BIANCA
Jackson stayed for four hours, straight through the third seating, sampling almost every damn dish on the menu, right down to two servings of blackberry-and-bourbon cobbler for dessert.
He ate the same way he talked. Mechanically, as if he took no pleasure in it, like it was a nuisance, one more thing to endure in the long, joyless span of his day. Still aggravated by our interaction, I watched from the kitchen as he sat alone and wolfed down plate after plate of food, eyes lowered, ignoring all the curious looks sent his way.
Stopping beside me to follow my gaze, Eeny exclaimed, “Looks like that boy hasn’t eaten in a year!”
I sourly harrumphed. “Only the souls of all who’ve displeased him.”
She chuckled. “I see LaDonna Quinn would like to give him somethin’ else to chew on besides your spicy baby back ribs. Lawd, that dress she’s wearin’ is so tight you can almost see her religion.”
For the third time, the newly divorced brunette sashayed by Jackson’s table, hips swaying, toying with her hair and fluttering her lashes. She might as well have been invisible for all the attention it got her.
“Ooh—and here comes Marybeth Lee struttin’ her stuff!” exclaimed Eeny gleefully, pointing to the bombshell Marybeth, man-eater extraordinaire, whose glossy blonde locks and hourglass figure never failed to turn heads. She emerged from the ladies’ room and took the long way back to her table, gliding by Jackson’s table with a sultry smile directed his way.
He sent her a withering glance and went back to his dinner.
I mused, “Maybe he’s gay. I’ve never seen a man immune to Marybeth’s double Ds.”
Eeny cackled. “Judgin’ by the way his eyes were glued to your behind when you were stormin’ away from him at the bar, I’d say that boy is definitely not gay.”
Outraged, I gasped. “He was looking at my ass?”
Eeny looked me up and down, her brows lifted. “What, you need to introduce a man to your mama before he’s allowed to get an eyeful of your booty?”
I sputtered, “No, that’s not—he’s just—what a jerk!”
Eeny does this thing when someone isn’t making sense where she squints one eye and looks at you sideways. She did it to me now, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t tell me you don’t think he’s handsome.”
I grimaced. “Handsome? How could I tell? It’s impossible to see past the forked tongue and the horns!”
Eeny pursed her lips. “Mm-hmm.”
“Don’t you have some work to be doing, Eeny?” I said, exasperated by the turn in the conversation.
She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’, if LaDonna and that scandalmonger Marybeth are spendin’ so much time throwin’ their hussy selves in his direction, it ain’t because he’s ugly.”
“No, it’s because he’s stinking rich. And besides, you called him a werewolf. You can’t think he’s handsome!”
She clucked like a hen. “Oh, honey. I think all this time you’ve been without a man has made you blind.”
From across the kitchen, Hoyt let out a hoot of laughter.
I looked at the ceiling and sighed. “Lord, why do I even employ these people?”
Hoyt hooted again. “I’m guessin’ that’s one of them ‘moot’ questions, ’cause we both know you wouldn’t have a dessert menu worth eatin’ if it wasn’t for me—”
“Oh, shut your pie hole and get back to work, Hoyt!” bossed Eeny, propping her hands on her wide hips. “I swear, if I have to hear one more time about your mad skills with pastry dough, I’ll keel over and die!”
Hoyt, who’d been in love with Eeny for going on sixty years and had been getting rejected for just as long, sent her a lazy grin and a wink. “Aw, c’mon now dawlin’. You know it ain’t my dough-kneadin’ skills that make you weak in the knees.”
“Ack,” said Eeny, rolling her eyes. “You’re delusional, old man.”
Hoyt grinned wider. “And you, suggie bee, are a sassy li’l blackberry. C’mon over here and give old Hoyt a kiss.”
“Pffft! Don’t hold your breath!” said Eeny with a flip of her hand.
Then Pepper breathlessly burst through the kitchen doors.
“Bianca! He’s asking for you!”
My stomach turned. I didn’t have to ask who she meant.
I peered out to Jackson Boudreaux’s table, expecting to see him throttling one of the busboys, but he was just sitting there with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring daggers at nothing in particular.
The man gave the term resting bitch face a whole new meaning. He looked like his face had caught on fire and someone had tried to put it out with a fork.
I said, “What does he want? Did Marlene already bring him the check?”
“Yes! And then he called me over and gave me this!” Pepper triumphantly held up a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “And when I asked what it was for, he said all meanlike, ‘I don’t like to see a woman cry.’ Can you believe that?” She giggled in delight. “If I’d known I’d get a Benjamin as a tip if I cried, I would’ve been bawling on the customers from day one!”
I ground my teeth together. The nerve of that man, trying to buy Pepper off for him being an overbearing prick!
Unfortunately, it was working.
But I wasn’t about to let him start throwing his money around as payment for his terrible behavior. I might not be rich like him, but I had my pride. Nobody was buying me off. All his wealth didn’t impress me one bit.
In fact, he could take his money and shove it right up there with Pepper’s bucket of crawdads!
“Eeny,” I said firmly, pointing to the cobblers I was plating, “make sure these get out to table six. I’ll be back in two shakes.”
“Uh-oh,” she said, warily eying my expression. “Somebody get the fire extinguisher. I think poor Mr. Boudreaux is about to go up in flames.”
I muttered, “Poor my patootie,” and pushed through the kitchen doors.
I made a beeline to his table, stopped beside it, and didn’t smile when he looked up. Cool as an iceberg, I said, “You asked to see me?”
I’d be professional, but I wasn’t going to kiss his uppity butt, even if he could sue me and get me bad reviews. I didn’t like being disrespected and spoken down to, and liked being threatened even less. Had he simply been polite, this evening would have gone differently, but here we were.
Staring with open hostility at each other.
Neither of us said anything. The moment stretched out until it became uncomfortable, and then intolerable. Staring into his eyes was like being physically attacked.
Finally he broke the awful silence by saying, “There’s an error on my check.”
“No there isn’t.”
His brows, thick and black, badly in need of manscaping, lifted. “There must be. It shows nothing due.”
“Correct.”
His cold blue gaze burned into mine. “I’ve been sitting here eating for hours—”
“Believe me, I’m perfectly aware how long you’ve been here and how much you’ve eaten.”
He leaned back against the leather booth, spread his hands flat against the tabletop, and examined me the way a scientist might examine a germ under a microscope. It was horrible, but I gave no outward indication how much it rattled me.
I wondered if that muscle jumping in his jaw was a sign of an oncoming murder spree.
Then he had the audacity to say—with dripping condescension—“My opinion of you and your restaurant can’t be swayed with freebies, Miss Hardwick.”
Sweet baby Jesus, I wanted to pick up the steak knife on the table next to his empty plate and stab him in the eye with it.
Instead I said, “I’m not interested in your opinion, Mr. Boudreaux. Your meal is on the house because I love your family’s bourbon and it inspired me to create this menu, which I happen to be very proud of, and which has made a lot of people happy. I would’ve comped you even if you didn’t act like the sun comes up just to hear you crow.”
For the first time I saw something other than steel in his eyes. It was only a moment, a flash of emotion that warmed his gaze, and then it was gone.
He said stiffly, “I insist on paying—”
“I’m not taking your money.”
A flush of color crept over his cheeks. I supposed he wasn’t used to hearing no. That gave me an enormous sense of satisfaction, even if I did just give away four hundred bucks’ worth of food and couldn’t afford to.
Then he stood. It was abrupt and startlingly smooth for a man so large—one swift unbending of limbs that had him on his feet and looming over me.
Again.
Looking up at him, I swallowed. It wasn’t fear I felt, but he was definitely unnerving. And hot damn, why did this crabby, beastly bastard have to smell so good? If I didn’t know better that my mouth was watering from the scent of bourbon-spiced gumbo wafting through the air, I might have almost thought it was because of him.
“Miss Hardwick,” he said, the edge in his voice rougher, his eyes burning blue fire, “You. Are being. Unreasonable.”
Boy, did he like to punctuate his words with a hammer! A laugh escaped me.
“And you, Mr. Boudreaux, are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard. Have yourself a nice evening.”
For the second time tonight, I turned my back on Jackson Boudreaux and walked away. Only this time I was painfully aware he might be staring at my ass.
Thanks a million, Eeny.