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But the chef is rounding the counter, heading my way. I unfreeze myself and hurry away from the table.
He intercepts me halfway across the room. “Serve him and return to the kitchen. That was your brief!” he hisses at me.
“And that’s what I did,” I clip out.
“No, it was most certainly not what you did. You were just standing there, gawping at him like a decapitated fish,” he snarls.
The heat that rises up my face is unavoidable. “I just…” I pause, because what can I say? That the man is a visually arresting masterpiece? That he’s the first ever member of the opposite sex to make my panties damp just by existing? That even now, the urge to turn around, feast my eyes on him again is proving almost impossible to resist? I clear my throat. “It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t. That is not how we do things here, Miss Plate Washer. Now, are you able to follow simple instructions or would you like to return to more familiar subterranean surroundings?” he sneers.
The money, Lucky. Think of the money. “I want to stay and work.”
He stares at me, thin-lipped, for a handful of seconds, then thumbs the opposite side of the restaurant from where Quinn Blackwood is sitting. “Tables need clearing over there. Try not to break anything. Each plates costs more than you’ll earn washing plates in a year.”
I lower my head and walk away, reminding myself why I can’t let anger take over. It burns like a bitch, but I’ve learned the hard way that in a fight for survival, there is no place for pride. I have to let some things go.
I stack used plates from three tables in quick succession and take them to the kitchen. As I return from retrieving the remaining dishes, my gaze swings to Quinn Blackwood’s table. His gaze is still glued to the view, but he lifts his coffee to drain the cup.
I can’t help myself. I stop and stare.
There are men who command attention for varied reasons.
From the way everyone around him gives him a wide berth, I get the feeling this man commands visceral awe and respect without lifting a finger.
He sets the cup down and rises. Sunlight bathes him from head to toe.
He’s tall, over six feet, and my initial assessment that he’s a man who takes his physical well-being seriously is evidenced by his streamlined physique. Every inch of Quinn Blackwood demands attention. I realize I’m staring again and rouse myself as he fastens the single button on his business jacket and turns away from the table.
The moment I start to cross the room with my heaped tray of dirty glasses, I know our paths will collide.
I should stop. Turn away. Lower my head.
But I keep moving, my feet gripped with unbreakable compulsion. My gaze drops to adjust the tray, but I sense the moment his lands on me.
The sensation is electrifying enough to snap my head back up.
He’s smooth, I’ll give him that. But I witness the tiny stumble when our shadows merge. Glimpse the ephemeral hesitation that tenses his body before he regains absolute control of himself.
It is worth absolutely nothing to me in my life’s ultimately fucked up dynamic, but a tiny part of me frees itself from debilitating terror long enough to perform the smallest of cartwheels.
That is until our eyes meet.
Eyes of piercing silver blue surrounded by a jagged ring of black stare at me. My cartwheel disintegrates and I wonder if this is why everyone avoids this man.
Quinn Blackwood’s eyes are soulless pools.
Staring into them is like staring into a bottomless abyss in the middle of a post-apocalyptic nightmare.
Something inside me wants to recoil, but I can’t look away. The power of his stare is extremely hypnotic. I stand, frozen, as he remains in front of me.
“Your name.” It’s not a question. It bristles with ultimate power, and demands an answer.
“L…umm, Elly.”
“You served me.”
“Yes.”