"Just my wrist." I reach for a clean mug and pour coffee without meeting her eyes. "It's fine."
"It's not fine." She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. "You should smack him next time."
"And get fired?" I shake my head and add cream to Petr's coffee. "I need this job, Mina."
She mutters something under her breath that I don't quite catch, but I know it's directed at Petr. I put the coffee on my tray along with the pot and head back to his booth with my customer service smile firmly in place. He's texting on his phone when I approach and he doesn't look up until I set the mug down in front of him.
"Thanks, beautiful," he says. "You know, you'd be a lot prettier if you smiled more."
I'm already smiling and we both know it, but I don't point that out. Zoran calls from the kitchen that the eggs are ready, and I use it as an excuse to leave before Petr can say anything else. The plate's hot when I pick it up, and the heat radiates through the ceramic into my palm.
I deliver the food and refill his coffee twice over the next thirty minutes, and every time I'm forced to check on him, he finds a reason to touch my hand or my arm or to keep me standing at his table longer than necessary. My feet are starting to ache from standing in one spot while he talks about his job at the construction company and how much money he makes.
"You should let me take you out sometime," he says during my third trip to his table. "I know a nice place."
"I'm very busy, Petr." I pour more coffee and step back before he can grab my wrist again. "Maybe another time."
"You always say that." Any pretense of pleasantry dissolves when he scowls at me. "One of these days, you're going to run out of excuses." I walk away without answering because there's nothing I can say that won't either encourage him or get me in trouble.
Mina's wiping down the counter when I return, and she raises her eyebrows at me in a question I don't want to answer. So I walk right past and hide in the kitchen for a few seconds to rest my feet. If only days like this didn’t happen so regularly, maybe I'd be able to put up with him more.
When the bell above the door chimes, I peek out of the kitchen to see who it is, and another regular walks in, but this one makes me feel entirely different. I've only caught his name once, but it stuck in my mind like a fly in honey. Vadim Gravitch is swoon-worthy, the epitome of masculinity. And the way he ties his dark hair back to reveal the ink staining his neck makes me drool.
"Oh, my God," I whisper to Mina as she walks into the kitchen to return the wash rag. "Look at him."
She glances over and shrugs. "He's old."
"He's not that old," I hiss, and I can't stop staring at the way he sits so still while his eyes track every person in the diner. "Maybe forty." I shrug and smile at her, noticing the salt and pepper at his temples. I think I've seen him in this diner a hundred times, but every time, I end up drooling. Why are Russian men so much more attractive than Serbian men? Maybe it was my jerk of a brother who ruined that for me.
"You're twenty-seven." Mina snaps her rag at me before rinsing it in the sink. "That's too much difference."
"I don't care about that." I'm already pulling out my notepad and grabbing the coffee pot. "Besides, if he's foreign, it could be a magical fairy tale come true," I say, winking at her.
"Even worse." Mina shakes her head, but she's grinning now. "You going to go talk to him or just stare?"
I'm halfway across the floor before I remember that Petr is watching me from his booth. An idea forms in my head and I almost turn back because it's stupid and risky, but then I think about Petr's hand on my wrist and his constant badgering me for dates and the way he talks to me when no one else is listening. Petr Horvat deserves to be put in his place, and a man like this Russian fellow could be the one to do it.
I grab a slip of paper from my apron and write my number on it in blue ink. My handwriting is messier than usual becausemy hand is shaking, but the numbers are legible. I add a small smiley face next to the last digit, scribble my name, and then I walk toward the corner booth where the handsome man is sitting.
He looks up when I approach and his eyes are dark and cold. Up close, I can see the tattoos on his hands are elaborate and detailed and they snake up his fingers to his wrists. But this time, there's no blood on him and his jeans aren't torn like the last time he was here.
"Coffee?" I ask, offering my brightest smile.
"Yes, thank you." His voice is rough and accented and it sends heat straight down my spine. I'm not the sort of woman to be forward and flirt with a man, but he's gorgeous and I feel like taking a risk today.
He doesn't hold eye contact, but he doesn't look displeased that I'm smiling at him. I fill his mug and sigh hard. My gut is roiling with nerves and my chest feels tight. I can feel Petr's eyes on me too.
"Anything else?" I keep my voice light and friendly even though my heart is trying to break through my ribs.
When he looks up at me and says, "No, thank you," I almost feel disappointed. His eyes trail over my face and across my chest and back up, but I don’t feel degraded or objectified the way I do when Petr does it.
This man has been in here enough times that he's seen me around. He knows our menu, and he knows we have good service. My lingering has to be obvious to him. I just don't want to walk away until I've given him my number, and I feel butterflies threatening to carry my breakfast up my throat.
"You sure?" I ask. "We have very good pie."
His mouth twitches at the corner, and it's not quite a smile but it's close. "I'm sure."
"Okay." I pull the slip of paper from my apron and set it on the table next to his coffee. "But if you change your mind about anything, you can call me." My pulse zings in my temples and past my ears. I'm sure my cheeks are bright red. I flick a glance at Petr, who looks annoyed.
