Serving the Billionaire(9)

“You must be new,” he said, smiling at me. “I don’t know your face. A glass of Sassicaia for me, please, and for my friend, a martini.”

“Stirred, not shaken,” said the other man at the table.

I glanced at him involuntarily when he spoke. Our eyes met. His were intensely blue, like fire so hot it had forgotten how to burn orange, and they captured mine so that I couldn’t look away. Mr. Venkatesan was older, probably in his fifties, but this other man was young, and gorgeous. His thick brown hair was expertly styled, and he wore a charcoal suit that looked expensive and soft to the touch. The breadth of his shoulders made me want to unbutton his jacket and see the shape of his body. Or, better yet, run my hands all over it.

I tore my gaze away, flushing. I had never felt so immediately attracted to someone, and I didn’t understand the gathering heat between my legs, or what to do about it. I hoped the man couldn’t tell how flustered I was.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” I said, forcing a smile, and fled.

At the bar, Beth said, “Sassicaia, right?”

“And a martini. Stirred,” I said. I was stunned that I had remembered. I wasn’t sure I could remember my own name.

Beth looked at me intently. “Are you okay?”

“Just nervous,” I said. “You know. First time.”

“Right,” she said, and turned away to give the bartender the order.

Having momentarily escaped from her scrutiny, I closed my eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths. Nothing had happened. I saw a man. He ordered a drink from me. I worked as a cocktail waitress, now. I would see lots of men. Many of them would order drinks from me. It wasn’t a big deal.

None of my rationalizations explained the way my pussy had started throbbing as soon as he looked at me.

“Here’s the order,” Beth said, turning toward me with a tray in her hands. “Go take it out to them. Don’t be nervous, sugar. You’ll do great.”

Nobody had ever called me sugar before, and it buoyed me halfway across the floor. Then, midway through the sea of carpet and tables, I realized he was looking at me. The man in the charcoal suit. Staring at me as I walked, eyes raking up and down my body.

I stumbled slightly, one heel catching in the carpet, but managed to recover without spilling anything. I had the impression, walking toward him, that he was reeling me in like a fish on a line, drawing me toward him with the force of his blue gaze.

It sounded crazy even to me, but I couldn’t deny the hard truth of it. I knew, in that moment, even though I didn’t understand how or why, that my life had changed irrevocably and forever.

I approached the table and set down Mr. Venkatesan’s glass, careful not to spill. “Here you are, sir,” I said, smiling.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and handed me—holy shit, was that a fifty dollar bill? Fixing my smile in place, I slipped it into my bra.

Tray balanced on my left hand, I circled the table and placed the martini in front of the man with the blue eyes. I realized I was holding my breath, and forced myself to exhale. “Stirred, as you requested,” I said, smile still plastered on my face.

“Ravi told me the service here was unparalleled, and I see he wasn’t exaggerating,” the man said. He handed me a folded bill. I clasped it in my sweaty palm, unable to think.

As my fingers closed around the crumpled paper, I felt his hand, big and warm, concealed beneath the edge of the table, curl around the back of my thigh.

Oh God. I made some garbled noise about how I hoped they enjoyed their drinks, and went back to the bar in a daze.

I unfolded the bill. Benjamin Franklin’s face stared back at me.

I couldn’t even process what that meant. There was a piece of paper folded inside the bill, and I extracted it, careful not to drop it on the floor. Written on it, in messy, slanted handwriting, were the words: I’d love to know your name.

I could still feel his fingers against my skin, like they’d been branded there.

I didn’t tell Beth.





Chapter 3


I made $500 in tips that first night, just from the few tables that Beth had me wait. When I got home in the middle of the night, I counted the crumpled bills and started crying. I was going to be able to pay my rent. I wouldn’t have to move back to San Bernardino. I was saved.

I had written my name on a napkin and set it down under the second martini I delivered to the man in the charcoal suit. I was back at the bar when he realized what I’d done, and when our eyes met across the room, I felt a jolt run through my body that I couldn’t explain. I touched myself that night, at home, tucked underneath the covers, imagining that it was him touching me instead.