Page 12 of A Matter of Fact

Beckett dragged his tongue across the front of his teeth and slid the check closer. “Sounds good. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Just wait.” Rhys adjusted himself and pulled a money clip out of his pocket, dropping a black Amex on top of the downturned check. “There you go.”

“Right. Thanks.” Beckett scooped up the check and the heavy card, and took it inside.

The bill was substantial, with all of the alcohol the four had ordered. Beckett hoped for a good tip, but he couldn’t tell if Rhys was the kind of man who pinched his pennies or threw his money around casually. He would have been happy with somewhere in the middle because even a ten percent tip would have been more than enough to make his ends meet.

When he returned, Rhys looked as despondent as he had, and Beckett left the check beside him.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“I’ve called a car, Beckett,” Rhys said, his voice almost singsong in its cadence. “Don’t you worry.”

But Beckett wasn’t worried. He was more taken aback than anything else, unsure of how Rhys had picked up his name.

“How did you know my name?” he found himself asking. As soon as the question left his mouth, he winced. That wasn’t the kind of thing he should ever say to a customer, but Rhys didn’t seem like any customer he’d ever had before.

“It’s on your name tag.” Rhys blinked slowly and scribbled on the check, flipping it upside down before Beckett could see it again. Rhys returned his card to the money clip and stood on surprisingly steady legs. “And mine was on my credit card, so now we’re even.”

Beckett didn’t want to admit he’d known Rhys’s name long before he’d seen the credit card, but now he had a last name too. Beckett didn’t think a name like Rhys St. George had ever fit a person better than it fit this painfully handsome man in the well-fitted green slacks. When he stepped out from behind the table, Beckett gave him a longer look, trying to not let his stare linger on the golden curls of hair that peppered their way around Rhys’s exposed ankles.

“They’re Gucci,” Rhys said, and Beckett blinked quickly, pulling his attention back to Rhys’s face.

“What?”

“My shoes.”

“I wasn’t looking at your shoes,” he said quickly, shoving the signed check into the pocket of his apron.

“No?”

“Your ankles,” he said, then he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking, well aware that his face had to be bright red with embarrassment.

“Oh?” Rhys looked down at his feet. “What about them?”

“Nothing,” Beckett rasped. “Just looking.”

“Hmn.” Rhys’s gaze drifted away, his mouth twitching into almost a smile. “My ride is here.”

Beckett followed his stare to a black town car that idled in front of the restaurant, double parked and blocking traffic. When Beckett turned back to where Rhys stood, he was gone. Beckett caught sight of him again at the host stand, throwing a quick look back to where he stood before climbing into the waiting car and disappearing down the street.

It wasn’t until the car was long out of sight that Beckett felt like he could breathe again. He pulled the slip out of his apron and nearly choked on his own spit.

Rhys had tipped him a thousand dollars.

CHAPTERFIVE

RHYS DOESN’T HAVE BENDY STRAWS

Back home with the tease of a midday hangover and a head swimming with bubbles, Rhys jerked off thinking about the waiter from that pretentious and overpriced excuse for a restaurant Sebastian had lured him to.

His name was Beckett.

Rhys’s memory was muddled with the fizzy kind of thoughts one only got from drinking champagne with no mixers, and he hated that he wasn’t able to call a better picture of the curly-haired waiter into focus. It had been a long time since Rhys jerked off, least of all jerked off while thinking about a man. So, to say he was surprised when his orgasm snuck up on him, with about as much subtlety as a freight train, would have been an understatement.

His balls hadn’t even finished emptying when his phone started to ring. He cursed under his breath and ignored it, milking the last of his release into the palm of his hand. Rhys flopped back against the pillows with a grunt, and he dragged his thumb through the tender and still leaking slit of his dick.

His phone rang again. Whoever it was had called back.