Chapter 1
Layla
Glancing at the clock, I see it’s almost closing time. I usually don’t mind the late-night weekend shifts. Tonight, however, has been a nonstop flow, and my feet are killing me. I know it’s my shoes; they’re a couple of years old, and I wear them every day that I work, which with all the extra shifts I take is a lot. Unfortunately, new shoes are not in the budget. Besides, the tips are always better on the weekends and especially at night. The more they drink, the more they tip. I live paycheck to paycheck, so every dollar counts.
“Layla, VIP suite, a party of one,” my coworker, Oliver, calls out for me.
I sigh. He knows damn well it’s his turn, but I bite my tongue, grabbing a menu and a glass of water and head that way. The VIP suite is always good for tips. It’s a small room of only ten tables that are spread out far enough to enjoy private conversations. I’ve seen more proposals in that room than I can count. My guess is since it’s a party of one, Oliver didn’t feel it was worth his time. He’s living on Mommy and Daddy’s dime while in college. He’s only here to appease them. That’s not me making things up—he himself will tell you. I, on the other hand, do not have the luxury of being that choosy. I take all the tables I can get.
The VIP suite is empty with the exception of a single man sitting with his head down, staring at the phone in his hands. “Welcome to the Emerald Entrée. My name is Layla. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?” I ask him. I set the glass of water on a coaster and place his menu on the table. Grabbing my order pad and pen out of my apron, I wait patiently for him to look up at me.
“What do you suggest?” he asks, still looking at his phone.
His voice is deep and sexy. He’s in a business suit, but he’s removed his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons. He looks officially sexy if that’s a thing. I open my mouth to give him my usual spiel about the filet mignon or the grilled salmon, but he looks up at me, and all the breath leaves my lungs. I stumble a little and have to brace myself by placing my hand on his table. He’s gorgeous. Dark hair, with a thick beard covering his face. Intense blue eyes that I could easily get lost in. I see lots of good-looking guys come in here daily, but this guy… he’s hands down the sexiest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Layla,” he says, his deep timbre giving life to my name.
“I-I’m sorry.” I then ramble off a few of our most popular menu items.
“Filet is fine. Well done, salad, no dressing, and broccoli,” he says without even opening the menu.
“And to drink?” I manage to ask.
“Water is fine. Thank you, Layla.” A smile tilts his lips as he hands me his menu.
“T-Thank you. I’ll have your salad right out.” I take the menu and rush out of the room. I get his order keyed in and grab a salad, along with a fresh glass of water and head back to his table. This time I’m more composed. “I’ll be back with some fresh rolls. They just need a few more minutes,” I say when I reach his table.
He nods his acceptance but doesn’t say anything. I can feel those blue eyes on me, and it’s unnerving. Pushing through, head held high, I manage to set his fresh water and salad on the table without making a fool of myself and spilling or dropping it. Then rush away.
“I’m heading out, you good?” Oliver asks me as soon as I step back into the kitchen.
“You’re leaving early?” I don’t know why I bother to state the obvious. This is nothing new for Oliver.
“Yep, all cashed out. The only customer left is yours in VIP. Doors lock in fifteen,” he says, waving over his shoulder.
My aching feet want me to shove my worn-out size eights up his ass. Instead, I take a seat at a table near the kitchen and start to roll silverware into our cloth napkins. Maybe five minutes have passed, but I feel like I should go check on blue eyes. With an internal groan, I stand and make my way to his table, which is in the back of the restaurant.
“I can take that for you,” I say, reaching his table. I grab his now empty salad bowl. “Is there anything else I can get you? Your meal should be right up.”
“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks bluntly.
“I’m sorry?” I stand a little taller.
“You’re limping.” With a nod of his head, he motions toward my feet.
Heat floods my cheeks as embarrassment washes over me. “No, just need some new shoes,” I say cheerily. I want to run from his table, but that’s unprofessional, and I refuse to let him make me feel as though I’m beneath him. “Would you like steak sauce with your steak?” I ask, changing the subject. My voice is strong, even though my insides are shaking from humiliation.
“Yes, please,” he says, his blue eyes lifting to my face.
I nod, turn on my heel and walk at a normal pace to the kitchen, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to keep the limp at bay. Damnit. Time to check my credit card and see if I can fit in a cheap pair of shoes. Although, that’s part of my problem. The cheap ones wear out faster. Not much I can do about that when it’s all that I can afford, and I’m lucky to work that into my budget.
Dropping his salad bowl off in the kitchen, I check with the cook on his steak and go lock the front doors. I can’t cash out my register yet, and surprisingly, Oliver actually wiped down his tables and has his closing prep done. I’m thankful we don’t have to stick around and clean. The dishwasher does, but he was almost caught up when I dropped off the salad bowl. We have a cleaning crew that comes in each night and scrubs this place spotless. I’ve helped out a few times when they were shorthanded.
“Layla, order up,” the cook calls out for me. I rise from my seat where I was rolling more silverware. “Kitchen’s closed. We can do dessert if we need to,” he tells me when I place Blue Eyes’ meal on a tray.
“Thanks, Ronnie.” I give him a kind smile. He’s old enough to be my dad and treats me as though I’m his daughter. I’m grateful for that. In my experience, there are not many men out there who can be nice without wanting your body in return.
Walking back to serve him his steak, I don’t rush, to try and eliminate my limp as much as possible. “Here you go,” I say brightly. I place his plate in front of him. “This plate is really hot,” I warn him as I do all of my customers, just as I was trained to do. I set an extra cloth napkin on the table along with a bottle of steak sauce, and another fresh glass of water. “Is there anything else that I can get you?” I ask him.
“No, Layla. I’m good.” He addresses me by name. It’s the first time the sound of my name has ever sent shivers down my spine. Not in a bad way, but in a “this man affects me” kind of way.
“Great. I’ll be back to check on you.” I turn and walk away.
I busy myself wrapping silverware, staring at my watch for what feels like every thirty seconds. I don’t want to hover, and with it being closing time, that makes it look bad. There is nothing worse than your waitress hounding you a million times when you’re trying to eat.
“Thank you, Layla,” his deep timbre greets me.