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I jump when I feel his touch.
He gives me soft, bedroom eyes. “This is the first time I’ve won anything like this. You must be my lucky charm.”
Is that why he’s so calm? He sincerely thinks we won some kind of contest?
I can’t believe he’d be that naïve.
“Yes, we’re… really lucky,” I mutter.
The door of the kitchen opens.
Steady footsteps.
Quiet breaths.
My world sharpens at the corners. The energy in the room shifts. The walls press in a little closer as if they don’t want to miss a single second.
My eyes lift slowly until they hit a pair of startling blue irises.
One by one, body parts start failing me.
My brain.
My heart.
My lungs.
Because he’s here and I can’t breathe.
Clay.
He’s dressed like the waiters. Black pants. Black shirt. The same. But different. His shirt stretches across impossibly hard muscles. And his trousers are tailored for his height.
Despite the serving platter on his arm, he still walks like a soldier. Stiff. Focused. Back ram-rod straight.
I’m so shocked that I miss the person walking beside him.
Until I finally rip my eyes away from Clay and see Abe of all people, carrying Byron’s tray of food.
I blink and blink and blink, but nothing I’m seeing makes sense.
“What’s wrong?” Byron says. He’d been talking all the while, but he must have figured I wasn’t listening. He releases my hand, grips the back of his chair and turns to see what I’m staring at.
When he notices Clay and Abe, he tilts his head like an adorable golden retriever. “Are kids allowed to work here?”
Abe is half-smiling when he sets the tray down in front of Byron. “Your steak, sir?”
I almost burst a vein when I hear his tone. “Abe, what are you doing here? And what’s with the accent?”
“I wait tables to keep my nine cats fed. Without me, they wouldn’t have any food.”
It takes me a second to understand.
And then it hits me.
He’s ‘in character’ for the play. I faintly recall that Abe’s production stars a struggling screenwriter with nine cats.
Clay slides my tray to me, making lots of eye contact.