Chapter 2
The entire day has been a nightmare, and this is just the frosting on the cake. Jazzmene is drunk and belligerent, and I need her sober now. I would have just dumped her at her apartment the moment I saw the state she was in, or even just left her getting drunk with New York’s rich and famous IT girls… but with an important event in less than two hours, I don’t have time to organize another date, never mind wait it out while another primadonna primps herself ready for the evening with obligatory beauty salon and cocktails. I’ve got Jazzmene’s dress in my trunk, and the venue isn’t far from here, so I’m hoping I can sober her up enough to get through the evening. Mrs. Scaravelli will kill me if I screw up the numbers for her charity ball, the social event of the year.
“Jazz, babe,” I say, trying to sound soothing.
Yes, it’s a stupid name. Yes, it’s just as fake as her breasts and her mauve hair. I thought she’d make a good date for the charity ball. Her father has almost as much money as I do, and she’s not been shy about spending a fortune on her looks. And it shows. Every inch of her is made-up to perfection. She’s never more than five minutes from her next selfie. If I’m honest, her flawless looks both repel me and intrigue me. Jazz has made it clear to me that she’s interested, but it’s hard to imagine convincing her to get hot and sweaty. I can’t imagine she’d ever mess up her perfectly sprayed-into-place hair style, let alone smear her lipstick. But hell, I needed an easy date, and I thought she might be a fun challenge. That’s before she spent the afternoon downing champagne bottles with her high society friends.
Now she’s at that obnoxious, drunken stage where she no longer cares that she’s being stupid or even gives a shit about anything. All I can hope is that she’ll sober up in time for us to get going, if I can just get her away from the booze.
I take a deep breath. “Let’s just stay calm.”
“You are such a prick. You be calm,” she snaps. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Act all calm and in control all the time. Fuck that.”
Her phone beeps, and she grabs it, perfectly manicured fingers punching out an angry message at some unknown audience.
I see a blur of soft curves approach our table from the corner of my eye. I look up to see the waitress coming towards us. She’s gorgeous, even though she’s not my normal type at all: very girl next door, no make-up, and her hair clipped back out of her face. The type of gorgeous who doesn’t know it. I brush that out of my mind because, really, this is not the time, but there’s a tiny bit of my brain wondering what she’d look like out of that stupid waitress outfit she has on. She’s curvy in all the right places and has lush lips, and stop it, Knox! This is really not the time for the testosterone to be flowing.
“Two coffees, as strong as you’ve got,” I say, looking away. Jazzmene may be drunk as a skunk, but I did ask her to be my date tonight, and checking out the waitress is definitely not acceptable behavior.
“Yeah, a prick,” Jazz whines. “Taking me away from my friends, bringing me to this dump, making me drink truck-stop coffee. I want champagne, dammit.” She grabs the waitress as she walks away. “I don’t want coffee.”
“They don’t have champagne, Jazz.” That’s why I brought her here, so she couldn’t possibly buy a drink or flirt with the bartender or convince someone else to buy a round of shots.
The waitress scurries away, and I’m surprised to see my attention snagged by the sight of her ass in the slightly too short uniform. Sure, Jazzmene would turn more heads walking into a room, but it’s also obvious that a lot more money has gone into making her a perfect ten. The waitress doesn’t look like she’s spent a dime on herself.
Let’s face it, any woman who can look like sex on wheels in an unflattering polyester uniform would look good in anything… and without needing the team of designers and seamstresses that Jazzmene relies on. The waitress has curves in all the right places without even trying. Truth is, I’m also impressed that she doesn’t glance back to try to catch me looking. She’s just doing her job.
“You are a class-A prick,” complains Jazzmene, but she’s rummaging through her purse, not even looking at me. Louis Vuitton, hot pink crocodile skin, I’m pretty sure it cost more than the waitress could even imagine. I’m completely bemused by the contrast between them. She pulls out a golden tube and carefully reapplies her lipstick. “Class-A,” she repeats.
Yes, I admit, I’m a class-A, if by A she means Alpha. I make no apologies for taking charge and taking risks and taking responsibility, too. That’s what’s brought me my success. Jazzmene is clearly too used to yes-men who give her the drama she craves, but I’m not having it.
All she has to do, literally the only challenge she needs to face, is to hang on my arm and smile prettily for about three hours. Normally, I’d walk away from a drama queen like this, but I need Mrs. Scaravelli on my side. Mrs. Scaravelli’s animal shelter isn’t important to me. But the woman is one of seven people who need to sign off on my waterfront land deal, and she’s the only one with nothing to gain from the sale. Right now, my board of directors are predicting she’s going to refuse, at which point everything falls apart. I need to butter her up, at least until the deal goes through. Which shouldn’t be difficult, except now my date is drunk and unreasonable and trying to cause a scene.
“You never want me to have fun. You don’t care about anything but work. Work, work, work! You never take me out if it’s not important for work. You’ve never even once invited me up to your penthouse” Two little old ladies in the window seat look over at us with scathing glares. At me, as if she’s all my fault.
I don’t care. I let Jazz rant. It’s true, actually. My space is mine, perfectly private and without any woman leaving her things around or driving me crazy with demands. I don’t have time for much of a social life, and I’m not interested in the sort of fashionista drama that most of the city traders seem to thrive on. I certainly don’t have time for a girlfriend, despite the number of women throwing themselves at me ever since that stupid Contessa article. I am successful because I have razor-sharp focus.
Jazz gets her phone out and starts tapping something, probably telling her friends how terrible I am. Probably trying to get someone to bring her a drink. I ignore her. I’m still hoping she might sober up enough to go to the ball, although it’s looking increasingly unlikely.
There’s no shortage of society women who would be thrilled to cling to my arm, but I’m out of time. So of course, Jazzmene has chosen tonight to go off the rails. Maybe because she’s realized how important Mrs. Scaravelli is to me. Like a predator, she can smell desperation.
The waitress comes over with the coffee and a sympathetic look. Our eyes lock. My eyes drop down to her rosebud lips which look immensely kissable despite her lack of make-up, or maybe because of it. She looks like she’d get hot and sweaty without worrying about the effect on her Instagram account.
I look back up at her big, blue eyes. She holds my gaze a moment longer than she needs to.
I blink first, but then I recover. A half smile snags my face. “Like what you see?” The pretty waitress blushes and gets flustered, which makes me laugh. I like the way her face is heating up. It makes me think of heating her up in other ways. What’s wrong with me? I’m like a randy teenager.
Finally, she speaks up. “I’m just waiting for you to tell me if I can bring you anything else,” she says.
Touché.
Jazzmene says, “Gin and orange. Hold the orange,” without looking up from her phone.
“I can bring you an OJ,” says the pretty waitress. She’s not flirting with me anymore, and I feel surprisingly bereft, although honestly, I have my hands full with Jazz as it is, who is clearly intent on causing a scene. “Why don’t I just do that.” She moves on to the next table without waiting for an acknowledgment.
Jazz slams her phone down on the Formica table. “OJ?” It’s taken her a few moments to realize she’s not getting her gin. She snaps her fingers in the air, shouting at the pretty waitress, who glances over but keeps taking the order of another couple.
“Hey you! I’m talking to you! I ordered a gin, not some stupid orange juice! You better make it a double. Knox is being a prick!”
The waitress is clearly nervous, but she answers in a calm voice. “I’m really sorry, we don’t serve alcohol,” she says. “Can I bring you something else? Maybe a cup of tea?”
I’m impressed with her cool. Maybe that’s slowed my reaction; as I’m trying to get a look at her name tag, Jazzmene stands up and gets in her face.
“I didn’t ask for a fucking tea,” she snarls. “I asked for a fucking double gin, hold the orange. You don’t know how to walk over to the convenience store and buy a fucking bottle?”
I stop staring and stand, stepping between them. A red-headed waitress is there almost as fast as I am.
I raise a hand to show I’ve got this under control. “C’mon, Jazzmene, stop it. It’s Lido’s Loco. It’s a family restaurant. They don’t serve alcohol. Why are you making a fool of yourself?”
The place is silent; every one’s eyes are on Jazz.
“Oh, fuck this. Bad enough I can’t get decent service, but now my date is calling me a fool? Well, fuck you, Knox Lockwood. I don’t care how big your dick is, I don’t need your shit.”
She looks around and sees all the gaping faces. Finally, it seems to seep into that thick skull of hers that she’s causing a scene. She grabs her pink purse and clacks out on her three-inch heels, somehow still able to balance. The bell on the door chimes as she tries to slam it behind her, and then she’s outside, stepping straight into the street and trying to flag down a car.
There’s a squeal as an Oldsmobile slams on the brakes to avoid hitting her, and she simply jumps into the back seat of the car. I can see her shouting at the poor guy driving, and then she slips me the finger as he pulls away.
I take a deep breath and turn back to the pretty waitress, who is staring out at the street as if she can’t believe what just happened. “Sorry about that.” It’s the understatement of the year, but what can I say?
“It’s not your fault.” She’s still staring, even though they’ve gone. “Shouldn’t you go after her or something? She just got into a strange man’s car!”
“She can take care of herself. The guy looked more shell-shocked than serial killer, to be honest.” But I like the fact that after all that, she’s worried about Jazzmene’s safety. My phone beeps, and I glance down at it. It’s a message from Jazz. Fuck you and your party. I’m out of here.
I glance at the waitress and type a quick response. Be safe. Any trouble, tell me. I’ll come get you.
The only person giving me trouble is you. She sends some rotating gif of Homer Simpson giving me the finger.
I show it to the waitress. “She’s fine. I’m just sorry that you had to deal with that.”
“We get all kinds here,” she says, which is being kind, because I’m pretty sure spoiled rich debutantés who’ve gone on a bender are not her standard clientèle. The two old ladies at the window have given up on any pretense of conversation and are simply watching us.
I glance at her name tag again. “Well, I’m sorry, Crystal. You deserve better.” She smiles at that, and it lights up her face. She was pretty before, but when she smiles, she’s gorgeous.
“Thanks.” She looks away too soon. But someone else needs her attention, and she’s gone without even a second glance.
I’m not used to that, I have to admit. I’m used to more than just a second glance. Her ass sways as she rushes over to take an order, and I don’t even pretend not to be staring. I want to make her smile again. I want to make her smile for me.
I wait for her to deal with the other customers before calling her over to pay for the coffee. I’m half hoping she’ll have written her number on the check — I swear to God, it’s happened before — but no such luck.
Something about this woman is getting under my skin. I need to get going, but now that I don’t have to maneuver Jazzmene, I can spare a few minutes. If I have to go to the ball on my own, I’d just as soon arrive a bit late, anyway, so it’s less conspicuous that I lost my date. “Do you get a break? Could I invite you to join me for a coffee? Make it up to you?”
Her cheeks flush bright pink, which is adorable but also completely inappropriately makes me wonder if she flushes when she climaxes. I bet she does.
My fantasy is interrupted by her shaking her head. She’s turning me down. “I’m about to get off work, so no break I’m afraid, but thank you.”
I’m wondering about how I could ask her on a real goddamned date, which is crazy. But part of my brain is still imagining taking her clothes off. And maybe that’s what makes me notice… At any rate, that’s when it strikes me: she’s about the same height as Jazzmene, and they are probably around the same weight. I still need to go to the charity ball, and I paid for an expensive ticket for a plus one and — here’s the important point that has just struck me — I still have Jazzmene’s dress in the trunk of my car.