Page 8 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
The flush on my neck flooded into my cheeks. My mouth decided to answer before I did. “And if I were going on first impressions, I’d guess you were one of the homeless panhandlers who harass the tourists over on the boulevard, and throw you out of my restaurant.”
Nostrils flared, he stared at me.
So much for unruffled feathers.
To cover my embarrassment, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. “Bianca Hardwick. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Boudreaux.”
There was a long, terrible moment during which I thought he’d start to shout, but he simply took my hand and shook it.
“Miss Hardwick. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Formal. So he wasn’t born in a barn after all.
“Call me Bianca, please. I apologize for the wait.”
Jackson dropped my hand, and with it, his brief civility. “If I wanted to call you Bianca, I would have. Where’s my table?”
He glared at me, his hand wrapped so tightly around his drink his knuckles were white.
Pepper sure called this one. I owe that girl an apology.
Fighting the urge to kick him in the shin, I instead gave him my sweetest Southern-belle smile. I would not be intimidated, or bullied, or lose my cool on account of this arrogant jerk.
“Oh, it’s here somewhere.” Deliberately vague because I knew it would annoy him, I waved a hand in the air. “As soon as a table becomes available, we’ll squeeze you in where we can. So nice of you to drop by. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to—”
“Miss Hardwick,” he hissed, stepping closer to loom over me. “Where. Is. My. Table?”
I felt a d
ozen pairs of eyes on us. In my peripheral vision, I saw the bartender, Gilly—almost an older brother to me—red-faced in anger at how I was being treated. And was it my imagination, or had the restaurant gone quiet again?
One thing definitely wasn’t in my imagination. Jackson Boudreaux didn’t smell. At least not bad. Standing so close, I caught his scent: a delicious whiff of exotic musk and warm, clean skin that would have been extremely sexy on anyone else.
But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Prince A-hole, heir to an international bourbon dynasty, devoid of affection for shaving, haircuts, new clothes, or, it appeared, the human race.
Nappy! Picture him in a nappy with a binkie in his big fat mouth!
I lifted my chin and looked up into his eyes. I said calmly, “Maybe you were right about the music being too loud. It must have obstructed your hearing, because I just told you that we’d get you a table as soon as one becomes available. Or perhaps you’d prefer I throw someone out? Maybe that nice elderly couple by the piano? They look much less deserving of enjoying their meal than you do, am I right?”
His lips flattened. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Through his nose, he slowly drew in a breath.
I wondered if he was restraining himself from smashing his glass against the wall. Though my heart was hammering, I stood my ground and didn’t blink.
Finally, he dragged a hand through the thick mess of his hair and exhaled, an exasperated sound that clearly telegraphed how much he enjoyed interacting with the peasants.
Especially ones who dared to get lippy.
He snapped, “How long?”
By this time my smile had died a painful death. “You made my hostess cry. How long of a wait do you think that’s worth?”
Through gritted teeth, he replied, “I’m not a man to be toyed with, Miss Hardwick. As I told your hysterical hostess, I know all the prominent food critics—”
I snorted. “How lucky for them!”
“—and as my name is featured prominently on most of the dishes on your menu, I’d expect you’d be more accommodating—”
“Technically, Boudreaux is your family’s name, correct?”
