Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“You’re limping.” With a nod of his head, he motions toward my feet.
Heat floods my cheeks as embarrassment washes over me. “No, just need some new shoes,” I say cheerily. I want to run from his table, but that’s unprofessional, and I refuse to let him make me feel as though I’m beneath him. “Would you like steak sauce with your steak?” I ask, changing the subject. My voice is strong, even though my insides are shaking from humiliation.
“Yes, please,” he says, his blue eyes lifting to my face.
I nod, turn on my heel and walk at a normal pace to the kitchen, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to keep the limp at bay. Damnit. Time to check my credit card and see if I can fit in a cheap pair of shoes. Although, that’s part of my problem. The cheap ones wear out faster. Not much I can do about that when it’s all that I can afford, and I’m lucky to work that into my budget.
Dropping his salad bowl off in the kitchen, I check with the cook on his steak and go lock the front doors. I can’t cash out my register yet, and surprisingly, Oliver actually wiped down his tables and has his closing prep done. I’m thankful we don’t have to stick around and clean. The dishwasher does, but he was almost caught up when I dropped off the salad bowl. We have a cleaning crew that comes in each night and scrubs this place spotless. I’ve helped out a few times when they were shorthanded.
“Layla, order up,” the cook calls out for me. I rise from my seat where I was rolling more silverware. “Kitchen’s closed. We can do dessert if we need to,” he tells me when I place Blue Eyes’ meal on a tray.
“Thanks, Ronnie.” I give him a kind smile. He’s old enough to be my dad and treats me as though I’m his daughter. I’m grateful for that. In my experience, there are not many men out there who can be nice without wanting your body in return.
Walking back to serve him his steak, I don’t rush, to try and eliminate my limp as much as possible. “Here you go,” I say brightly. I place his plate in front of him. “This plate is really hot,” I warn him as I do all of my customers, just as I was trained to do. I set an extra cloth napkin on the table along with a bottle of steak sauce, and another fresh glass of water. “Is there anything else that I can get you?” I ask him.
“No, Layla. I’m good.” He addresses me by name. It’s the first time the sound of my name has ever sent shivers down my spine. Not in a bad way, but in a “this man affects me” kind of way.
“Great. I’ll be back to check on you.” I turn and walk away.
I busy myself wrapping silverware, staring at my watch for what feels like every thirty seconds. I don’t want to hover, and with it being closing time, that makes it look bad. There is nothing worse than your waitress hounding you a million times when you’re trying to eat.
“Thank you, Layla,” his deep timbre greets me.
My head pops up to find him standing before me. “I’m sorry.” I move to rise from the booth, and he raises his hand to stop me, his eyes dropping to my feet. “I’ve left money on the table to cover the bill.” His eyes wander up my body back to my face.
“T-Thank you. Have a great night.” His reply is to nod and walk out the door. Grabbing a tray, I make my way back to his table. Loading up his leftover dishes, I lift his plate and find two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. I look over my shoulder to see if he’s standing there watching me, but he’s not. It’s just me in the VIP room. His bill could not have been more than fifty dollars. My hands shake as I tuck the money into my apron. I’m embarrassed and grateful all at once. As quickly as I can, I clean off his table and drop the dishes off to the kitchen. Pulling up his bill, I shake my head when I see it was under fifty dollars. Pulling one of the hundreds out of my pocket, I cash out his check and pocket the remaining change. Quickly, yet efficiently, I rush through my closing procedure on the register, lock the money in the safe, and finally, I can head home.
“You ready to head out?” Ronnie asks, appearing beside me.
“Yes, you?” He holds his arm out for me, and I don’t hesitate to slip mine through his.
He makes sure that he walks me to my car every night. No matter how many times I tell him I’m fine. He insists. On the nights we’re not on the same shift, he always calls to make sure one of the other guys walks me out. He worries when he doesn’t need to. “How was it tonight?” he asks.