The diner is packed, which is always unusual for a Monday night. There must be a big fight this week—Atlantic City tends to fill up in the off-season when fight nights come up. People fly or drive in for those a few days early, and they usually want to get their junk food on while they’re here.

Which works out well for me. I could use the money since my car is on the fritz and it’s looking like I’ll have to replace the Neon sooner than later. I pocket yet another twenty-dollar tip, my third of the night, and then swing by the register to key in another table’s order of four cheeseburgers and extra onion rings.

The moment I touch the register, the skin at the back of my neck prickles, bringing the tiny hairs standing to attention. I swear I’m being watched. And I don’t mean by customers casually glancing in my direction or by my co-workers as they pass by. I mean watched. After what happened at the pier this morning, I’ve been on edge all day—and for good reason. Swallowing down the sudden dryness in the back of my throat, I turn my head slightly to survey the room, my finger still held in midair, ready to finish keying in the order.

Sure enough, at the back table—the one near the restrooms where hardly anyone ever sits—wedged into the four-person booth by himself, there’s a man staring straight at me. He meets my eyes when I look at him, and my breath stalls.

Wow.

Muscles bulge on his arms and beneath his plain black T-shirt, which is just tight enough to tease how much more is left to explore, there’s a tantalizing curl of black ink running down one of his biceps. I want to see the rest of that tattoo. Badly.

Add that body to his messy, just-fell-out-of-bed dirty blonde hair and eyes so blue they’d give a glacier a run for its money, and he’s sinfully delicious. Perfection.

Even more noticeable than his good looks, though, is his confidence. He absolutely exudes it. He meets my gaze head-on, refusing to look away or bury his nose in the menu to pretend he wasn’t staring. His stare is calm, steady. Like a man who knows what he wants.

That or he’s just trying to figure out why they make us wear these hideous uniforms, I tell myself. Because there’s got to be some other reason. He can’t be looking at me.

Except, as I’m gazing back at him like a total idiot, his lip quirk into a dangerous half-smile and he cocks an eyebrow at the same time. If I’ve ever seen a come here expression before, this is one. He couldn’t be any more obvious if he stood up and shouted across the whole restaurant, “Get over here. Now.”

Flustered, my cheeks heat up in the beginnings of a deep flush but I somehow finish what I was doing. My hands shake as I tuck the check for my other table into my skirt and turn away from him for a moment to quickly spot-check my appearance in the distant mirrored window.

Since I just threw my hair into a high ponytail before I left and hadn’t bothered to put on more than a base coat of makeup today, I’m a total mess. I tell myself it’s fine. He just wants to place an order and probably doesn’t care what I look like as long as he gets his food. Dragging in a breath so deep it hurts my chest, I cross the room, averting my gaze to random tables so I won’t openly ogle him. But even out of the corner of my eye, I can tell his gaze still doesn’t leave me, not in the whole minute it takes me to weave across the room to him, depositing checks and taking drink orders at my other tables along the way.

By the time I reach his side, he’s doing that half-smiling thing again. Only now, he’s tilting his head to one side, like he’s appraising me.

“Thought you’d never get here,” he says, his voice deep and husky. It has just the right amount of smoke to send a thrill shooting through my chest, straight down to my sex. If I could cross my legs right now without being obvious, I would because I can feel his voice coursing through me.

But what’s crazier is that I recognize it too. That voice. “You… ” My own voice falters, so I clear my throat to encourage myself to keep going. “You were on the boardwalk this morning. With those guys?”

His eyebrows tug together, and I decide he’s just as beautiful when he’s irritated as he is when he’s smirking. “They didn’t fuck with you again, did they?”

I shake my head so quickly my ponytail swishes around my shoulders. “No. I mean, I doubt they’re going to bother anyone after what you did.”

He lifts one shoulder, like it’s his job to go around kicking douchebag’s asses. “I’m not a fan of men who treat women like that. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”

To keep myself grounded, I dig my teeth into the edge of my lip and take a few seconds to catch my breath. “I-I’m just glad you were there,” I manage. Glancing away from him, I clear my throat again, into what I hope sounds more like a normal voice. “Anyway. Thank you. I wanted to say that before, but then you left. What can I get you? Whatever you want, on the house. It’s the least I can do for my brave knight.”

My brave knight.

Oh, god, Skye, stop talking right now. Just. Stop.

To my surprise, he doesn’t seem to be put off by my babbling or my dorky reference. “It’s not on the menu.”

“What?”

His smile deepens. For the first time, I notice a tiny dimple in his cheek. “What I want isn’t on the menu.”

Oh, my god. That line from any other guy would have me rolling my eyes or showing them the door. Somehow, though, he makes it work. I decide it’s because of the dangerous glint in his eye—the one that makes everything he says seem one hundred percent serious. After what I saw him do this morning on the boardwalk, I have a feeling he’s the kind of man who always gets what he wants.

“Okay.” Drawing in a shallow breath, I fidget with the edge of my apron. “Can I get you anything that is on the menu?” Holy hell, I’m so terrible at this. Thinking up witty things. It’s never been my strong suit but I’m failing more than ever now that this man is close enough to breathe the same air.

“Depends.” He rests his forearm on the table, drawing my eyes down to another tattoo. It’s one of those mechanical 3D pieces that looks like it’s moving every time he flexes his arm or fingers. Leaning back in the booth, he gives me an intense look that makes my toes curl. “What time does your shift end?”

I never do this—go out with customers. And I never go after men like him. He looks like he could eat me alive without a moment’s hesitation. But he beat up a guy for me, and now he’s here in my diner, refusing to take his eyes off me.

Before I can talk myself out of it or rethink this terrible move, I can already hear myself saying, “Midnight.” Stupid, Skye! Nobody goes out at midnight unless they’re looking for a one-night stand. I don’t do those, either. “But it usually takes a little while longer to shut down, so you probably don’t want to waste your time waiting around for me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I swear my panties melt when one corner of his mouth slinks into a sexy smirk and that dimple makes its reappearance. “You seem like you’d be worth waiting for, Skye.”

I’m blushing worse than ever. But I’m also hearing alarm bells ringing now. My smile falters. “You know my name?”

He nods at my chest. I glance down and feel my face turn five shades darker when my gaze lands on my nametag. God, I really am sucking hard tonight.

Still, in my two years of working at Monroe’s, no one under the age of seventy has ever once read that nametag. And definitely no one who wasn’t a regular customer, like the guys who come in every morning for their coffee and eggs, or the couples who eat here for their big date night on Tuesdays right before they head to Bingo.

“I want to wait. We can do an early breakfast somewhere that doesn’t remind you of work,” he says. When I open my mouth to speak, he stops me, his voice rougher, digging under my skin a bit more. “I’m going to wait, Skye.”

It takes my breath away hearing him say it. My name in his mouth. His tongue caressing over that single syllable, turning it into something deliciously sensual.

“Okay.” I’m nodding like a fool but I can’t help myself. This man screws with all rational thought the moment he speaks. “So … what can I get for you?” I ask, desperate to get some control over this situation and myself.

Ripping his piercing blue eyes from mine, he flips open his menu and scans through it as though he hasn’t even bothered to look at it yet. “I’ll take a steak. Rare.”

“Perfect.” I extend a hand to take his menu, and when he passes it over, he brushes his fingers against mine. His calloused skin rough on my hand, but it only makes his touch more inviting. He’s got the kind of hands that tell me he knows how to work for a living—and for pleasure. Big, strong hands that I’d kill to have wrapped around my waist, pulling me into him, driving me wild, touching me everywhere. From my lips to the spot between my legs that seems to throb whenever he looks my way.

I swallow again because I can’t seem to shake the image of his hands on my body from my head. “Anything else?”

He drops his fingers back to the table. Makes the mechanical tattoo look like it’s moving again by fisting then unclenching his hand. He grins. It’s the grin that makes my chest flutter anxiously. “That’s all. For now.” His eyes practically gleam as I fold up the menu and walk away from him. I can feel him trailing me across the room, only this time it’s not the back of my neck that’s tingling.

This man. With the single brush of a finger, and one long, endless stare, he’s already got my panties soaking wet.

I’m in deep trouble. And I don’t know a damn thing about him—not even his name.