The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,8
side of my pinkie hits his chest, right between his pecs. When I try to pull it back, he lifts his hand to wrap his fingers around my wrist.
His bad mood finally lifts, and a soul-searing smile dimples his cheeks. “Yeah, I guess you are.”
“Now are you going to stop harassing me so I can get on with my job?”
He peers down at me with a cheeky little look in his eyes. “Oh, now I’m the one doing the harassing?”
“Yes.” I puff up my shoulders and chest like I’m going to take a real stand. “Dragging me away like that, all brutish and cocky.”
His grin turns positively edible—or maybe it’s his eyes doing that, making me think he’d like to eat me alive if given the chance.
“I saved you from them,” he says, mighty proud of himself.
“Saved me from the absolutely massive tip they’ll be giving me once they’ve knocked back a few rounds and become properly pissed?”
“Pissed,” he repeats back, amused. “Your British words make no sense.”
“Oh, right, let’s see. Sloshed? Sozzled? In-e-bri-ated? That good enough for you proper Americans?”
“I like your words better,” he says, all smooth and quiet, like he wants me to take what he’s said and twist it into something a bit more sinister.
It’s impossible to stop the flush from taking over. My fair skin means I color like an English rose any time someone pays me the slightest compliment, and well, when that compliment comes from Logan’s lips, there’s no sense in attempting to fend off the impending blush.
“Logan, is your friend going to join us?”
The question comes from a huge black guy with broad shoulders and a smooth bald head. Not many people have bald heads and still fall into the hunky category, but this guy certainly does. With his dark skin and big smile, it’s easy to see why the girl beside him is crushed so close, staking her claim.
“There’s not really room.”
This statement comes from the girl at the end of the booth, the one who looked so miffed to see Logan’s hand around mine. Owing to the numbers and the fact that with Logan, there’s a girl to every guy, I’d imagine she’s his date for the evening. Her snarky comment confirms it.
I feel bad for her, actually. She’s clearly into him, and he hasn’t looked her way this whole time. Cruel, really.
“Oh, no worries! I can’t stay. I’m working.” I offer up a big smile, and I sense, rather than see, the girl’s relief. She wants me gone—yesterday.
“You could cover our table?” Logan suggests, and my eyes practically bug out of my skull.
“And offend Simone? Not on your life. She’s been here for years, and I’m still a relative newbie.” I rock back on my heels. “Relegated to the plebs, I’m afraid, but if you guys need anything and you can’t find Simone, feel free to come grab me.”
Let me tell you, it feels absolutely horrid walking away from Logan then. It’s like I can feel his attention on my back as I walk away, and there’s an invisible line I tug against with each step.
Things I’d rather do instead of leaving him:
1. Clean the rubbish bin down in the kitchens
2. Wash the mound of dirty clothes I’ve been ignoring all week
3. Go a week without having any sweets
Well…maybe not #3.
But a job is a job, and Logan isn’t going to pay my bills. I rush back to my tables, checking that everyone’s doing all right and refilling drinks for the next half hour before I finally get to take my break. I’m so, so tempted to run back up to VIP and squeeze into that booth beside Logan, but since that’s absolutely mad, I take my mobile out through the kitchen and to the back alley behind the bar. It sounds sketchy, but there are always people out here on break. Even now, there are two busboys smoking a fag a ways down. I wave and they nod back before I dial my mum’s number.
It’s late back home, but she’s always been a night owl. She’s a sucker for those infomercials that drone on at all hours of the night: baking tins that magically clean themselves, head massagers. Every time I talk to her, she’s buying something new that will ABSOLUTELY CHANGE HER LIFE.
The call connects, but for a few seconds, all I hear is the telly.
“Mum, you there?”
“Yes! Candace, hang on. Bloody remote’s gone down between the sofa cushions and I can’t get it.”