Piece by Piece

by Kaylee Ryan

  Piece by Piece

  Kaylee Ryan

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  More from Kaylee

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright © 2020 Kaylee Ryan

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of Kaylee Ryan, except for the use of brief quotations in articles and or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, locations, businesses and plot are products of the author’s imagination and meant to be used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events throughout the story are purely coincidental. The author acknowledges trademark owners and trademarked status of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks are not authorized, sponsored or associated by or with the trademark owners.

  The following story contains sexual situations and strong language. It is intended for adult readers.

  Cover Design: Lori Jackson Design

  Cover Photography: Golden Czermak

  Cover Model: Kevin Lajeunesse

  Editor: Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreading: Deaton Author Services

  Paperback Formatting: Integrity Formatting

  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.
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  “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.

  My head pops up to find him standing before me. “I’m sorry.” I move to rise from the booth, and he raises his hand to stop me, his eyes dropping to my feet. “I’ve left money on the table to cover the bill.” His eyes wander up my body back to my face.

  “T-Thank you. Have a great night.” His reply is to nod and walk out the door. Grabbing a tray, I make my way back to his table. Loading up his leftover dishes, I lift his plate and find two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s standing there watching me, but he’s not. It’s just me in the VIP room. His bill could not have been more than fifty dollars. My hands shake as I tuck the money into my apron. I’m embarrassed and grateful all at once. As quickly as I can, I clean off his table and drop the dishes off to the kitchen. Pulling up his bill, I shake my head when I see it was under fifty dollars. Pulling one of the hundreds out of my pocket, I cash out his check and pocket the remaining change. Quickly, yet efficiently, I rush through my closing procedure on the register, lock the money in the safe, and finally, I can head home.

  “You ready to head out?” Ronnie asks, appearing beside me.

  “Yes, you?” He holds his arm out for me, and I don’t hesitate to slip mine through his.

  He makes sure that he walks me to my car every night. No matter how many times I tell him I’m fine. He insists. On the nights we’re not on the same shift, he always calls to make sure one of the other guys walks me out. He worries when he doesn’t need to. “How was it tonight?” he asks.

  “Good. It was busy, but that’s good for tips.”

  “Was that last guy bothering you?” he asks, his fatherly concern stirring my already haggard emotions from the night.

  “Not at all. He, uh, he noticed my shoes were hurting my feet. He simply saved me a trip,” I confess.

  “Layla, if you need help,” he offers, just as he has so many times before. My heart swells with love for him and the support he’s always given me.

  “Thank you, Ronnie, but I’m holding my own.”

  “You’ll tell me if you need anything? Linda and I will do anything we can.”

  “I know you would. I can’t tell you how much that means to me, but I’m doing okay. Things are tight, but I live on my own, that’s to be expected.”

  “You deserve better,” he says, his jaw clenching. Ronnie and his wife, Linda, invited me to dinner my first Thanksgiving here in Florida. When they found out I was spending the day alone, they refused to take no for an answer. Since then, they’ve become like family to me. They are the only people here who know of my sordid past. Of the family I was born into, and the reason I’m here in Florida all on my own.

  “Hey now…” I lean into him as we approach my beat-up Honda Civic. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?”

  He chuckles. “My wife is rubbing off on you.”

  “Full of wisdom.” I laugh. Linda is the most positive person I know. No matter how hard things get, she has a glass-half-full optimism. I try to pull from her strength. Lord knows my own mother is no kind of role model.

  “That she is,” he says as I step out of his hold. “You drive safe.” He stands back while I climb in and shut the door. With a wave through the windshield, I start my car and lock the doors. Only then does he head to his own vehicle. Once he’s settled, and his headlights come on, I pull out, with Ronnie pulling out behind me.

  It’s nice to know that I have someone out there who cares enough to worry. It’s a new concept for me, and it’s taken me a while to accept that they’re doing it because they do care. When you grow up in a home without love, you don’t really recognize it. I was lucky enough to land a job in the kitchen, washing dishes seven years ago. I was eighteen years old and on my own. I fled Indiana the day they handed me my high school diploma, and I’ve never looked back. Not that I needed to. There is no one following me, wondering where I am.

  Chapter 2

  Layla

  “Layla, you have a party of one in VIP,” Maria says as I pass her on my way to the kitchen.

  “I’m not on VIP tonight,” I remind her. We switch off weekends due to the tips, and I had VIP last Friday, and then there’s my solo customer I’ve had every night this week.

  She shrugs. “He requested you.”

  Blue Eyes.

  I’m sure it’s him. I’ve worked here for seven years, and he’s the first to request me specifically.

  “Of course he requested me,” I say under my breath, grabbing a menu, silverware, and a glass of water.

  “He’s hot. Let me tell you, if you’re not interested, I am. That man is fine,” she says, waving her hands in front of her face as if they would cool her down.

  My heart rate spikes, and nerves start to set in. It’s been this way every night I’ve worked for the last week. He comes in late, sits in VIP, and asks for me. I don’t know who he is or what he’s after, but I’m thankful for him and his generous tips, even though I can’t keep accepting them. It’s too much. Standing tall, well, as tall as my five-foot-six frame can stand, I head to the VIP section. As soon as I enter the room, I see him. As before, he’s staring down at his phone. He’s sitting at the same table in the back of the room. Tonight, however, there are two other tables that are occupied.

  “Welcome to the Emerald Entrée, my name is Layla. I’ll be your server this evening,” I say, trying to remain professional, placing his menu, silverware, and glass of water on the table.

  “Layla.” He looks up, and once again, I’m captivated by those blue eyes.

  “Hi.” I wave, making the moment even more awkward. Reaching into my apron, I grab my pad and paper. “Would you like an appetizer?” I ask, getting right down to business.

  When he doesn’t reply, I look up to find him staring at my same pair of worn-out shoes. The same pair of shoes he’s looked at every time he’s been here, in this exact seat. “We have pretzel bites on special tonight,” I continue to ramble on.

  “I’ll have…” He looks up, and my breath hitches in my throat. I manage to write down his order as he lists the exact same meal—the one I have memorized. His blue eyes are intense, and it makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. Well, other than the fact that I still have the same shoes on my feet. I’d love to know what he’s thinking. Then again, the way he was just staring at my feet with a scowl on his face, maybe not.

  “And to drink?” I ask him.

  “Water.”

  “Of course, I’ll get this put in and have your salad right out.” I turn and walk away, mindful that
his eyes are on me. I can feel his stare. Typing his order into the computer, I go gather his salad and another fresh glass of water. “Here you go,” I say, setting it in front of him.

  “Tell me, Layla, have you worked here long?” he asks. He’s been making small talk all week. What is there to do in the area? How far to the nearest mall? Questions that surprise me coming from him, but ones we get from tourists all the time. Well, until this one.

  I look around and realize the other diners have left, and it’s just the two of us. “I have. I just had my seven-year anniversary.”

  He nods. “Do you like working here?”

  He’s not giving me the creep vibe, but I’m still uneasy with his questions. “I do. I needed a job, and the Emerald gave me a shot. I’ve been here ever since.” Taking a deep breath, I internally chastise myself. I don’t know why I just blabbed all of that.

  “I’ll go check on your meal. Enjoy,” I say, turning away before he can ask another question, and I spill my life story. It’s those eyes. He could get me to tell him anything. He should work for the CIA or something. Hell, he might, I know nothing about him. I don’t even know his name.

  I busy myself with my other tables, and this time when I drop off his meal, he’s on the phone having a conversation, so I’m able to drop off his food, along with steak sauce, a refill, extra napkins, and rush off. I don’t know what it is, but there is something about him. It’s as if his presence alone is commanding. I check on my other tables, then head back to his, hoping that he’s still occupied with his call.