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I can only see the back of his head, but even that grips my attention. The slant of sunlight hits dark, glossy hair and lights up the silky, wavy strands that caress the collar of his grey suit. Whoever he is, he could easily be a top contender for a shampoo ad with that hair. My gaze drops to broad, well-muscled shoulders and thick arms. It’s clear even from across the room that this man takes care of his physique. His seated position means I can’t see the rest of him, but as I watch him, I realize what has absorbed my attention.
He’s deathly still.
Despite the hum of activity around him, he hasn’t moved a muscle. It’s disarming enough to send a shiver down my spine. And I know, even without bruising my brain by further trying to work out which way is north, that he is Quinn Blackwood.
“Remember my instructions, Plate Girl?”
I jerk around, and stare down at the tray. Everything is laid out in pristine condition. China and silver that I’m sure costs more than Clayton’s prized hot rod sits at exact angles from each other. “Yes.”
“Lay it out precisely as it is on the tray. And come back here. You’ll wait until he’s done, then clear his table. Understood?”
I nod. He hands the tray to me. I take a step forward and realize my legs are shaking. I pause, take a deep breath.
It’s just food. It’s just a goddamn tray of food.
I make my way to where he’s sitting. The table next to his is unoccupied. I set the tray down on it and take the time to work out the angles and distances.
I pick up the gold-rimmed porcelain plate with the distinctive Tiffany blue pattern, and turn.
My breath dissolves to nothing.
Holy heaven above.
He’s…beautiful. Easily, the most hauntingly captivating man I’ve ever seen.
Quinn Blackwood doesn’t acknowledge me. He’s staring at the view, although his gaze is narrowed and lowered, stopping me from seeing the exact color of his eyes. But the square jaw, the dimple in his chin, the sculptured curvature of his cheekbones, all align into a face that is so visually and powerfully stunning, my limbs slack in shock, before blood pumps full bore through my veins.
He blinks, still without looking at or acknowledging me, but the tiny movement draws my attention to his lashes. Long, curved. Perfect.
And his mouth…
Jesus.
For a second, I wonder if I’m back in my alternate universe, where my life isn’t in danger and a million dollars is truly within touching distance. Is this another hallucination? If so, I never want to wake up this time.
My gaze drops to his hands. They’re big, a little out of proportion with the rest of him, but they in no way detract from the magnificent package.
As I stand there, caught in a web of what I can truthfully term as my very first genuine sexual arousal, his eyelids flutter. His chest continues to rise and fall in even, unhurried exhalations, but a spark of awareness lances through the air.
Perhaps it’s another dimension of this weird hallucination. But whatever it is, it takes hold of me, fires through my body to the very soles of my feet and back up again. My mouth dries and I firmly refuse my body’s urge to blink. I don’t want him to disappear. I don’t want him to be a figment of my imagination. Just for a little while, I desperately want this feeling to replace the constant fear that blankets me.
I’m not sure how long I stand there.
His forefinger taps once. Twice.
The movement jumpstarts my spatial awareness. My fingers tighten on the plate when I feel it slip in my clammy grip. I take a hurried step forward and set it down before him. I instinctively know not to step into his light, so I arrange the place setting from the side of his table, his profile a constant threat to my equilibrium. Somehow, I manage to finish laying the table.
I recall and follow the instructions about his coffee and when I’m done, I step back reluctantly.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. His voice is low, coarse, as if he hasn’t used it in a while.
The sexy tenor of it shivers over my skin and I’m stuck in a vivid loop of imagining how it would sound were he to murmur extremely hot and incredibly inappropriate somethings in my ear.
From the corner of my eye, I see the chef and servers looking my way. It’s clear I’m at risk of crossing some sacred server-employer line. Fighting everything inside me to avoid another torrid glance at Quinn Blackwood, I grab the tray, clutch it to my chest. “You’re welcome,” I reply before I remember that I’m not supposed to address him.
I risk a glance at him, gauging to see if I’ve earned a black mark.
His gaze doesn’t stray from the view, but he reaches for the pristine napkin, unfolds it with a viciously sexy snap, and drapes it over his lap. There’s an animal grace in that move that almost halts the step I’m about to take.