“You and I both know you were doing fine. It was your arms and back that weren’t altogether on board.”
He stopped at the swinging doors and held the box out to me. “You sure I can’t take it out to the bar for you? I could wear your apron, and nobody would know.”
That smile—those gorgeous blue-green eyes—came back with a vengeance.
“I’m sure,” I said, sliding my arms back between his and the box. Fresh flames lit my cheeks when our skin touched again. I took the weight more easily this time. “Thank you.” I needed to escape before he did something else manly and dazzling.
“My pleasure.” Another thousand-watt smile.
I turned my back to the door, preparing to push it open. “Enjoy your lunch.”
“I will.”
Gah. Why won’t he leave? Worse—why won’t I?We still hadn’t broken eye contact. “I really have to… you know…” I pushed on the door, but stood too close to the jamb to get it open.
“Here,” he said, stepping forward. “Let me?—”
Before he could finish, another waiter pushed backward through the other door and collided with my rescuer, upending a tray of partly filled glasses all over the dusky blue shirt.
I almost dropped the champagne. “Oh my God, Angelo!”
The helpful man stood there, dumbfounded, arms out, staring at the many-hued brilliance of what had once been a pristine shirt. I recognized red wine, beer foam, and orange pulp—definitely freshly squeezed.
“What have you done?” he thundered.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry,” Angelo said, miraculously keeping every glass on the tray. “Don’t move. I will fetch a cloth and seltzer.”
“Seltzer?” He looked down at himself. “I don’t think that’s going to cut it, friend.”
Angelo finally saw the extent of the damage. “Oh, dear.”
I set the champagne down and stepped in. “Angelo, I’ve got this. Give me the tray and take the champagne to the bar, please.”
He did exactly that, gratitude written all over his face as he disappeared through the swinging door.
“Sir, I’m so sorry about your shirt,” I said, resisting the urge to brush off the orange pulp. “Let me fix this for you. We carry complimentary shirts for exactly this kind of accident.”
“Accident?” he scoffed. “This wouldn’t happen in my club.”
“And I assure you it rarely happens here,” I said, ignoring the absurdity of a spill-free club. “I can have your shirt laundered, and if you don’t mind enjoying a couple of drinks on the house while you wait, I’ll have it cleaned, pressed, and back to you in ninety minutes.”
His demeanour softened. “You’ll look after this personally?”
“I’ll see that it’s looked after personally.”
His gaze lingered—too long—travelling down and back up again. “You know, I think he got some on my pants, too. I could do worse than an attractive waitress to help get them off me.”
I stepped back, reeling. The corridor shimmered, and for a split second, he was replaced by my lecherous, abusive foster father. I blinked away the hallucination, but couldn’t shake the humiliation and anger.
“If Iwerean attractive waitress,” I growled, “you’d be rubbing a handprint from your cheek right about now.”
He stiffened, snapping his mouth shut.
“It’s your lucky day, sir,” I continued. “Because as the general manager of this hotel, I can offer you two much better options. Either you accept a complimentary shirt, drinks, and our sincerest apologies, or you harass me again, and I’ll arrange a security escort out of the building.”
That didn’t just shut his mouth; it nearly bugged his eyes out.
“I… I…”
