Page 2 of The Billionaire's Bargain

"Alice," I answer. The word sounds strange in my mouth, suddenly intimate.

"Alice," he repeats, as if testing the sound of it. "I'm Alexander Grant."

The name clicks into place, and my stomach drops. Not a mid-level executive. Alexander Grant. CEO of Grant Enterprises. The man whose face occasionally graces the business section of newspapers and whose wealth is counted in billions, not millions.

I've just spilled coffee on one of the most powerful men in the city.

"Mr. Grant, I apologize for the interruption." My manager has materialized beside me, all simpering smile and fluttering hands. "We'll have this cleaned up immediately. Please, let us comp your order today."

Alexander—Mr. Grant—doesn't acknowledge her. His eyes remain on mine, steady and analytical, as if I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.

"No harm done," he says finally, addressing her while watching me. "Though I think I'll need to cut this meeting short, gentlemen."

The other men murmur their understanding, gathering papers with exaggerated care to avoid the coffee droplets. My manager is still babbling apologies, offering free pastries, promising discounts on future visits. I should be helping clean up, but I'm suspended in the gravity of Alexander Grant's attention.

"Go easy on her," he tells my manager, and though his tone is light, there's a firmness beneath it that brooks no argument. "The fault was as much mine as anyone's."

It wasn't. We both know it wasn't. But my manager nods frantically.

"Of course, Mr. Grant. Alice, go get some fresh towels from the back."

The dismissal breaks the spell. I nod, grateful for the escape route, and turn toward the kitchen. As I push through the swinging door, I hear one of the businessmen say something in a low voice, followed by a quiet laugh from the others.

The kitchen is mercifully empty. I lean against the stainless steel counter, my heart pounding as if I've run a marathon. My wrist still feels the phantom pressure of his fingers.

"What the hell happened out there?" Mia, another server, pushes through the door with wide eyes. "Is that really Alexander Grant?"

I nod, gathering clean towels mechanically. "I spilled coffee all over him."

"Holy shit," she breathes. "Cynthia must be having a stroke."

Cynthia—our manager—does indeed look like she's contemplating either murder or resignation when I return to the dining room. The businessmen are gone, but Alexander Grant remains, standing now, dabbing at his suit with the inadequate paper napkins.

"Here," I say, offering him the stack of clean towels. It feels insufficient, like offering a Band-Aid for an amputation.

He takes them, but his eyes are still studying my face. "Thank you, Alice."

The way he says my name—deliberate, like he's memorizing it—sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear of losing my job.

"Again, I'm so sorry," I repeat, because what else can I say?

"I have other suits." His lips quirk, almost playful. "Though I'm curious what made you so distracted."

The question catches me off guard. "I—I wasn't distracted."

"No?" One eyebrow raises slightly. "You seemed miles away when you approached the table."

He noticed that? I was certain his attention had only fixed on me after the spill.

"Just tired," I admit before I can think better of it. "Long night."

Something changes in his expression—a sharpening of interest, a narrowing of focus.

"Alice, please finish clearing table four," Cynthia interrupts, her smile strained as she turns to Alexander. "Mr. Grant, please let me know if there's anything else we can do."

He gives her a polite nod that somehow manages to dismiss her entirely. As I turn to go, he speaks again.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Alice. Despite the circumstances."

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