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Grace

“Grace,” Brodrick, my manager calls out, weaving through the throng of servers in the kitchen to get to me. “I need to talk to you for a second.”

“Yeah, no problem.” I pass off the tray I’m carrying to another of my coworkers. I wonder what this could be about. The shift has been relatively normal, if not a little slow. “What’s up?”

“We have a high-profile guest on the way to the restaurant.” He leads me to the side of things, away from the busyness. “I’m going to put him in your section.”

“The table at the back of the floor?” I guess, knowing that the table in question is usually left open for Patrick, one of our most loyal clients.

“Yep.” He stops suddenly and puts a hand up to the earpiece connected to his walkie-talkie. “Sounds like he’s here. I’m going to take him to the table now. Bring a water out when you come to greet him.”

“You got it,” I say as he strides from the kitchen.

As I prep things for the mystery guest, I can’t help but rack my brain for who this mysterious client might be. It isn’t very often that we get anyone that isn’t a local through here, and if we do, it’s usually just families passing through on their way to some bigger town.

Figuring that it’s easier to just go see for myself, I head into the dining room. With my most charming smile on my face, I saunter over to the table in question. The only thing I’m able to see at first is the back of the man’s head. His hair is buzzed, and it’s dark brown or black in the low light. in the low light His build looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place where I know it from.

When I come to a stop in front of his table, he’s looking down at the menu. So, I wait until he looks up at me to start my spiel, but the words die in my throat when he looks up at me. I know this man.

Well, I don’t know him personally, but I’ve watched him on TV since I was a little girl. I’d recognize that scar on his right eyebrow and the crooked nose anywhere. The man sitting in front of me, smiling that devilishly handsome smile, is Marlon Henderson, a prizefighter with more than a few titles under his belt.

I’ve had a crush on him since I first saw him on television. My dad’s love of sport fighting meant that almost every evening he was watching some sort of spar. Oftentimes, I’d join him, not because I was a fan of what was happening on the screen, but because there was a chance I’d get to see Marlon in action.

Remembering that I’m at work and fangirling over this man is the furthest thing from professional, I finally speak up. “Hi, I’m Grace. I’ll be taking care of you this evening. I’m starting you off with this water, but I’d be happy to bring you something else to drink.”

“This is perfect, Grace. Thank you,” he responds, his gruff voice even sexier in person than it is in his televised interviews.

“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know.” I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice steady and thanking whatever god is out there that the lights are especially dim in this part of the dining room—I can feel my face flushing at the proximity to my celebrity crush.

“It might be the off-season, but I still want to keep myself in shape,” he jokes, reaching for the glass and taking a sip. “My body doesn’t bounce back the same way it used to.”

“You could have fooled me,” I retort, forgetting myself for a moment. “I’ve seen you take on men almost half your age and you wipe the floor with them.”

Before I fully realize what I said, Marlon is chuckling and shaking his head. “Wouldn’t have taken you as an MMA fan.”

“It’s one of my guilty pleasures.” I decide against telling him that I only ever watch so I can see him.

“Well, I’ve never been happier that I’ve been on a winning streak for a while,” he replies easily. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I knew a pretty woman like you saw me get my ass kicked.”

It sounds so much like he’s flirting with me that I flounder for a moment, struggling to find something to say. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, nor have I flirted with anyone on purpose. This is completely new territory for me, and the fact that it’s Marlon Henderson only makes this more difficult.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, amused, “it’s not something I have to worry about.”

“I doubt you’ll ever have to,” I answer as I finally regain my footing. “No one’s even close to your level of skill.”

“You’re just saying that to flatter me,” he teases, his gaze lingering on my face. I could get lost in those dark brown eyes.

“I promise I’m not,” I giggle. Then, reminding myself that I’m at work, I clear my throat and ask, “So, have you had enough time with the menu, or would you like me to give you a few minutes?”

“Bring me your favorite,” Marlon announces, holding the menu out to me. “I’m not picky.”

“Didn’t you just say you wanted to keep yourself in shape?” I ask, unable to conceal my grin as I accept the laminated packet from him.

“One cheat meal won’t hurt,” he cracks, giving me a wink.

“Alright,” I say, my heart fluttering in my chest at the gesture. “That’ll be out shortly.”

“Thanks, Grace,” he responds kindly, smiling at me as I walk away.

As I punch the order into the computer, I replay every second of our conversation over and over again in my head. We were undoubtedly flirting, and I’m fairly certain that I did pretty well at holding my own. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that I’d meet Marlon Henderson, and I wouldn’t even dare to imagine we’d have this kind of interaction.

Once the order’s put back, I go to check on my other tables. Carrying on as normal is difficult, but somehow I manage. Eventually, Marlon’s meal comes up in the window, and I have the opportunity to go back to his table.

“And here you are,” I say, setting down a plate of pasta in front of him.

“Good thing I plan on going on a run tomorrow, huh?” he jokes, leaning down to smell the dish. “I can’t wait to tuck into this.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” I say, suddenly very self-conscious of my choice. “Let me know if I can get you anything else. I’ll be back to check on you in a few, and I’ll bring another water when I do.”

“Perfect, I’m looking forward to it,” he says as he picks up his cutlery.

I hover for a moment, wanting to say something to that but coming up with nothing. Instead, I walk as calmly as I can despite the jitters that have been gripping me since I realized Marlon was in the restaurant sitting in my section. Once I’ve made sure everyone is satisfied, I go back to the kitchen for his water. Then, I go back to his table.

“So,” I begin, setting the cup down in front of him and grabbing the empty one, “how’s everything tasting.”

“It’s delicious,” Marlon declares, wiping his mouth with a napkin before looking up at me. “But I’m not surprised, I can tell you have good taste.”

“Really?” I ask, not bothering to hide my surprise. “Why’s that?”

“Well, if you’re an MMA fan and you’ve seen my fights, clearly you’re a woman with excellent taste,” he replies smoothly, seeming to enjoy how obviously flustered his comment makes me. “I appreciate the recommendation.”

“Anytime,” I say, even though I know I’m probably not going to see him ever again. Briefly, I wonder if it would be weird to ask him for his autograph before he leaves. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Nope,” he says with a wide grin. “Just the check after a bit.”

“Absolutely,” I tell him, resisting the urge to bounce on my toes. “If anything comes up just flag me down.”

With that, I walk away and busy myself with work. The next twenty minutes crawl by, and in an effort to keep myself from bothering my tables, I look for ways to help out my coworkers. Finally, it looks like Marlon’s finished with his meal, so I get his check printed and head back to his table.

“I know you’re trying to keep yourself in shape, but before I hand you your check, can I interest you in dessert?” I ask, loving the way the edges of his mouth turn up at the offer.

“No dessert, no,” he says as he accepts the receipt from me. “But I do have a question.”

“What’s that?” I say, ready to help out in any way that I can.

“Do you work here often?” Marlon asks, leaning back in his chair slightly as he folds the check neatly in his hand and pulls out his wallet. His casual tone makes the question seem more personal than I expect, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard.

“Yes,” I reply, feeling my cheeks heat up again. “Most days I’m here from noon to closing, actually.”

He nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well, I’ve really enjoyed myself tonight, Grace. You’ve been great.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft but sincere.

Standing, Marlon shrugs on his jacket and slides a set of bills to me that even at a glance I can tell equal far more than his check was.

“I hope I see you again sometime,” he says, giving me one last warm, lingering look before turning toward the door.

“Have a good night,” I call after him, my voice barely carrying above the restaurant’s din.

As soon as he’s gone, I press a hand to my chest, feeling my heart hammering beneath my palm. The rest of my shift passes in a blur, my mind replaying every word, every smile, and every glance from Marlon Henderson.