I’m dripping with whiskey and rum and champagne, the smell alone sending dollar signs flashing behind my eyes. I don’t remember reading about this scenario in the rules, but if I’mexpected to pay for this lot, I can kiss goodbye to my first week’s wages.
“I’m so sorry.” I stand like a scarecrow, arms at right angles to my body, liquor dripping off my nose and fingertips when I shake my hands.
The server, a man in the same uniform, the front of his pants now wet too, blinks at me while he processes the collision. All around us, customers stare at the shattered glass and liquor stains on the carpet as if it’s a corpse, horrified that this could be allowed to happen on a prestigious casino floor.
“Here, let me help you.” The voice belongs to a guest. He’s immaculate, of course, wearing a gray suit that screams money, mixed-race with thick black hair, and a kind face.
I don’t respond. If the pit boss finds a guest clearing up my mess, I’ll be collecting my purse and following the exit signs before I can apologize a second time. Instead, I kneel on the floor and start picking up the biggest shards of glass.
My hands are trembling. I barely even register the gash across my palm until the guest crouches beside me and pulls my hand towards him. The server has disappeared. The other guests have returned to their chips, heads back in the game. My eyes are filled with tears. Not from the blood oozing from my sliced skin, but because I’ve ruined my chances of earning enough money to live on and clear some of my student debt at the same time.
All because I was too busy staring at Bastien Murray.
“This is what happens,” I murmur to myself, sniffing back tears, “when men are involved.”
It’s a cop-out, and I know it. This was totally my fault; I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I can hardly accuse the Rinse’s owner of causing an accident with his perfect jawline.
“Hey.” The guest—why is he even still here—tilts my chin towards him with his free hand and flashes his big brown eyes my way like he’s a fucking hypnotist or something, working his anxiety-reducing magic on me. “Shit happens.” He shrugs like it’s no biggie.
The incident has interfered with normal brain function. It takes a beat too long for me to remember that contact with the guests is Strictly Forbidden and pull away from him.
It takes another beat for me to understand that his hand brushing my breast through my waistcoat wasn’t accidental.
“Sir.” The tremor in my voice lets me down. Massively. “Please back off.”
Because, you know, he’s still a guest even if he did take advantage of the situation to cop a feel.
The smile disappears. His brown eyes turn cold. “Just trying to help.” At the same time, his fingers slide inside my shirtsleeve and caress my wrist while his other hand rests on my hip.
Okay, I didn’t imagine that.
Before I can recall a single move that I learned in self-defense class and adapt it to a scenario where the wealthy guest is always right, the guy is dragged away from me by the collar of his extremely expensive suit jacket.
He springs back onto his feet, hands balled into fists, ready to land a punch on whoever interfered with his little game. He must realize who his opponent is at the same time as I let out a gasp.
Bastien Murray. Bash to anyone who knows him. Apparently.
And he’s even more god-like close up. My body doesn’t know whether to crawl under the nearest table and hide or bat my eyelashes at him in slow motion and make this the meet-cute worthy of a cheesy Hallmark movie. Minus the snow. There’s no snow in New York in July.
“Mr. Murray.” The guest alters his stance and shrugs his suit jacket back into place. “It was an accident.” It’s unclear if he’s talking about the shattered tray of drinks or him touching me. Until he adds, “No need to discipline the girl.”
I swallow hard and drag myself back onto my feet. My legs are trembling. I’ve been here a week, and I’ve already blown it because this asshole thinks he’s better than me. Because he believes that losing a fortune publicly gives him the right to objectivize the staff.
And of course, the owner will side with him.
I back off a couple of steps and then scurry towards the staffroom out the back, spotting the pit boss heading my way with a scowl on his face that would give Medusa a run for her money.
“You, out.” The pit boss lets his index finger do the talking as he gestures for me to leave.
Where was he when I needed him, huh? Sweet-talking another VIP guest, no doubt, ensuring that their champagne was chilled to the correct temperature and their seats cushioned enough to keep their wealthy asses comfortable.
A few more steps, and two security guards dressed in black pass by me, hands on the holsters at their waists ready to take the situation to the next level.
I turn around and follow them with my eyes as they flank the asshole who ‘was only trying to help’.
“You’re making a big fucking mistake.” The asshole raises his voice for all to hear, gathering witnesses for when he tries to sue the crap out of the owner. “Next time I’ll sit back and watch her get fired.”
“There won’t be a next time.” Mr. Murray leans closer to the asshole, but I hear him anyway.
