Page 2 of Always Be an Us

He has the air of a wealthy tourist.

For one thing, the watch. I don’t know exactly what brand it is, but I know I've seen it in magazines before, gracing the wrists of several celebrities. It costs a fortune, but he doesn't look like he’s too careful with it. He knocked it against the table, like he couldn't care less if it got damaged or dropped off his wrist.

In California, I learned about dudes who dress like him, with that casual air of indifference. They’re usually freaking loaded.

And something tells me this guy is a little more than that.

Probably why he’s such an ass.

A bell rings at the counter and Yule, our cook, gestures to the tray on the counter, and he, like me, has a faintly irritated look on his face. I don’t blame him. It’s the fifth time he’s had to cook the same order. And not only is it wasting our resources, it is also wasting his time.

I navigate my way around the wooden and thatched tables in the Tiki Bar, stopping at the counter to pick up the tray. Then I paste a smile on my face before I turn around and head back to table fifteen.

"Well, sir," I say in my usual cheerful tone, placing the tray on the table. "The food is hot and ready. We have your medium rare Tiki burger and fresh Tiki fries. Hopefully, it’s more to your liking this time." I can’t help the bite in my tone that attaches itself to the last sentence.

He pauses whatever he’s saying on the phone and glances at me. I blink, dumbstruck, unable to look away.

Suddenly my heart is racing for a whole different reason than irritation.

Why on earth do all the worst men have to be so damn attractive?

Seriously. The guy looks like a movie star, with a straight nose and sculpted cheekbones of a Greek David. His nose is broken at the tip, like he's been in a fight or two but somehow it only adds to his appeal, making him handsome rather than pretty.

And those lips…

A man shouldn’t have lips that pouty at the bottom. The top lip is thinner, practically a straight line, but the bottom lip looks soft and inviting, even when it’s fixed in a permanent frown.

A rapid knock on the table brings my attention back to reality. And that’s when I note that he’s staring at me.

Heat spreads across my face. How long was I watching him? Did he notice I was staring at his lips?

"Did you hear anything I said?" he asks in that James Earl Jones voice of his.

"Um…" I don’t know how to answer, but he saves me by gesturing to the burger that now has the top bun removed.

"This isn’t medium rare," he states. "The meat is practically mooing."

"You said the first one was as hard as a hockey puck." Frustration lines my words. "And the second one was only barely better than that, but still not edible. The third one had too much garlic and the fourth didn’t have any at all."

"Yeah. And this one is too rare." He stares at me unapologetically, raising a single eyebrow. "And if you’re frustrated by that, imagine how I feel."

I bite my lip against acerbic words, wishing Rick was here. He would know what to do. Rick is the manager of the Tiki Bar, but today he's off somewhere hunting with Buck Shoreton.

Sadly, I’m in charge.

I hate being in charge.

"Well then maybe our food is just not to your liking," I say through gritted teeth, taking the diplomatic route. "How’s the Manhattan though?"

"Tastes like overly sweet horsepiss."

I gasp, offended.

Now, waitressing isn't my strong suit. I’m only doing it because Carly couldn’t come in today, and we can’t afford to have anyone cover her.

But mixing drinks... that's my forte. I'm a bartender, a pretty good one if I say so myself. I studied bartending in California and I also painstakingly prepared this guy’s cocktail with our best whiskey because I was trying to impress him.

I know how picky these out-of-town folks can be about their drinks. I wanted to show him that while we may not be able to afford the best brand of whiskey, we small-town folks do okay for ourselves.

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