Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“I was hoping to be a customer, but I’m happy to wait until after your nap.”
The situation is already weird and it’s not going to get better until I let him put me down, despite my very real desire for a nap in his arms. Or frankly, anything in his arms.
“Actually, I already feel refreshed. Thank you.” I shift and he sets me down.
“Anytime.”
I grimace. “Not something you should say if you don’t mean it. I very much like to nap—on or off the clock.”
“Oh I mean it,” he says, and just like before, he looks at me like he’s hungry and I’m a Golden Hare special. “Anytime you want to rest, just let me know.”
I think we might be flirting. I have such bad flirt radar, it’s hard to tell. But he doesn’t seem upset I landed on him. I’m not sure if that means he’s flirtatious or chivalrous or neither. Or both.
“I’ll be sure to,” I reply with a smile that matches his. “In the meantime, would you like a table? And will Nathan and the crew be joining you?”
This time he full-on laughs. “It’s just me. My family have all gone back to . . .” He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “I’m staying.” He lifts his chin to indicate he’s in the rooms George rents out.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s great. An extended stay.” It is great. But it’s also a little weird. The guests who take rooms here are usually families who rock up in pristine Range Rovers from London, or couples who also arrive in sparkling-clean Range Rovers. Basically, we cater to people who think they’re country people but live in the city.
This guy is a city guy. He’s not even pretending.
“Did you drive up here in a Range Rover?” I ask as I show him to my favorite table, under the watercolor of Cambridge’s Mathematical Bridge.
“No. Is that a requirement?”
“Of course not,” I say. But it would make more sense. Except, he still wouldn’t fit. He would need a wife or a girlfriend with him. Why would he come on his own? “Will anyone be joining you?”
“Not unless you’d like to come sit with me,” he says. “You’ve been on your feet a lot today.”
I tilt my head, trying to commit his cheekbones to memory. Could I achieve that with contouring? What am I thinking? The few times I’ve ever tried to contour, I’ve come out looking like a monkey’s backside. “Mondays are actually my least busy day. In terms of customers. Things start to heat up on Tuesdays.”
He holds my gaze and it’s like he’s set me alight. Someone could toast marshmallows on me.
“Heat up? Tell me about that.”
This guy is trouble. And I want no part in it. Scratch that. I want all parts in it, but I’m on shift and I need to take his dinner order before George comes out and shouts at me. Which he will do anyway, but I’d rather not be guilty of anything worth shouting about. “It’s all about the coach parties,” I say, raining all over his flirtatious parade. “I can tell you about our specials in detail if that works?”
“Not what I was hoping for, but let’s go with that,” he says.
“The salmon with homemade hollandaise is incredible. And of course, it’s an oily fish, so you’ll be getting your omega-3s. Or there’s the buttermilk chicken burger.” I wince. “Considerably fewer omega-3s, but honestly, it’s delicious and there’s a nice dose of tryptophan in there.”
He looks me dead in the eye and it’s like he’s put me in a brioche bun and has just added a slick of mayonnaise. I swear the guy wants to eat me. And I’m not sure I don’t want him to. “I’ll take whatever’s delicious.”
I narrow my eyes at my order pad and studiously narrate as I write, “One buttermilk chicken. Can I get you a drink? Sides? Broccoli to fend off the mild heart attack?”
He chuckles. “Do you always hand out nutritional advice with the menu?”
“Not always. But you’re American. You might not understand how things work here in the UK.”
“Because salmon doesn’t have omega-3 in it in the US?”
I shrug. “Probably not. But I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never been.” I pause as a full-body shiver passes through me at the thought of going to America. Or really anywhere abroad or. . .far away. “I’m erring on the side of caution. Broccoli?”
“Sure,” he says. “And I don’t suppose you have a tequila, do you?” He says it like he knows it’s a long shot.
“I want to kiss you on the mouth right now.” I say it before my brain can override my mouth.
“Because I ordered tequila? Or was my drink order incidental to your sudden desire to kiss me?”
“Both,” I say, before I bellow, “George! I just got a tequila order.” I turn back to. . .I can’t believe I don’t know his name. “I convinced him to buy some tequila last month. He doesn’t think anyone will order it.”