Chapter 12
Anna
I gave Flynn a long, perplexed look.A girlfriend? For what? And why?With a little shake of my head, I said, "Excuse me?"
"A girlfriend," he repeated.
I was frowning now. "What do you mean?"
"What do you think I mean?"
I turned sideways in the seat to face him head-on. "You knowexactlywhat I think." I gave him a thin smile. "So what is this? Some sort of game?"
"No."
Oh, please."You wanna see how low I've sunk? Is that it?"
His gaze drifted to my uniform, stained and grubby from the night's work. "I've already seen," he said. "No more fun inthat."
Heat flooded my face. "Gee thanks."
He was still eying the stain. "Seems to me, you'd be happy for a better offer."
"Oh, really? Lemme guess." I forced a laugh. "You've got another fifty in your wallet, and you're thinking, hey, why not toss it to Anna for some cheap car sex. Isthatit?"
"Fifty bucks?" He gave a low scoff. "That's notthatcheap."
His words felt like a slap. Then again, that had probably been his intention all along.
He was goading me. I was almost sure of it.
In truth, I had no idea how much professionals charged for sex, but Ididknow that Flynn Archer wouldn’t be shopping in the bargain aisle.
More the point, he wouldn’t be paying at all.
Cripes, one wink from him, and Betsy would've bent over the table faster than you could say,"One giant sausage, coming up."
Shaking offthatdisturbing thought, I gave Flynn my snottiest smile. "Well, you gave Michael a fifty for nothing, soexcuse meif I'm a little confused."
"It wasn't nothing," Flynn said. "He made the waffle."
"Yeah. ButIput the toppings on it, which is a lot harder by the way."
I didn't even know why I was being so petty. I was glad he'd given Michael the money. It was nice, actually. And as far as myself, it was amazing that Flynn had tipped me at all.
But now, to my infinite annoyance, he was laughing.
"What's so funny?" I demanded.
"You." Mimicking my complaint, he said, "Iput the toppings on it."
"Well, I did!" I insisted. "The cooks make the waffles, but the waitresses do the other stuff."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is," I informed him. "It's the same with a desert or milkshake. Those are done by us, not by–" I looked away. "You know what? Forget it. I don't even know why I'm complaining."
"Yeah, you and me both."
