Now she’s at that obnoxious, drunken stage where she no longer cares that she’s being stupid or even gives a shit about anything. All I can hope is that she’ll sober up in time for us to get going, if I can just get her away from the booze.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s just stay calm.”
“You are such a prick. You be calm,” she snaps. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Act all calm and in control all the time. Fuck that.”
Her phone beeps, and she grabs it, perfectly manicured fingers punching out an angry message at some unknown audience.
I see a blur of soft curves approach our table from the corner of my eye. I look up to see the waitress coming towards us. She’s gorgeous, even though she’s not my normal type at all: very girl next door, no make-up, and her hair clipped back out of her face. The type of gorgeous who doesn’t know it. I brush that out of my mind because, really, this is not the time, but there’s a tiny bit of my brain wondering what she’d look like out of that stupid waitress outfit she has on. She’s curvy in all the right places and has lush lips, and stop it, Knox! This is really not the time for the testosterone to be flowing.
“Two coffees, as strong as you’ve got,” I say, looking away. Jazzmene may be drunk as a skunk, but I did ask her to be my date tonight, and checking out the waitress is definitely not acceptable behavior.
“Yeah, a prick,” Jazz whines. “Taking me away from my friends, bringing me to this dump, making me drink truck-stop coffee. I want champagne, dammit.” She grabs the waitress as she walks away. “I don’t want coffee.”
“They don’t have champagne, Jazz.” That’s why I brought her here, so she couldn’t possibly buy a drink or flirt with the bartender or convince someone else to buy a round of shots.
The waitress scurries away, and I’m surprised to see my attention snagged by the sight of her ass in the slightly too short uniform. Sure, Jazzmene would turn more heads walking into a room, but it’s also obvious that a lot more money has gone into making her a perfect ten. The waitress doesn’t look like she’s spent a dime on herself.
Let’s face it, any woman who can look like sex on wheels in an unflattering polyester uniform would look good in anything… and without needing the team of designers and seamstresses that Jazzmene relies on. The waitress has curves in all the right places without even trying. Truth is, I’m also impressed that she doesn’t glance back to try to catch me looking. She’s just doing her job.
“You are a class-A prick,” complains Jazzmene, but she’s rummaging through her purse, not even looking at me. Louis Vuitton, hot pink crocodile skin, I’m pretty sure it cost more than the waitress could even imagine. I’m completely bemused by the contrast between them. She pulls out a golden tube and carefully reapplies her lipstick. “Class-A,” she repeats.
Yes, I admit, I’m a class-A, if by A she means Alpha. I make no apologies for taking charge and taking risks and taking responsibility, too. That’s what’s brought me my success. Jazzmene is clearly too used to yes-men who give her the drama she craves, but I’m not having it.
All she has to do, literally the only challenge she needs to face, is to hang on my arm and smile prettily for about three hours. Normally, I’d walk away from a drama queen like this, but I need Mrs. Scaravelli on my side. Mrs. Scaravelli’s animal shelter isn’t important to me. But the woman is one of seven people who need to sign off on my waterfront land deal, and she’s the only one with nothing to gain from the sale. Right now, my board of directors are predicting she’s going to refuse, at which point everything falls apart. I need to butter her up, at least until the deal goes through. Which shouldn’t be difficult, except now my date is drunk and unreasonable and trying to cause a scene.
“You never want me to have fun. You don’t care about anything but work. Work, work, work! You never take me out if it’s not important for work. You’ve never even once invited me up to your penthouse” Two little old ladies in the window seat look over at us with scathing glares. At me, as if she’s all my fault.
I don’t care. I let Jazz rant. It’s true, actually. My space is mine, perfectly private and without any woman leaving her things around or driving me crazy with demands. I don’t have time for much of a social life, and I’m not interested in the sort of fashionista drama that most of the city traders seem to thrive on. I certainly don’t have time for a girlfriend, despite the number of women throwing themselves at me ever since that stupid Contessa article. I am successful because I have razor-sharp focus.
Jazz gets her phone out and starts tapping something, probably telling her friends how terrible I am. Probably trying to get someone to bring her a drink. I ignore her. I’m still hoping she might sober up enough to go to the ball, although it’s looking increasingly unlikely.
There’s no shortage of society women who would be thrilled to cling to my arm, but I’m out of time. So of course, Jazzmene has chosen tonight to go off the rails. Maybe because she’s realized how important Mrs. Scaravelli is to me. Like a predator, she can smell desperation.
The waitress comes over with the coffee and a sympathetic look. Our eyes lock. My eyes drop down to her rosebud lips which look immensely kissable despite her lack of make-up, or maybe because of it. She looks like she’d get hot and sweaty without worrying about the effect on her Instagram account.
I look back up at her big, blue eyes. She holds my gaze a moment longer than she needs to.
I blink first, but then I recover. A half smile snags my face. “Like what you see?” The pretty waitress blushes and gets flustered, which makes me laugh. I like the way her face is heating up. It makes me think of heating her up in other ways. What’s wrong with me? I’m like a randy teenager.
Finally, she speaks up. “I’m just waiting for you to tell me if I can bring you anything else,” she says.
Touché.
Jazzmene says, “Gin and orange. Hold the orange,” without looking up from her phone.
“I can bring you an OJ,” says the pretty waitress. She’s not flirting with me anymore, and I feel surprisingly bereft, although honestly, I have my hands full with Jazz as it is, who is clearly intent on causing a scene. “Why don’t I just do that.” She moves on to the next table without waiting for an acknowledgment.
Jazz slams her phone down on the Formica table. “OJ?” It’s taken her a few moments to realize she’s not getting her gin. She snaps her fingers in the air, shouting at the pretty waitress, who glances over but keeps taking the order of another couple.
“Hey you! I’m talking to you! I ordered a gin, not some stupid orange juice! You better make it a double. Knox is being a prick!”
The waitress is clearly nervous, but she answers in a calm voice. “I’m really sorry, we don’t serve alcohol,” she says. “Can I bring you something else? Maybe a cup of tea?”
I’m impressed with her cool. Maybe that’s slowed my reaction; as I’m trying to get a look at her name tag, Jazzmene stands up and gets in her face.
“I didn’t ask for a fucking tea,” she snarls. “I asked for a fucking double gin, hold the orange. You don’t know how to walk over to the convenience store and buy a fucking bottle?”
I stop staring and stand, stepping between them. A red-headed waitress is there almost as fast as I am.
I raise a hand to show I’ve got this under control. “C’mon, Jazzmene, stop it. It’s Lido’s Loco. It’s a family restaurant. They don’t serve alcohol. Why are you making a fool of yourself?”
The place is silent; every one’s eyes are on Jazz.
“Oh, fuck this. Bad enough I can’t get decent service, but now my date is calling me a fool? Well, fuck you, Knox Lockwood. I don’t care how big your dick is, I don’t need your shit.”
She looks around and sees all the gaping faces. Finally, it seems to seep into that thick skull of hers that she’s causing a scene. She grabs her pink purse and clacks out on her three-inch heels, somehow still able to balance. The bell on the door chimes as she tries to slam it beh
ind her, and then she’s outside, stepping straight into the street and trying to flag down a car.
There’s a squeal as an Oldsmobile slams on the brakes to avoid hitting her, and she simply jumps into the back seat of the car. I can see her shouting at the poor guy driving, and then she slips me the finger as he pulls away.
I take a deep breath and turn back to the pretty waitress, who is staring out at the street as if she can’t believe what just happened. “Sorry about that.” It’s the understatement of the year, but what can I say?
“It’s not your fault.” She’s still staring, even though they’ve gone. “Shouldn’t you go after her or something? She just got into a strange man’s car!”
“She can take care of herself. The guy looked more shell-shocked than serial killer, to be honest.” But I like the fact that after all that, she’s worried about Jazzmene’s safety. My phone beeps, and I glance down at it. It’s a message from Jazz. Fuck you and your party. I’m out of here.
I glance at the waitress and type a quick response. Be safe. Any trouble, tell me. I’ll come get you.
The only person giving me trouble is you. She sends some rotating gif of Homer Simpson giving me the finger.
I show it to the waitress. “She’s fine. I’m just sorry that you had to deal with that.”
“We get all kinds here,” she says, which is being kind, because I’m pretty sure spoiled rich debutantés who’ve gone on a bender are not her standard clientèle. The two old ladies at the window have given up on any pretense of conversation and are simply watching us.
I glance at her name tag again. “Well, I’m sorry, Crystal. You deserve better.” She smiles at that, and it lights up her face. She was pretty before, but when she smiles, she’s gorgeous.
“Thanks.” She looks away too soon. But someone else needs her attention, and she’s gone without even a second glance.
I’m not used to that, I have to admit. I’m used to more than just a second glance. Her ass sways as she rushes over to take an order, and I don’t even pretend not to be staring. I want to make her smile again. I want to make her smile for me.
I wait for her to deal with the other customers before calling her over to pay for the coffee. I’m half hoping she’ll have written her number on the check — I swear to God, it’s happened before — but no such luck.
Something about this woman is getting under my skin. I need to get going, but now that I don’t have to maneuver Jazzmene, I can spare a few minutes. If I have to go to the ball on my own, I’d just as soon arrive a bit late, anyway, so it’s less conspicuous that I lost my date. “Do you get a break? Could I invite you to join me for a coffee? Make it up to you?”
Her cheeks flush bright pink, which is adorable but also completely inappropriately makes me wonder if she flushes when she climaxes. I bet she does.
My fantasy is interrupted by her shaking her head. She’s turning me down. “I’m about to get off work, so no break I’m afraid, but thank you.”
I’m wondering about how I could ask her on a real goddamned date, which is crazy. But part of my brain is still imagining taking her clothes off. And maybe that’s what makes me notice… At any rate, that’s when it strikes me: she’s about the same height as Jazzmene, and they are probably around the same weight. I still need to go to the charity ball, and I paid for an expensive ticket for a plus one and — here’s the important point that has just struck me — I still have Jazzmene’s dress in the trunk of my car.
I’m actually feeling sorry for the guy when he asks me my dress size. What the hell?
“Hear me out,” he commands, watching me like he’s scared I’m going to bolt. And he’s right, my instincts are telling me to get the hell out of there and hide in the kitchen. Maddy would cover for me, I’m pretty sure. Except she’s blocking the aisle, watching. She’s not about to miss a second of the action.
He smiles, and I’m torn between the butterflies in my stomach and the desire to tell him to go to hell. I don’t say anything at all in the end, but I don’t walk away, either.
“I need a date,” he says, like this is a totally normal thing for some billionaire tycoon to say to a minimum-wage waitress. “You said you are getting off work now, so clearly it’s karma.” His smile broadens, and it’s making my insides tingle. This man is seriously asking me out? But I’m still not understanding what the hell he’s talking about.
“Why do you need my dress size?”
“It’s a charity ball.” His eyes are smoldering even when he’s talking about mundane things.
I’m not sure I should be allowed alone with him. I open and close my mouth without saying anything.
“It’s for kittens,” he says. “You wouldn’t want to let down kittens, would you?”
I shoot a glance at Maddy, wondering if she’s put him up to this. But no, she looks just as confused as I am. I catch the eye of the two men near the door and realize they are trying to order. “I’m really sorry,” I tell them. I have to remember I have a job to do, even if this is the bizarrest day of my life, ever. By the time I’ve taken their orders back to the kitchen, I’ve recovered my cool a bit.
“Why do kittens need a ball? And why do they care if you bring a date?”
“I can’t go to a ball without a date,” he says. “It’s a big charity event.” He breaks eye contact for a second, looking down, and I almost feel like I can breathe again. “I’ll tell you the truth. It’s for a no-kill animal shelter. Not actually for kittens, specifically. But it’s for a good cause, and the ball really is a big deal in the city; lots of famous people will be there.” He rattles off some names I’ve never heard of.
I look at Maddy for confirmation. She’s nodding. They must be minor celebs or something. Not that that makes a difference, other than maybe it really is a real event?
He flashes a smile at Maddy, and I feel a weird spark of jealousy, which I damp down immediately. This man is making me stupid. And he’s still talking.
“I’ve got a dress in the trunk that I think will look stunning on you.” He glances at his watch. “You can get changed here, and we’ll go straight to the party. I promise I’ll have you home before your carriage turns into a pumpkin.”
“The carriage being your car?” I know he’s joking, but I’m really struggling to get my head around this. I can’t possibly say yes, can I?
“Yes,” he says. His smile is slipping. “I expected this to be a lot easier.”
I feel guilty for letting him down, which worries me. I’ve only just met the guy. This is definitely a bad idea. “I don’t even have a hairbrush or anything.”
Maddy jumps in. “I have one in my locker!” I shoot her a glare, and she grins in response. “I can do your make-up, too. This is so cool!”
“Do you have shoes in your locker?” I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.
Her face falls, but the guy just grins like a Cheshire cat. “The dress comes with matching shoes, of course,” he says. “Size seven.”
“No way! That’s my size,” I say before I can think better of it. I could have lied, but it’s too late now.
“Great! That’s everything sorted out, then. Cinderella will go to the ball!”
I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. “With you cast in the role of Prince Charming? Really?”
He laughs at that, a gorgeous deep rumbling sound, and I feel my stomach flip. I’m pretty sure I never actually said yes… in fact, I’m pretty sure he never actually asked me at all. But Maddy is already tugging me to the back, chattering excitedly, while he goes to his car to get the dress.
We wait for Daphne to arrive; she’s doing the late shift with Maddy. Daphne’s happy to cover the floor as long as Maddy checks in every few minutes to make sure it isn’t too busy. Pete promises to keep an eye out as well and call us if Daphne falls behind. I’m running out of excuses.
The mirror in the ladies’ room is covered with rust-colored splotches, but Maddy just tells me to trust her and starts brushing my hair back out of
the way.
Twenty minutes later, with quick breaks to deal with customers, Maddy declares my make-up complete and tells me to strip. I strip down to my dingy white bra and white cotton panties, wishing I’d worn something a little bit more lacy. Not that anyone but Maddy will see my underwear, but it just seems so plain-Jane. I don’t imagine that’s what Purple-Hair-Woman would wear under her designer clothes.
Maddy brings in the dress. It’s gold. I don’t mean it’s golden-rod colored, or even that it’s a bit shimmery. It is seriously made up of light-weight metal, okay, maybe not real gold, but it’s some kind of golden mesh chain mail cut into a strappy dress with a plunging neckline. A dress that covers less skin than most of my t-shirts. It would show off every asset if I were to actually wear it. Which I’m not.
“Maddy,” I hiss. “I can’t wear a bra with this.”
“Welcome to the world of high fashion,” she says, picking up my uniform and stuffing it in her locker. “That bra’s seen better days, anyway. Hand it over. We’ll sort you out. I’ll get some duct tape from the janitor’s cupboard. It’ll be fine. Absolutely fine.”
“This will not be fine.”
But there’s no stopping Maddy when she’s on a roll. Besides, she’s taken my clothes. So I don’t argue as she throws the bra into her locker and gets the tape. She places cocktail napkins over my nipples and then tapes along the bottom and up the sides to make some cleavage. I’m pretty impressed. I have a push-up bra that does less, but damn, I already know it’s going to hurt to rip this off.
She drapes the dress over me, and although I’m pretty sure it’s cut so low you can see my belly button, she reassures me that the tape doesn’t show. “Actually, you look amazing, if I do say so myself.”
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