Page 36 of Stuck With His Mate

“Do I know you?”

“You don't remember me?” he says, smirking.

“I wouldn't be asking if I did,” I snap. Then, I remember I'm at work, and I politely say, “I am sorry about that. Enjoy your evening.”

“It’s fine.”

He waves his hand in dismissal, which irks me even more. I have a sudden urge to scratch his eyes out. He still has that air of superiority around him, like he thinks he’s God’s gift to the world.

I decide, for his sake more than mine, that I will stick to my narrative of not remembering who he is. He is just a customer, and I will tend to his table when he’s a patron in the bar.

“Enjoy your meal,” I say, shooting him a fake smile.

I walk back to the counter, where Sienna cocks an eyebrow at me. She doesn't say anything, though, which is one of her best attributes: minding her business. I love that about her.

The glass door creaks to admit new customers to the bar, drawing my attention. Another generic group of men enter the bar, the same as all the rest, although I do recognize some of them.

Don Hills is a trendy bar around the area, but we do have our regulars. I peek at my wristwatch, finding the time to be 7:00 pm—the time for regulars to start dropping in.

I sigh and flex my arms, prepping myself for another long workday, as I’m unfortunately on midnight duty tonight. These nights always manage to feel like long nights.

A man laughs at a booth by the window, distracting me from the newest order popping through the kitchen window. He’s one of the men who entered the bar just a few minutes ago.

For some reason, I feel off when I look at the three of them, but I just can't place my hand on exactly what that is. They have a strange air about them.

“You’re being called,” Sienna says, nudging me.

I follow her gaze, and I realize she’s looking right at the three men.

I immediately feel a cold chill run down my spine, but duty calls, and I must answer. I slowly and cautiously approach them, putting on my work smile. Their anticipatory smiles remind me of hyenas, which only further puts me on edge.

“Hello, Beautiful,” one of them calls out, giving me a lewd look.

“Hello, sir,” I reply. “What would you like?”

“You,” he replies, whistling lowly. “What do you say?”

His friends chuckle beside him as he shamelessly trails his eyes up and down my body. I’m trying so hard not to be unprofessional, but I’d give anything to serve him backlash for flirting with me so tastelessly.

His intentions are anything but sincere. He’s not even attractive himself: he looks like he’s in his late thirties, with long shoulder-length black hair, sea-green eyes, and an ugly-looking mustache.

I pay his comment no attention. I clear my throat and take a few deep breaths to keep myself collected, then continue my server’s speech.

“I would like to take your order and move to the next person, sir.” I state, stressing the “sir” at the end for emphasis.

The smile on his face slowly turns into a frown. I cringe when he glares at me, unwittingly taking a step back.

“How dare you interrupt me?” he growls.

People from other tables are staring now. My eyes flicker between the customers, then land on him once again, my heart rate spiking as I begin to strip over my words.

“I… I was only trying to get your order.”

“Really, huh?”

He stands, his face contorting with anger. He’s tall, tall enough to tower over me, and his intimidation factor doubles in the face of this major detail. I’m in trouble now; there will be nothing I can do to defend myself from this giant brute.

One of the golden rules of the bar is respect the customers no matter what. Without any way to verbally tell him off and have him listen to me, I am trapped in this situation.

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