Page 15 of Sin Bin

His gaze still hasn’t left me. “Are you stalking me?” he asks,voicelow.

I top off his date’s glass with water and then do the same for his. “Iworkhere.”

Temporarily.

Just fortonight.

Definitely not on a permanentbasis.

“So, no,” I continue, casually tucking the water vase against my hip. “In order for me to stalk you, I’d have to be emotionallyinvested.”

“Andyou’renot?”

“Emotionally invested?” Ha! I try to withhold my laugh for a few reasons, the first one being that he is on a date withanother woman. And seeing as how we haven’t even spoken for the better part of a year, being “emotionally invested” with the man in front of me is absolutely a no-go. I may have been so at one time—maybe—but surelynotnow.

I knowbetter.

He waits for me to continue, and I’ve got half a mind to tell him that he’ll be waiting forever, but then he reaches for the water I’ve just filled and takes a healthy sip. His throat works down the liquid, and I’d be lying if I said he didn’t look sexy as hell right now. Which really isn’t fair, because he doesn’t seem the slightest bit affected by my presence—only at the potential thought that I’ve become his personalstalker.

He places the glass on the table, then leans back in the booth, arm resting along the top, to stare up at me. “I thinkyouare.”

My back stiffens. “I think you’redelusional.”

“Well,Idon’t know what I think,” Suzanne cuts in testily, “but Idoknow that if you don’t run along now and get us some of that delicious bread, I’m going to request that you be removed from ourtable.”

I don’t have it in me to hate her because she’s so right. She might be on a date with the man who left me high and dry, but I have no reason to be hanging around like alovesickfool.

Especially since I’m the furthest thingfromit.

I murmur my apologies, take their cocktail orders, and book it back to the kitchen. Only once I’ve burst through the swinging doors do I heave in a deep breath. Of all the people who I could be serving tonight, Andre Beaumont is the very last person I expected to find seated in mysection.

Lover’s Lane. Oh, theirony.

I sincerely doubt Andre has the capabilities to love anything, including a dog, and that’s sayingsomething.

Almost maniacally, I shove two loaves of bread into a wicker basket, plop it on a round, black tray, and make my way to the bar. I skim my gaze over my section, and note a new couple beingseated.

The stampede is about to start, and there’s a good chance my body will be found crushed and flattened by the time thenight’sover.

“Here,” the bartender mutters as she slides a whiskey and coke, as well as a Sex on the Beach, over to me. “Don’t spill these.” She stabs the printout orders onto a toothpick and barely spares me another glance before heading to the opposite side ofthebar.

Well,then.

Gotta love them when they’refriendly.

Balancing the tray, I carefully set the two cocktails beside the basket of bread, and then weave my way through the white-clothed tables. I promise the new couple that I’ll be right with them, holding my tray against my hip like a pro, and continue on to the TableofDoom.

The moment that I set the basket on the table, Suzanne snags two pieces of bread and digs in with fullgusto.

“Sex on the Beach,” I say, precariously lifting the brightly colored drink from my tray and placing it before Andre’s date. “And”—I turn to Andre—“a whiskeyandcoke.”

His brows furrow. “I asked for onlyasoda.”

My limbs freeze and my gaze darts to his. Mentally I rewind our conversation. Oh. He did ask for only a soda. A coke, to be precise. My mouth opens before I bite my lower lip, because what canIsay?

I remember your favoritedrink.

Sorry, apparently I haven’t broken the habit of orderingforyou.

---