Leighton’s bringing back an empty wine glass. She hesitates, almost missing a step when she sees me, and cautiously walks toward me, glancing for other servers.
“Can we not do this here, please?” she whispers as she reaches me.
“This is bullshit,” I hiss, staying in a hushed tone so she won’t fucking run off. “What do I need to do? Bend you over in the middle of the dining room? Then everyone will know. Problem solved.”
Her eyes snap up to mine, her jaw setting. “You’re the one who said it’s now or never, Knox. Not me. So, unless you changed your mind, I’m going to finish my shift because my boss is a fucking asshole.”
I growl as she walks away and vanishes into the kitchen. Despite how pissed off I am with her, my blood boils with every jab. A few townies scuttle through while I wait for her to reappear around the corner with a full glass of red.
“And my manager,” I whisper when she passes, “is a stubborn priss.”
She stops in her tracks and spins. “Screw you, Knox.”
“When and where, baby girl?”
Leighton nails me with a glare before she stomps into the private dining room. I watch her ass as she walks to Mr. McGuire’s table. She steps close to his chair, so she can set down his wine, and the fucker casually reaches up to squeeze the back of Leighton’s bare thigh. My jaw clenches so hard it almost breaks, and I growl, starting toward them.
“Hey,” she snaps at him.
Just as fast as she shoves his hand away, it slides back up. This time his fat fucking fingers disappear under her shorts, the blood thundering in my ears as I reach the table.
“What’s wrong, sweet—fuck!” he chokes out.
Leighton gasps when I hook an arm around her, dragging her out of the way while I grab the asshole’s hand and bend his wrist back.
“I’m sorry,” I grind out, towering over him. “Did you confuse my fucking dining room for a strip club?”
The man’s face turns red, contorting when I twist harder.
“You’re going to break my goddamn wrist,” he squeaks. He glances between me and his hand, trying to figure out how much more pressure it can take. And I’m more than willing to answer his question.
“Knox,” Leighton hisses from beside me, pulling at my arm. “Stop it.”
My eyes cut to hers, pleading with me to let go of the fucker, and I do just before I snap the third richest man in the country’s wrist like a twig.
“Get the fuck out of my resort,” I spit at him.
The entire waitstaff is in the hallway now, scattering when I storm toward them. I feel Leighton on my heels through the kitchen, following me out the door in the back, and then she dashes in front of me once we’re outside.
“What were you thinking?” she asks, her voice high. “Mr. McGuire’s—”
“Not going to lay a fucking hand on you again. He’ll probably even hesitate before groping his next server.”
“He’ll also probably charge you with assault.”
“After he assaulted one of my employees? He won’t touch that one with the prenup his wife has on him.”
People run their mouths a lot in the spa, like the filter kicks off once you reach a certain level of relaxation. With Brex close with one of the masseurs, we know more about some of these guests than their lawyers and psychiatrists combined—except the Cove employees aren’t bound by guest/staffer confidentiality.
From what McGuire said during a massage last year, his wife is waiting for him to slip up so she can divorce him with an alimony that could buy a small country quarterly. It bothered him because he wanted to fuck his secretary.
Leighton shakes her head, looking away, and I step closer until my fingers graze her arm.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” She brings her eyes back to me. “I’m fine.”