PROLOGUE
Izzy
“He’s here.”
Viv casually comes walking around the corner, placing the pitcher of water down at our station. It takes me a moment to register exactly who she’s talking about until I turn and see the smirk on her face as she waits for my reaction.
“He is?” That makes this the fourth day in a row that he’s come in for lunch. So, either he really likes the steak here, or Viv is right and he’s after something else.
“Yep. He requested his ‘usual’ table.”
In my section.
“How do I look? Is my hair sticking up everywhere? And my makeup? Is my lipstick still on?” I slide my tongue across the top of my teeth then bottom, making sure there’s no red that will make me look like a clown when I open my mouth to take his order.
“Relax, Izz. You look obnoxiously perfect, and I secretly hate you for it.” Her eyes teasingly roll as she turns her phone around to show me the camera view. “You could have no makeup on and still make me envious of your flawless complexion. And I guarantee Dr. Sexy would be more than okay with your hair sticking up everywhere. It’d be a preview of what you’ll look like after sex. Especially now that your cheeks are all flushed and there’s a sheen of sweat breaking out over your skin.”
She’s sitting here teasing me, and I’m about to freak out.
“Viv! You’re not funny. And thanks a lot. Now, all I’m thinking about is sex.”
“Good. It’s about time. I can’t remember the last time you even went on a date. Your pussy probably has cobwebs by now.”
That’s because all the guys on campus have an IQ as big as a shot glass and an ego as big as a keg. Their maturity level is the equivalent of a belching contest at a frat party. It’s the reason I chose to work here at the steakhouse instead of at any of the places near the university. This job allows me to interact with intelligent adults—like the hot doctor. Who’s already been in three times this week and has specifically asked to be seated in my section.
I’d assume he’s adopted a new carnivore diet and thinks I’m an exceptional waitress, especially since he leaves me a hundred-dollar tip on a hundred-dollar check, but Viv and everyone else believe he’s interested. My dating meter doesn’t function properly—courtesy of my fucked-up past, so I’m not exactly sure what he’s after.
“Deep breaths, Izz.” Viv inhales deep then lets it out slowly, smiling wider when I growl at her. She is so not helping. “He’s obviously really into you. So, just go out there and be yourself. My guess is that today he’ll be ordering dessert after his meal.”
She giggles when my eyes narrow in further. Now, how the hell am I supposed to take his order?
“Ice water, two lemon wedges,” I say, turning to my stand and making him his usual. He’s ordered the same thing every time he comes in, which is why I think he’s just a creature of habit and not interested in a date. Besides, I’m twenty-one years old, and from the salt sprinkled throughout his hair, I’m guessing he’s probably in his mid to late thirties. Not that his age detracts from his good looks; the man is prime for his age.
“Relax, Cinderella.” Viv hands me a basket of rolls. “Your prince charming doesn’t need to end up with that water spilled all over his scrubs.”
The glass in my hand starts to shake and water is about to slosh over the rim. Of course, now that she’s pointed it out, I’m shaking even more.
“Are you going to stand here sweating into his glass all day, or are you going to go take his order?” I wipe my arm across my brow, making sure I’m not actually dripping sweat. If feels like I’m standing next to the grill in the kitchen, being doused in flames.
“You’re fine, Izz. If you spill any on him, just grab a napkin and rub it all over his crotch to dry him off.”
“Viv!”
I need to get away from her before I trip and fall on my ass in front of the man.
“Thanks a lot.” I stick my tongue out at her.
“What are friends for?”
They’re supposed to talk you down from your ledge of panic, not push you over the side of it. I turn and brace my shoulders, ignoring my friend’s cheeky smile.
“Hi!” I squeak, placing the glass down in front of him. Some of the water splashes out onto the tablecloth and a lemon slice plunks into the glass making another splash. Geez, I’m a mess. And for some reason I sound like a mouse. A squeaky, high-pitched mouse.
Sexy, Izz. Now, get it together.
“I guess it’s a compliment to the chef that you’re back again. What does that make this? Four times this week? I’m not sure your cardiologist would approve, Doc. That’s a lot of red meat.”
His smile is butterfly inducing. The little critters are now flapping away inside my stomach. And when he leans in closer, they lodge themselves up in my throat, trapping the air inside my lungs. He smells so clean and crisp, like he’s been sterilized in sexiness— and I probably smell like a steakhouse.
