“There’s people in there?”
“A few.”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry. You want me to go there first?”
“It’s fine. Make vanilla shakes for Washington’s kids. He’ll probably be an hour. Also, keep an eye on my Suit, and the Tornstens are waiting on pancakes.”
I spin on my heel and practically run between the booths, cutting a corner to the left, passing the bathroom, and hopping over the three steps to enter the back room we use for parties larger than ten, such as weddings, birthdays, and, sadly, funerals.
I take stock of the party and inhale the smell of leather and fresh-shaved man. Instantly, butterflies flutter in my belly because, let’s face it, I’m a single mom-aunt in her midthirties in a town where nothing ever happens, and I’m horny as fuck. These guys are hot. Clean-shaven, tightly clipped hair, jeans, leathers, and…they smell like motorcycle fumes. Are they bikers?
The butterflies in my belly roar like lionesses in heat. With the roar comes an instant reminder of how the last time a biker gang drove through town, I got laid and panicked when the condom broke and I missed my period.
Thankfully, I didn’t get pregnant and avoided having to chase the baby’s daddy all over the country just so he could remind me it was a one-night stand and an accident.
“Hey there, cupcake,” one of them says. I realize I’m standing at the entrance like a deer caught in the headlights.
The guys chuckle, some still reading menus, others just looking bored.
I smile a wide one. “Hey.” The one who spoke is a redhead like Ginger, but with fewer freckles on his face and a cleft chin, which makes his smile even sexier.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
They shout orders at me, talking over each other, and I start circling the table, writing down orders on my pad. These men know what they want, and they’re firing at me quickly and withcertainty, so I’m hustling to write it all down as fast as they spit it out. I’m busy writing the last guy’s order, so I don’t look up as I circle to the head of the table, the last man on my list.
Because I’m not looking, I’m unprepared.
Even if I’d looked, I wouldn’t have been prepared for this man. And when I do lift my head, smile, and lock eyes with his blue ones, my knees almost fold. Oh my God. Black hair, blue eyes, black turtleneck, leather jacket, and a perfect nose. The nose got me. No, really, the nose makes or breaks a dude’s face.
I know better than to stare into those dreamy eyes and believe a single word he says. Unless he was talking about eggs or pancakes. No, not eggs. Those things can be fertilized with his sperm. He’s got a lot of sperm. I’m sure he’s massive, and bam, I look down, trying to see between his legs. Briefly, but I bet he caught it, because he pushes back his chair, and spreads his legs wider.
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.
With a smirk on his face, he does a once-over of my body. I’m wearing a dirty apron over my jeans and a brown sweater I’ve worn for the past three years ever since I got it on clearance. And remember those bags under my eyes? Yeah, those.
And did I mention I gained six pounds over the long winter and that I now have a lower belly bump as if I’d delivered my sister’s babies? Yeah, I’m conscious of how I look. Like a worn-out single mom who just needs to take this dude’s order. So that’s what I do.
I take his order and leave the room, dragging my screaming pussy behind me.
2
“Cap.” Dawson nudges my elbow.
I hear him in the background as I’m currently too busy contemplating what just happened between me and the waitress. There was something there, some kind of magic I never experienced when seeing a woman before. I’m trying to break it down, figure it out.
“You never said there were hot chicks in this town,” Dawson says.
I grew up a few towns over. Never seen this girl before. Granted, my parents left Wyoming for California when I was about fifteen, so she might’ve been five, though she doesn’t seem a decade younger than me. Hm.
“Captain.” Dawson puts more force into the word.
“There aren’t any hot chicks in this town,” I say.
“The waitress was hot.”
Mason raises his hand. “I’m in with you, Dawson.”
