“He’s not a young man. He’s a grown man.” I don’t mention his age because I doubt my future stepdad would be thrilled to hear he’s only seven years older than the guy who makes my knees feel like jelly.
And really, that doesn’t matter at all. The chance of Jasper becoming my boyfriend is about as likely as me spending my next vacation on Mars.
“Don’t worry, okay? I’ll just take care of his table and then clock out.”
I picked up an early shift today, and whenever that happens, Badger lets me leave a bit ahead of schedule. Tonight, I’ve got a special reason: my own little celebration. Usually, I mark it quietly at home, but following Mom’s advice to enjoy life more, I’m going bold tonight: I’m getting a single-scoop cone and walking along the boardwalk.
Half an hour later, I approach Mr. Gorgeous’s table with his main course. I didn’t come back to talk about the wine—I asked the sommelier Badger hired last week to handle that—and I didn’t serve his starter either. All the courage I had for flirting with Jasper before he got to the restaurant vanished the second, I got close to him.
I’m not bold. I’m careful. And every instinct in me says to tread carefully. I’d be an idiot not to listen.
“I hope you enjoyed the starter,” I say as formally as I can to the demigod who’s looking at me in that unique way of his. Like he’s scanning my soul—and at the same time, not letting me read a single thing he’s thinking.
He doesn’t answer right away, and I grip the tray tighter, so I don’t make a scene and drop it.
“Why didn’t you come back?”
“It wasn’t my job to help you pick the wine. That’s what the sommelier’s for.”
“But it was your job to serve the starter.”
“Was the service poor?”
“No. But I wanted it to be you.”
“Why?”
“Because I like the way you talk to me.”
“What way is that?”
“Like you couldn’t care less what I think of you.”
“I don’t know how to be any other way. If I offended you, I’m sorry. Like I told you before, I’m a little antisocial and sometimes I come off as rude.”
“You didn’t say you were antisocial. You said you don’t like talking.” He’s speaking very close now as I set the plate down in front of him. The heat coming from him is so intense that I have to move more carefully not to melt around him.
“I thought it was the same thing. Being antisocial and not liking to talk.”
“No. I’m antisocial. I only like a few people in the world—never crowds. But I do enjoy talking to certain humans, specifically.”
“Like me, for example,” I say, finally able to breathe again, feeling a smile form even though I try to fight it.
God, I’m such an idiot for feeling special just because this arrogant man is giving me attention—but there’s nothing I can do. It’s like this warm rush in my chest. Like being chosen for an exclusive club only a few ever get into.
“Like you, for example.”
“Aren’t you going to try the food?”
“Will you sit and talk to me?”
“I can’t.”
“Because you’ve got more tables?”
“No. Actually, yours will be the last one because I came in early today. I couldn’t sit with you anyway—you’re a customer. But mostly because I have plans afterward.”
Something like a shadow passes behind his eyes, but it disappears as quickly as it came. “Going out with friends?”
