Page 6 of His Naughty Waitress
Chapter4
Missy
All the dinerpatrons have their eyes on these seven wealthy, well-dressed, tall, gorgeous men gracing us with their presence for breakfast. My first thought was they had to be lost, because all the rich people who visit north Lake Tahoe would either stop in Carson City or Reno long before they got this far into the sticks. And that was if they didn’t take a helicopter shuttle service directly to theirlodges.
But here they are, slumming with thelocals.
“Do those boys need maps?” my boss, Ed, asks when I take their orders to him. “Theylooklost.”
“Nope,” Itellhim.
“Check out the limos outside, Missy,” says Janice, the other waitress on shifttoday.
“I noticed,” I reply, lining up ketchup bottles behind thecounter.
“Make sure you treat them like royalty, you hear? No mouthing off with these frat boys, all right? Their tip can probably double this whole week’s pay, if you’relucky.”
“You know how I feel about guys like that,” I mutter. “I can’t stand snobs. Rosa-Beth dated a few of them in college. I swear, if they start any of that stuck up rich-boyshit—”
“I can always take them off your hands, you know?” Janice offers, cuttingmeoff.
I smile. “Naw, I’m good. I don’t hate themthatmuch,” I reply, eyeing the blond giant who gets tohisfeet.
He’s the reason I agree to visit the Neville Lodgelater.
Maybe.
Man, is he tall. They’re all tall, really, like a wall of sexy that I could drape myself across in my wildest dreams. I’d have a blast with all seven of them, if they’re not stuck up pricks, that is. And maybe not all at once, but at few at a time could be fun. The blond one smiles at me on his way toward the restrooms, giving me a wink as though he knows what I’mthinking.
“What the hell are you two doing?” Ed barks out to us, placing three plates on the counter for another table of local patrons. “Orders are up, and last time I checked, I don’t pay either of you to stare out thewindow.”
Janice takes the order for her table, and I go to the supply room for a few mustard bottles. These rich kids usually like their Dijon. My hands close around a full bottle of yellow mustard and an half-empty, ancient bottle of spicy brown mustard. This will have to do. Stuffing the yellow mustard in the side pocket of my apron, I step into the hallway, unscrewing the cap of the brown mustard to check whether it’s still fresh enough to consume. That’s when I crash into the bright white, perfectly pressed dress shirt of someone walking out of the men’s room, squirting mustard all over hisshirt.
“Shit, I’m so sorry, sir!” I blurt out as my eyes travel up the expanse of white to Mr. Sexy Blond God’s face. “I didn’t…sorry, I didn’t see you,” I tell him, tightening thecover.
I quickly stretch over the side counter for a rag and begin to dab the mess of yellowy-brown, which only makes it worse. But my hand is hitting solid muscle underneath the shirt, so I keep at it until he grips mywrist.
“It’s fine,” he says, looking down at thestain.
“If we get water on it fast enough, it’ll come right off,” I say in a hurry. I take him by the arm, pulling him back into the bathroom without waiting to hear whether he protests. I grab a handful of paper towels and soak them in cold water as I lean to one side to grab the all-purpose cleaner in the cupboard belowthesink.
“Hurry up and take it off,” Iinstructhim.
“Excuseme?”
I look up at him. “The shirt needs to come off…like right now, unless you want to get soaked totheskin.”
Furrowing his brow, he removes the shirt and passes it to me. I remove the excess mustard with a dry towel first, and spray the stain. I’m doing my best to focus on the shirt, but can’t help stealing a look at his broad chest and rippedsix-pack.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I mumble, hoping he won’tfreakout.
“It’s just a shirt,” he says. “Plus, it’s silk. What you’re doing won’treallyhelp.”
“Oh. Crap.” I look at the stain. He’s right. The cleaning spray is doing something weird to the material. “Why didn’t you say something?” I add withoutthinking.
He shrugs his shoulders, and I almost want to ask him to stay perfectly still, because all that moving around is only giving me an up-close view of bulky, corded muscles as they flex andrelax.
“I’m kind of enjoying watching you squirm,” he says. “I may just enjoy watching you,period.”
