Shivers
Page 50
The cheapskate had left a fifty-cent tip.
Alfred cleaned the table, then separated the cost of the meal and his tip. The meal money he logged into the cash register and the tip he put in a little bottle and pushed it beneath the desk holding the register.
By the time lunch rolled around, he’d somehow been talked into staying through the lunch rush as well. He worked early morning so he could get his days off to do what he needed before it got dark. But, people were always asking him to do things, take shifts, cover a few hours here or there. A couple of other servers arrived for their shifts, but Alfred wasn’t friends with them. Though he said polite words, he didn’t get into any serious conversations with them.
Close to the end of the lunch traffic, a man stepped through the doors. Never in a million years had Alfred thought there was a man on the face of the earth who looked that good. The guest had full lips and a muscular frame, and Alfred could instantly feel his hole quivering. No, he couldn’t already be in lust with another man. He’d just thrown his latest disaster out of his place then threatened to stab him in the eye!
The man at the door made Alfred think dirty things—naughty, sweaty deeds that frightened him.
Alfred cleared his throat and tried looking at the guest with a clear head. He was a businessman—at least he was dressed like one. From where Alfred stood, he could tell the suit was designer. Alfred tilted his head, taking in the cool way the stranger stood by the door with one hand in his pocket. When their eyes met, Alfred grabbed two menus and hurried over.
“Welcome to Delia’s. Just you today?
“Yes,” the man replied.
That one word had so much control that a shiver rushed down Alfred’s spine. “This way please. Do you prefer a window seat or somewhere else? A booth maybe?”
“A booth is fine.”
Alfred led him to a corner booth and stepped to the side. He set one menu down and cradled the other against his chest. “The special for today is saumon fume that is served with seasonal vegetables. Would you care for something to drink?”
“Cranberry juice, please.”
Alfred nodded and hurried off.
“Sanchez isn’t here yet?” Baxter asked, reaching for another order slip.
“No.” Alfred put the drink order into the system, spared the bar area a glance then went back to the floor. He cleaned a few more tables, all the while keeping his eyes on the chocolate sex pot sitting alone at his booth, scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t reading the menu, so Alfred went back after his detour to grab the cranberry juice. At the man’s table, he cleared his throat and set the glass down before the customer.
“Are you ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?”
“What do you suggest…?” He eyed Alfred’s nametag before continuing. “Alfred?”
The way he said Alfred’s name caused Alfred to bite back a moan. He pressed his thighs tightly together and tried remembering what he liked on the menu. “Um…I never liked artichokes, but here, they make a salad— les cœurs d’artichauts vinaigrette —and it’s to die for. But you don’t look like a salad man, so let me think… How about le filet de sole amandine. It means…”
“I know what it means.” He smiled and took a breath. “I’ll have les cœurs d’artichauts vinaigrette and le filet de sole amandine.”
To say Alfred was shocked at how perfectly his guest’s lips wrapped themselves around the French would be an understatement. Somehow he managed to hide it, gathered the menu and hurried off before he made a complete fool of himself by saying something stupid. Of course Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-for-My-Suit spoke French! Every sex pot should know how to speak one of the languses de l’amour.
After putting in the order, Alfred glanced at the clock. His shift would be over in ten minutes, and whether Sanchez showed up or not, Alfred was out of there. At least that was what he’d been going to do until the hot-looking morsel had stepped through the door. His exhaustion was officially on a backseat and his lust was driving the bus. Alfred kept busy by bussing around, serving others and making sure no one else took his customer’s food to the table. When Baxter called the order, Alfred hurried over, straightened his clothes before grabbing the plates, then took them to the table. When he returned to the counter, Baxter was waiting for him.
“Your shift is over, Al,” Baxter said. “And you look like dirt. Let one of the others finish up with your table and we’ll set aside your tip.”
Though Alfred wanted to throw a tantrum, he couldn’t. There was no way he could tell Baxter that he just wanted to relish this man’s presence for a bit longer, for Alfred would probably never see the man again. Still, Alfred nodded and clocked out.
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About the Author
Multi-published Remmy Duchene was born in St. Anns, Jamaica and moved to Canada at a young age. When not working or writing, Remmy loves dabbling in photography, travelling and spending time with friends and family.
Remmy loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website details and author profile page at https://www.pride-publishing.com