Page 7 of Deviant Obsession

Chapter 3

Rhea

My feet throbwith every step as I balance three plates along my forearm, weaving between packed tables at Crave. The Saturday night dinner rush hit an hour ago and hasn't let up since. Sweat beads at my temples despite the aggressive air conditioning that has my arms pebbled with goosebumps under my black uniform shirt.

"Medium-rare ribeye?" I call out to the table of four, maintaining my practiced smile as I distribute their entrées. The businessman in the expensive suit barely glances up from his phone, just waving vaguely at the empty space in front of him.

Three more tables need their orders taken, table twelve is flagging me down for their check, and my newest table hasn't even gotten water yet. I'm running on autopilot, my customer service voice growing more strained by the minute.

"Hey, got a minute?" Jenna catches my elbow as I rush past the service station, her usually perfectly styled blonde hair starting to frizz around her face. "Fair warning, a party of six just requested a table in your section. Sorry girl, I know you're already slammed."

I blow out a frustrated breath, quickly calculating how to juggle yet another table. "Thanks for the heads up. I just need to drop these drinks off and I'll get to them."

"May the tips be ever in your favor," she sing-songs, already turning away to deal with her own busy tables.

I'm grabbing a fresh round of water glasses when movement by the host stand catches my eye. My heart plummets straight through the floor, taking my stomach with it.

Dean.

He's leading a pack of his frat brothers through the restaurant like a villain with his brainless minions, all of them dressed like they just stepped out of a clothing catalogue. I recognize the oh-so-charming Brett trailing behind him, but the others are strangers to me. They're all wearing nearly identical expressions of entitled amusement as they survey the dining room.

"Right this way, gentlemen," our hostess, Georgia, chirps, grabbing menus as she saunters toward a table in a way that makes it obvious she hopes they’re all watching the way she sways her hips. My silent prayers go unanswered as she guides them directly into my section, settling them at the large round booth in the corner.

Of course.

Dean sprawls across the curved bench seat like it's his personal throne, one arm stretched along the back. His pristine white henley pulls tight across his chest as he lounges there, managing to look both perfectly relaxed and completely in control. The sight of him sends shards of ice raking through my veins.

His eyes lock onto me the instant I approach their table, that increasingly familiar smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Well, what do you know? Looks like we got lucky tonight, boys. The service here is already exceeding expectations."

I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper as his friends snicker. Brett, at least, has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, studying his menu with excessive interest.

"Welcome to Crave," I manage, proud that my voice stays even and that I’ve resisted the urge to smash a glass over his head…for now. "Can I start you all off with some drinks?"

"Actually..." Dean drawls, making a show of examining his menu. "I have some questions about the wine list. Would you mind walking me through your recommendations? In detail?"

My fingers tighten around my notepad while Brett and another crew member exchange knowing looks. This is going to be a very long night.

I launch into my rehearsed spiel about our wine selection, hyper-aware of Dean's gaze traveling over me as I speak, head to toe. He interrupts every few seconds with increasingly specific questions about vintage and region, clearly enjoying watching me scramble to recall the answers from our mandatory wine training.

"Fascinating," he purrs when I finally finish. "You really know your stuff, don't you? But I think I'll just have a beer. Whatever's on draft."

The urge to dump a pitcher of ice water in his lap is almost overwhelming. However, instead, I paste on my brightest fake smile and turn to take the rest of their drink orders, painfully conscious of Dean's eyes following my every movement.

This is my job.I can handle one terrible table, even if that table includes the last person on earth I want to see right now. I just need to stay professional and get through it. But as I hurry away to grab their drinks, Dean's low laughter floating after me, a sick feeling settles in my gut.

Something tells me he’s only getting started.

I chance a glance back over my shoulder to find him still watching me, that predatory gleam in his eyes making the hairson the back of my neck stand up. He raises his empty water glass in a mock toast when he catches me looking, his smile sharp enough to cut a diamond.

What did I ever do to deserve this?

The question circles my mind as I start preparing their drink order with trembling hands. I've never done anything to him. I’ve never even met him before last night. Yet here he is, clearly delighting in making my life hell.

Is it just a coincidence that they’ve shown up here while I’m on shift? Or did he somehow track me down to carry on his fun from the party?

I suppose it doesn’t matter much, he’s here now. I square my shoulders and lift my chin, gathering my courage along with their drinks.

I can get through this. I have to.

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