in her room, while acting as caretaker for the shelter at night. But making ends meet had become an increasing problem for her because she was on a low salary and was now responsible for covering her own living expenses. To supplement her income, she had taken a job as a waitress in a café nearby and worked shifts there when she wasn’t required at the surgery.
The café, decorated in the style of an American diner, enjoyed a clientele from the office buildings that surrounded it and was often busy, but the following day when Amy turned up for her shift it was almost deserted because the rain was bouncing off the pavements outside.
‘If this weather keeps up, either you or Gemma can go home,’ the owner, Denise, told her with brisk practicality. ‘I don’t need two waitresses here with no customers.’
Amy tried not to wince and just nodded, knowing that Gemma, a single parent, was as in need of her pay as she was. Days off didn’t settle the bills or the cost of travelling on the bus and home again without earnings to cover the expense. But that was the fatal flaw in casual labour, she acknowledged ruefully—it didn’t promise either regular shifts or a steady income. A job dependent on the vagaries of the weather or the number of customers was, at the very least, unreliable. Still, she reminded herself doggedly, it wouldn’t be the first or last time that she spent a week eating instant noodles because paying her electric bill or buying new scrubs to work in was more important.
‘Gemma’s not due in until the lunch shift so maybe business will have picked up by then,’ Denise told her consolingly.
As she spoke the door flew open and a man appeared, a very tall and broad-shouldered dark-haired guy with raindrops spattering the pale raincoat he wore over a business suit. He took a seat in the corner and Amy got her first good look at him and fell still. She didn’t usually stare at men but he was so drop-dead, utterly beautiful that she allowed herself a second glance, expecting to pick up a flaw, a too large nose, a heavy jawline, something, anything to make him less than perfect because nobody, absolutely nobody aside of airbrushed magazine models and movie stars, could possibly be that perfect in real life.
But he was, from his high sculpted cheekbones to his classic nose and wide, sensually full mouth. A trace of dark stubble shadowed his carved jaw, emphasising his perfect mouth and eyes as dark and golden as melted molasses. Luxuriant blue-black hair, worn a little longer than was conservative, framed his lean, darkly handsome features and then Amy unfroze as she felt the visual assault of those brilliant dark eyes locking to her and he signalled her with a graceful brown hand.
Of course he was signalling her. He was in a café and she was a flipping waitress! The scarlet heat of intense embarrassment invaded what felt like her entire body, burning her up inside and out with the most overpowering awareness she had felt since she was an ungainly teenager. Almost clumsily she moved forward, horribly conscious of her stupid frilly uniform for the first time ever, and asked how she could help him.
‘A black coffee, please,’ he murmured, the faint fluid edge of a liquid foreign accent curling round the syllables in his dark deep voice.
‘Anything else?’ Amy settled the menu down in front of him with a hand that trembled slightly.
‘I’m not hungry enough for a meal.’
‘Something sweet?’ Amy proffered shakily, indicating the cake cabinet behind her.
‘I think you might be all the sweet I could handle right now. But, sì, something sweet... You choose for me,’ he urged sibilantly.
Amy wheeled away, her face still burning, wondering what he had meant about her being sweet. She probably looked like a sweet in the pink frilly collared dress and apron she had to wear to work at the café. Denise made the coffee and watched her choose a cake from the cabinet.
‘A case of insta-love or whatever you young ones call it these days?’ her employer teased.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you stopped dead to look at him and he hasn’t taken his eyes off you once since he came in. Go ahead and flirt. It’ll give me something to watch.’
‘I don’t flirt with customers,’ Amy said tightly.
‘I’m almost fifty and I’d flirt with him, given half the encouragement he’s giving you,’ Denise said drily.
Sevastiano watched