Page 61 of Rivals to Lovers
When she turned to face the rest of the room, she nearly dropped the empty glass she carried. Wes was there, next to his mom at the table across the room. Mo ran back to the kitchen, not caring who noticed her lack of cool. None of these people would remember her anyway—not her face, nother name, and not even her ass, which six-spot jerk had palmed after she dropped off his prime rib.
If Wes didn’t see Mo, it would be okay.
If Wes didn’t see Mo, she could get on the plane tonight and distract herself with everything that wasn’t her book, wasn’t his body, wasn’t this mess of a city that she suddenly felt trapped in. The swinging kitchen door closed behind her, and she leaned against the wall of the walk-in freezer, breathing hard. Mo hated this.
Amy came in behind, running a hand through her curls. By the middle of service, both of them were usually sweaty, and today was no exception. Amy ran her thumbs under her eyes to clean up smudges of mascara gone askew. She looked at Mo’s expression. “Oh no, what happened?”
“I’m okay. Just heartburn. Worse.”
Amy grimaced. “Listen, you need to tell me what’s up. Is it that guy at table four?”
“I can handle that asshole. It’s okay. But I recently ended something with someone, and he’s out there.”
She wheeled around as if Wes were standing at the door. “Out there? Tonight?” Mo nodded, and Amy went to the peek-through window of the chef’s door. “Which one?”
Mo wished she hadn’t memorized every detail about him even in the short glance she’d had. “The one with the blue shirt and wavy hair. He’s at table eight—”
Amy whistled and turned back. “He’s kind of thick! And his cute little facial hair. Nice! I didn’t know you were into that. Aaron was such a bald-face string bean. No ass at all.”
“Yeah, well.” Mo didn’t want to talk about Wes’s ass, which was prefect and could fill out a pair of pants. His weight as he pushed into her, the strength of his thighs and hips …if she started thinking about this now, she would have to leave or risk doing something dumb like pulling him into the supply room for some hate sex. “We’re not talking right now. It’s really complicated, but his mom is Ulla. That woman with him?”
Amy glanced again through the window. “Really? She looks different without her apron and the cameras. I love that cooking show she did for PBS.”
“I’m sure there are reporters here, even if we don’t see them.” Maybe even the man at six-spot. Mo turned to the cooler she had been leaning on, opening it. Inside were the tall metal racks that kept the salads cool in one zone and, farther back, the plated chocolate mousses even colder. She willed the cold air to make her feel better, more in control. “Is the coffee fresh?”
Amy knew without even checking. “Turned the percolators on about ten minutes ago. We should be good to go for the end-of-dinner service.”
Mo sighed. It wasn’t impossible to get out of this night unscathed. They could do it, and they would. She would stay on her side of the room and in what felt like her secret disguise: service worker. You could go undetected unless someone had something to complain about.
Until she went out to check on her tables and Wes was standing on the other side of the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wes
Wes was 98 percent sure he didn’t have magical powers. He had tried to conjure things into being as a kid. It was a regular thing in boarding school to sit around reading whatever wizard books were of the moment and then try to do magic in the community bathrooms. They collected all kinds of branches and leaves and ivy that grew on the ancient stone walls, because if any place was going to be a place where you could do magic, it felt like boarding school was. But since it never worked (examples: The rules were never changed to allow dogs, Wes failed a French final in eighth grade, and James Erickson didn’t like Wes back in ninth), he had given up all hope.
But there was Mo, suddenly in front of him. He’d been looking for the bathroom, but instead he’d found the woman he had royally pissed off. If this was a kind of magic, it was a backward and twisted kind, that was for sure. He’d only come to Doug Buhman’s retirement because Ulla had begged himto be her plus-one. Wes’s dad was in Tahoe, and he’d always been on her arm for this kind of party. Wes had arrived late as it was, already feeling off-balance. Beforehand, he had been fielding calls from his boss, who’d asked for his assistance in the estate transition, and from Gary regarding Estelle’s death. The lawyers had prepared for this moment since she was rehospitalized, but it didn’t soften how awful it was to talk business in the aftermath of someone’s death. Gary excused himself from the multiline call, his voice thick with emotion, leaving the lawyers to talk about the timeline for reading the will. Wes had barely known Estelle outside their client relationship and that one strange weekend. And now, after rushing to get to this party for someone he’d only met a few times, of course he would run into Mo.
Mo’s face was set. With her hair back in a severe bun at the top of her head, her bangs shaded her eyes. They had gotten longer, long enough to need a trim, and he had the impulse to brush them aside to investigate her face more clearly. The room fell away, the low chatter as inconsequential as cicadas in a forest. “Mo, hi,” Wes said dumbly. “Can we talk?” He hadn’t planned what to say, and he did really have to pee but could hold off to sort things out. Nothing, not even a full bladder, was as uncomfortable as the air between them.
“I’m working,” Mo said after a shocked pause.
Wes glanced at her black apron, which covered a button-down white dress shirt and modest black pants. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that—”
“I said I’m working, Wes.” She shouldered past, toward the tables of other guests. He remembered her ex suddenly. The at-work proposal she’d turned down. He wasn’t here to ask her that question. He wasn’t here for her at all, but if hecould find a way to talk to her, he could at least apologize. She was asking for her space, though, and she would be here at least until the end of her shift. Wes could regroup and find a different way to approach her. He didn’t want to get her fired or get in her way, but he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if they didn’t get a chance to talk.
The restrooms were down the hall opposite the kitchen, so at least it looked like an honest mistake. After washing his hands, he splashed water on his face.Wake up,he told his reflection.Figure out something smooth to say.Maybe smoothness wasn’t the issue here, but honesty. He had closed so many deals, shaken so many hands, charmed so many people with his words, but he couldn’t figure out how to explain that he hadn’t screwed her over. He didn’t know if she believed how much he loved her book, how often he thought about her—both her talent and her personality. Her body too, but he didn’t think it was appropriate to mention that.
Wes was walking back to his table when he caught Mo’s outline across the room. It wasn’t that he couldn’tnotlook at her but that her body language was basically screaming. She held a silver carafe of coffee, and the guest she was about to serve was holding his cup out of reach, moving it up, down, sideways. The movements were jerky—intoxicated, Wes thought as he started walking that way. The man’s right hand was doing the cup game, while his left hand was cupping something else.
Wes couldn’t stop himself. He moved across the dark space, maneuvering around other tables and chairs, and landed in front of Mo. As he got closer, he realized the man was a photographer, a big-deal one, but he certainly wasn’t getting the picture here. Wes tried to remember the man’sname, but it was hard, as his vision was going red. Might be Tim. Tom? He’d done some freelance work for Ulla, but Wes had never liked him.
The urge to do something he would regret was almost overwhelming, but Wes couldn’t do that again. He could control himself, and the situation. He had to. Wes moved alongside the table and grabbed the cup from Tim’s reach. He held it steady. Since he’d interposed, Tim’s other hand broke contact with Mo’s backside. Her cheeks were flush, expression pained.
“Tim,” Wes said, voice full of false cheer and fist still tight around the cuff of his shirt. “Good to see you. Want some coffee? Might help you sober up.”
Tim tried to take the cup back, but Wes held it steady directly over Tim’s lap. Wes glanced at Mo, who looked away, but she still handed him the coffee carafe and moved back a few steps. “Hold still or I might spill this all over your lap, and we don’t want that,” Wes said. He didn’t spill it, but he filled it all the way to the brim. After a second, Wes lowered the cup to the table as he maintained eye contact with Tim.
