It’s him.
Crazy as it sounded, I could feel whenever he approached. I clutched my dust cloth when his low, commanding voice washed over the air and etched into my skin.
“Melinda, help the hostesses roll some more silverware, will you?”
Devlin Calvary. General manager of Oak & Sage, though I would swear he couldn’t be much older than my twenty-two years. The youngest man who’d ever been in charge of my paycheck was dressed in a suit. He always wore suits rather than the khaki-and-button-down-shirt combo Chet wore. I guess to show he was in charge. But let me tell you, Devlin didn’t need a suit to alert anyone of his authority.
I ran a gaze up and down the length of his lean body, appreciating his height, broad shoulders, and the air of power and control emanating off him like expensive cologne.
When his long, dark lashes gave me a once-over, I felt my throat close off. I’d been introduced to him in passing when Chet hired me. Devlin had merely tipped his chin in acknowledgment.
He hadn’t spoken a word to me since.
“Sure thing.” Melinda pointed to me. “Unless you’d rather Rena do it. She doesn’t know how to do anything else.”
I glared at her, but she didn’t see me, as she was attempting to blind him with the bazillion-watt smile pulling her shiny, red lips. Devlin’s bored expression remained, his chiseled jaw firm.
“Just you. Rena’s…” He lifted his brows and studied the cloth I’d clutched against my chest like a kerchief. “…petting the plants.”
Melinda snapped her head around to me, her dark blond ponytail flicking behind her like the end of a very short whip. He walked away and I continued “petting” the fake orchid in front of me as I watched his legs eat up the long aisle leading to the kitchen.
“You may as well forget about whatever fantasy you’re cooking in your head,” she sneered.
I shook my head in fervent denial—like I suffered any delusions that someone as hot and powerful as Devlin might look at me twice. I knew who I was. I wasn’t the type of girl who snagged the attention of a guy like him.
“He doesn’t date the help,” she continued. “He flirts with me, but I’d never.” She cut a look in the direction he’d disappeared, biting her lip. A brief flicker of longing lit her hazel eyes before she muttered, “I don’t have any interest in him.”
Oh, the lies she told. I rolled my eyes as she walked to the hostess station. I knew damn well that Melinda, or any other female in this restaurant, would trade an ovary to be under Devlin’s intense blue-eyed stare for fifteen minutes.
To be under him, period.
Devlin
I cut through the clatter of silverware and tinkling of crystal glasses wearing a smile on my face. Oak & Sage Restaurant had been my second home for as long as I could remember. My dad opened it when I was in diapers, and I’d cut my teeth on the corner of table 31. You could say I was born into this life. Along the way, I had inherited another.
We were busy tonight, even by Thursday standards. I smoothed my tie and buttoned my jacket. As I stepped out of the way of an incoming server carrying a platter of ribs, I nodded at the guy sitting at table 31. Benny was one of the regulars, his shirt buttons nearly popping as he polished off a very large piece of chocolate cake. He lifted his fork to signal he had money for me, but my sights were set on Sal Crawford, the older man at table 36.
Mr. Crawford sawed into an overcooked rib eye—why patrons insisted on ruining a forty-dollar steak by ordering it well-done was beyond me—and gestured at his wife, who primly flaked her salmon and listened with half an ear.
I’d never be the kind of prick to say I had it all, but I had it pretty damn good. When my father died, he left Oak & Sage to me. I was eighteen at the time, and his friend, Sonny Laurence, taught me the ropes of running a restaurant. Thanks to our history, and my being Sonny’s go-to guy in this small town, I knew every degenerate who placed bets within a fifty-mile radius.
But “degenerate” wasn’t a term I’d use to describe the Crawfords. They were wealthy, thanks in part to me, I reminded myself as I approached the table. Which made this visit almost pleasant.
“Sal.”
“Devlin,” he greeted, cheeks rosy from the bottle of Merlot on the table. At my arrival, his wife perked up, batting her lashes and adjusting her pearls. Never mind I’m thirty years her junior, Annabelle Crawford would have me for dinner instead of the fish if I said yes.
I wouldn’t.
He patted his mouth with a black cloth napkin as I leaned over the table and winked at his wife. “Anna. Looking beautiful this evening.” My lips tipped into a wry smile and her hand landed on mine.
“Oh, you.” She toyed with one of her earrings. Women were one of the things I was really good at. The other was what I did to them to make them howl. Too bad for Anna. Another ten years closer to my age and I could’ve had her clawing the bedsheets.
“I believe we have business to attend to,” I told Sal. Mrs. Crawford fished a small compact from her giant purse and powdered her nose, intent on ignoring this part of the meal.
He nodded, his lips twitching slightly at the sides. I made people nervous. Not that I was some massive block of muscle with a thrice-broken nose or anything, but I was the man with the power. I carried the weight of Sonny Laurence, and had a frame that was six-two and two-twenty to back that up. In a town like Ridgeway, Ohio, reputation was worth more than any fortune Crawford could amass.
“Next time”—I reached into my jacket pocket and Sal’s eyes widened the slightest bit—“I’ll be the one collecting from you.” I proffered an envelope with curly gold script on it that read, Gift Certificate, but we both knew it contained a few cool thousand Crawford had won fair and square. “Sonny says hello.” Which was code for, Call him to place a bet today.
Sal smiled, receiving the message, and accepted the envelope. Mrs. Crawford shut her compact with a snap. I pressed my palms together in typical manager-of-a-restaurant fashion and said, “Your meal is on me this evening.” I raised a brow at Sal. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” I flicked a glance at the envelope.
“A pleasure, Mr. Calvary.” He nodded. Once. A sign he’d be calling Sonny later to give back some of those crisp hundreds in his hand now.
I turned for Benny’s table to relieve him of the eight hundred dollars he owed Sonny feeling the slightest bit smug. Sal had addressed me as Mr. Calvary. Twenty-four years old and I garnered more respect than an orphaned kid from West End had ever dreamed.
This was the game. Thanks to Sonny, a game I’d mastered.
Rena
My fingers shook over the computer screen as my mind threw information at me at ninety miles a minute. I looked down at the scrap of paper where I’d written my table’s order, and suddenly, I couldn’t make out my own handwriting.
Is that an L or an R?
A server behind me huffed his frustration. I blew out a breath and closed my eyes, willing my pounding heart to calm.
You’ve been through worse traumas than the Thursday night rush at a restaurant.
So much worse.
Centered by that reality, I threw the guy behind me a smile. He shook his head. I was the new girl impeding his progress and he didn’t appreciate my learning on his time. After I’d keyed in the last dish, I realized I had no idea how to take an item off the baked potato. I practically felt the angry vibrations at my back as I navigated out of one menu and clicked on another.
Beside me, a few other servers blurred by, shouting to the guys on the line, filling baskets with warm bread, and calling “Corner!” as they rounded the blind-spot wall leading to the dining room.
It had to be here somewhere. Sour cream, sour cream…
“Come on!” the impatient server behind me shouted.
I flinched, backing out of the on-screen menu and preparing to let the server go ahead of me when a hand landed on the touch screen in front of my face. A wide hand with blunt nails, not perfectly manicured. I caught the fl
ash of a black opal cuff link as the jacket slid away when he tapped the screen, selecting three buttons I couldn’t have told you the name of if you put a gun to my head.
I inhaled, the smell of soap obliterating the cacophony of food smells behind me. There was only the scent of clean man, only the feel of heat enveloping my body.
I peeked over and caught the sharp angle of Devlin’s jaw, full lips, and lashes shadowing his cheeks as he squinted in concentration. He flicked a look over to me, those summer-sky-blue eyes freezing me in place as I struggled to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I’d been doing it since birth but somehow needed to remind my lungs how to pull in air.
With a blink, he turned back to the screen, punched the order in and brushed by, just a whisper of expensive suit against my restaurant-issued, dry-cleaned cotton shirt.
“Move!” came the server’s shout behind me.
I stepped aside, shakily closing my little black waitress book. I hazarded a glance to the side and saw Devlin’s tall form disappearing around the corner, and my heart leapt into my throat.
Devlin. Since I’d started working here last week, he’d been occupying my mind. Which might have explained why I still couldn’t navigate the touch screens. His medium-length black hair and contoured lips were distractions. Even if he hadn’t had a pair of cerulean blues or walked with a proud, straight back, his face set like steel, there was something about him I responded to. On a cellular level.
I’d gone home after my first shift wishing I could have met him at a bar instead of a restaurant where he was my boss, but then, I’d never have been as close to him in a bar as I had been a moment ago. Outside of this restaurant, his arms would be dripping with elegant women, and there was no way I’d be one of them.
Devlin Calvary was best left to the fantasies of my feeble mind, not the reality before me.
“Whose side work is butter?” The shout sliced through the kitchen and brought me out of my daydream.
“M–me.” I raised my hand as I turned toward the voice.
Melinda stood at the computer, hands on her hips, looking disappointed. Her brows slammed down and she banged an order into the touch screen with blurring speed.
“Remember your training?” she asked without looking at me. “You have to do your side work in between taking care of your tables.”
Heat reddened my face from a combination of anger and embarrassment, but I stayed silent.
She faced me, her full-frontal fury intimidating, but I straightened my shoulders, refusing to become her whipping girl because she’d been given an ounce of power. She lifted a small ramekin of whipped butter—the last one—from a tray next to the bread oven, then tipped the stainless steel mixing bowl next to it to show me it was empty.
“I’ll take care of it.” I didn’t have time to “take care of it,” though. One of my tables needed a refill. I can handle this. I closed my eyes and thought of Joshua’s funeral.
Whenever I was about to blow something out of proportion, I thought of that day. Joshua’s accident had been the most defining moment of my life. Thinking of him lying there helped me realize that whatever was upsetting me wasn’t important in the grander scheme. Remembering how I’d survived the loss of the boy I’d loved for two years helped me stay strong.
The Butter Crisis paled in comparison.
Perspective in place, I walked to the back of the kitchen, stopping short for the dishwasher hurrying by with a stack of platters. Sidestepping him, I turned and nearly ran into the guy at the fryer dropping a batch of soft-shell crabs into a basket.
I will survive this night if it kills me.
And it might.
A broad, well-dressed chest rounded a wall without the helpful call of “Corner!” they’d taught me on my first day. Had I not been seeing red, I might have recognized the blur for what it was—a tie. I didn’t put “tie” and “Devlin” together until after I’d growled, “Excuse me!”
I craned my head, locking eyes with him. His dark eyebrows shot to his hairline, then lowered over his nose.
“Yes. Excuse you.” This might’ve been the first time he’d spoken to me. I swallowed thickly, displaced attraction flooding my chest.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I—butter.” I stepped past him, wincing as I ducked into the walk-in refrigerator. Hopefully the temperature in here would cool my flaming face.
I butter? Really? That’s what I’d replied?
I scanned the plastic bins on the shelves. Some were filled with soaking potatoes soon to be fries, others held fillets of fish on ice, and still others, cut vegetables. As I searched, I muttered “Diet Coke” to myself. That’s why I’d come in the kitchen to begin with. To put in the order and take the woman at table 29 a refill. How many minutes had I been back here now? “Shoot.”
I started to give up and rush from the fridge, but stopped short when Devlin entered, the door whispering shut behind him. The space was large enough for two people, three or four actually, but him in that cool space made it shrink.
The several feet separating us crackled with awareness, and my breaths went shallow again. I hadn’t been aware of a man in four years. Part of my self-imposed penance for leading Joshua astray, for leading the golden boy down the road of ruin, had been to avoid men altogether.
Devlin came deeper into the cooler and I backed up, my ass hitting the shelf behind me. He penetrated my personal space, leaning over me without touching me, his heat blanketing my side. He pulled down a stainless steel bowl wrapped with cellophane, his eyes on mine as he handed it over. I took it, allowing a brief inventory of my helper. Charcoal suit, red patterned tie, shiny shoes. Every inch of him smacked of warmth and power and…
Danger.
My earlier thoughts of Joshua scattered in the wake of Devlin’s presence like a flock of birds spooked by a sound. Joshua’s smile, abandoned for the full set of Devlin’s unsmiling lips. Joshua’s jovial laugh for Devlin’s silence. Joshua’s cold, still body, the color of clay, for Devlin’s sun-kissed skin and thick black lashes.
“What table?” he asked.
My forehead pulled in confusion.
His nostrils flared, his beautiful face hardening like stone. “Diet Coke. What table?”
Oh. Right. “Twenty-nine.”
He left while I remained, metal bowl filled with whipped butter in my hand, my jaw slack. Maybe tomorrow would be better. I yanked the door open and headed into the bustle of the kitchen, nearly plowing into one of the servers yelling for butter.
Then again, maybe not.
Don’t miss Devlin’s and Rena’s journey to happily ever after! Purchase Daring Devlin today.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my friend and speech guru, Amy Wade, for your advice and guidance on the type of accident that ultimately stole Cade’s speech, and to Jeannie Moon for your input on physical therapy assistants. (All errors are mine.) Thanks, too, to editor Jennifer Miller for your guidance on this one. I really appreciate your eagle eye! As always, thanks to Nicole Resciniti, advice givers Lauren Layne and Shannon Richard, and readers everywhere who continue to read and support me. I couldn’t do this—any of it—without you.
About the Author
A former job-hopper, Jessica Lemmon resides in Ohio with her husband and rescue dog. She holds a degree in graphic design currently gathering dust in an impressive frame. When she’s not writing super-sexy heroes, she can be found cooking, drawing, drinking coffee (okay, wine), and eating potato chips. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.
Jessica loves to hear from readers. You can learn more about her at www.jessicalemmon.com.
Also by Jessica Lemmon
New Adult Novels
A dark, suspenseful standalone
Forgotten Promises
Lost Boys
Daring Devlin
Craving Caden
Contemporary Romance Novels
Blue Collar Billionaires
&
nbsp; Once Upon a Billionaire
Charmed by the Billionaire
Billionaire Ever After
Evergreen Cove
Bad Boy Blues
Billionaire Bad Boys
The Billionaire Bachelor
The Billionaire Next Door
The Bastard Billionaire
A Crane Family Christmas (A holiday short)
For a completely updated list of book releases, go to www.jessicalemmon.com.
Some of these titles have been adapted into interactive games. To play, download the Chapters Interactive app on your device.
Craving Caden (Lost Boys Book 2) Page 18