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When I came in for my eighth margarita in two hours, Row curled his fingers around my wrist with a frown, my hand holding the fancy drinkware, the pink Himalayan salt gracing the rim. “How are you not shit-faced?”
We both leaned against the butcher block of his station, his body pinning mine.
Everyone in the kitchen was watching us curiously, unused to seeing Row giving anyone special attention. My chest blossomed with pride.
“Us Russians can hold our drink.” I smiled innocently.
“Us Italians can smell bullshit from three states over.” He touched his nose to mine. “No intoxicating my staff, little Dot.”
“It’s not fair that I’m the only one who gets to drink while on shift.”
He dipped his head down, his lips grazing my ear. “It’s not fair that you’ll need to accommodate eleven inches after spending the entire night on your feet.”
I gasped. “I thought Rhyland was supposed to leave early today.”
He bit the tip of my ear teasingly, giving my ass a smack. “Brat. Now get off my station. You’re contaminating it with your germs.”
Rearing my head back, I flashed him a pout. “Thought you liked my germs.”
“I do. I’d keep them as pets if I could. Unfortunately, my customers don’t share the same level of obsession.”
“You mean admiration?”
“I said what I said.” With another pat on my ass, he sent me on my way. The rest of the shift was a hectic blur, which was how I forgot to hand over the check to one of my tables. It was only when I zipped past the two patrons—thirtysomething, sharp-looking businessmen who appeared out of place in Staindrop—and saw their pissed-off faces that I realized they had asked for the check ten minutes ago.
“My apologies, gentlemen. I’ll be right back with your check.” I bowed, swiftly making my way to the register to produce their bill. I came back with a complimentary raspberry soufflé and an apologetic smile.
“Here you go. On the house.” I put the bill down, along with their treat. One of them wrapped his fingers around my arm, stopping me from leaving.
“Really? You keep us stuck here for forty minutes and all you have to show for it is a pink biscuit?”
My eyes widened, and my skin burned where he touched me like he was putting live fire to my flesh. White-hot panic coursed through me. I tried to jerk out of his grip, but he held me more firmly.
“This pink biscuit costs more than your suit,” I blurted out. It was the first thing that came to my anxious mind.
He laughed. He had a terrible laugh. And way too much gel for something that wasn’t an ultrasound stick.
“Let go of my arm.” My voice trembled, and so did the muscles around my eyes as I began blinking excessively.
“Not before you give me your number, funny girl.”
My breath hitched, and I was about to do something I’d seriously regret, like toss his red wine in his face, when a growl came from behind me.
“I strongly recommend you remove your hand from my girlfriend’s arm unless you want to play scavenger hunt finding your own fucking fingers on the floor.”
Row.
My panic turned to hysteria. Because Row was the same person who’d rearranged Kieran’s face for giving me the coldest, friendliest peck in front of him.
Also: Girlfriend?
Girlfriend?
The man released me like I was made out of fire, sitting back and smoothing his shirt down. “Hey, Casablancas! I know you from TV.”
But Row was not in the mood for a picture and an autograph. In fact, as soon as the man flicked his gaze up to meet his, Row bunched the collar of his shirt in his fist and shoved him backward. His chair dangled on its two back legs, with only Row to keep him from falling. My boyfriend shoved his face in the businessman’s and growled, “Apologize right fucking now.”
The man’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and a sheen of sweat covered his entire face. “Sorry, man, sorry!” He raised his palms up. “I had no idea she was your girlfriend. I thought she was just a waitress.”
