Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Jules
T he orgasms Mick wrung out of me over the weekend and again early this morning have left me in a blissful fog. One that’s more potent than any shot of spirits. But I need to re-engage my brain. And fast. I’d hate to mess up on the first day of my new job.
I swivel in front of the bathroom mirror. My eyes pop thanks to the coppery highlights I had done last week and the postcoital glow that refuses to dim. Should I try a messy bun to give me a little extra pizzazz? I pull my hair up. Nah. That doesn’t work.
The boring, white blouse the restaurant insists all staff wear is the problem. I flick the second button open, revealing a hint of cleavage. I might not be twenty anymore, but the girls still put on a good show. Is it too much? Mick didn’t think so on the weekend. Besides, they should help bring the tips in.
I strut out of the bathroom, the stretchy black pants making it easy to move. They also make my arse look huge, but if Mick’s grunts as he dug his fingers into it are anything to go by, it’s an asset, not a liability. I may never be as buff as Taylor or as slim as Claire, but men have always appreciated my curves. It’s time I stopped hiding myself.
“There you are, Jules. Thank God you’re early. We’ve had two staff call in sick. Your first day’s gonna be a busy one.”
My new manager shoves a mini-iPad at me. “Can you get the order from table three? They’ve been waiting fifteen minutes and are getting restless.”
What? I don’t even know how to use this thing yet.
“Sure. No problem.” I scurry to the table, my plan to start this job poised and dignified left in a puddle at the front counter.
I’m greeted by a scowl. The owner of the hostile expression lets out an exaggerated sigh, steaming up her glasses. “You people really should invest in a QR code. Then we could have been receiving our coffees instead of ordering them.” She taps her expensive watch. “Time is money.”
“Sorry for the wait, ma’am. What would you like?”
She huffs. “A small double shot, soy latte, no sugar, and one of those sugar-free raisin biscuits.”
I struggle with the menu selection on the iPad, the palms of my hands becoming sweaty as the seconds tick by. It would be quicker with a pen and paper.
I turn to the woman next to her. She adjusts her pin-stripe suit jacket, drawing my gaze to immaculate French polished nails that are longer than Taylor’s. “And you?”
“A large decaf dirty chai with almond milk, and a chocolate brownie. I’ve got a big presentation later this morning. I’ll need the energy.”
I inwardly groan. This time, a full minute passes before I punch the order into the annoying piece of technology. I direct my attention to the third woman.
She picks up the menu and scans it. Light catches on a massive diamond ring, at least five carats. “Mm, I’m not sure.”
For fuck’s sake. They’re complaining about how long it’s taken to be served and she hasn’t made up her mind yet?
I keep the smile pasted on my face, the muscles threatening mutiny if this goes on much longer.
“I think I’ll have a hot chocolate.”
“Okay.” I tap on the menu.
“No, wait. Make that a mocha with extra cream. A small one. No, a large one. No, make it small. And I’ll have a slice of lemon meringue pie.”
I fumble with the iPad. Find the mocha. There’s nothing about extra cream. Useless system. I’ll just tell the barista.
When I finish entering the order, the first woman is cleaning her glasses and shaking her head. “We should have gone to the café near the station. The service here is ridiculous. I’ve got a board meeting in an hour.”
I avoid her feral gaze and turn to the last woman. Her expression is kinder, and unlike the others, she’s wearing a pale pink woollen outfit rather than a dark-coloured power suit.
“Could I have a peppermint tea, please?”
Oh wow. Manners. “Anything else?”
“No. That’s all. Thank you.”
The other women snigger, and the first one whacks the table. “Good to see you’re keeping to your diet, Lissa. You’ll fit into that bridesmaid’s dress yet. At least you’re not as fat as the waitress.”
Heat sweeps up my neck and across my cheeks. She did not just say that. What the hell is wrong with her? I clutch the iPad tighter to stop myself from banging the table and telling the bitch she’s a spoiled, rude brat.
The fourth woman comes to my rescue. “If I had curves like her, I’d be flaunting them. I wouldn’t care about fitting into a size ten dress. ”
The glasses chick gives me a cursory glance, her lips twisted in a very unflattering way. At least it seems to have shut her up.
I smile at the lady in pink. She’s possibly saved me from losing my job on the first day. “Thank you, ladies; I’ll be back with your coffees soon.”
When I reach the barista, I slump against the counter. “Have you seen the order?”
He shakes his head, blond dreadlocks dropping over his face. “It’ll be a short wait. There’s ten ahead of yours.”
“How long is short?”
“Twenty minutes?”
Great. Just great. Why did I think this job was a good idea? Dealing with snarky customers all day is likely to drive me to drink, not stop me. As for that postcoital glow, it’s been doused by a double shot of mediocre reality. But I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Plates are shoved at me, and I head off to find table eight.
The barista’s estimate is spot-on. Twenty minutes later, I return to the first table with their order. There are more grumbles about what a terrible café this is and how they’re never coming back. The place is chock full. Standing room only. I say, fuck off, ladies, we don’t need you. At least, I think it in my head. I’m not that frazzled to blurt it out loud. Yet.
The mocha woman regards her drink as if it’s poison. “Where’s my cream?”
Bugger. I forgot to tell the barista. “I’m sorry. Let me top it up.”
I reach across to retrieve the cup from the table. The woman with the glasses slaps my hand away. “No. You’ll get her a fresh mocha with extra cream.”
My vision turns red. No one hits me. Ever. Unless it’s Mick and we’re both naked. Or I’m naked and over his lap. Or … anyway. My hands curl into balls at my sides. Don’t strike back. Don’t strike back .
Something touches my shoulder. Do these women have backups in the restaurant? I spin, ready for a fight.
Except it’s Mick and Jake. And, holy hell, they’re trouble of a different kind: formidable and sexy, in matching dark grey suits, white shirts and blue ties. Jesus. Is this an unofficial detective uniform? I shake my head. Claire and I need to talk.
The red haze fades, and I uncurl my fingers. Mick winks, and I swivel to face the women.
Jake directs a piercing glare at them. “Is there a problem here?”
The nasty woman looks Jake up and down, her pupils dilating. “Not at all.” She smiles for the first time, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. Unbelievable. “The morning just got better.”
Her gaze turns to Mick, and she licks her lips. He’s mine, bitch. My fingers twitch, and I feel Mick lightly press his hand against my lower back in warning. He knows me too well.
Jake pulls a badge out of his pocket. The woman’s smile wavers. “Having witnessed you assaulting this server, I can’t say my morning is looking brighter.”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “It was in jest. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Jake regards her silently, his expression as rigid as I’ve ever seen it. The woman fidgets with her glasses. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m enjoying her discomfort. A lot.
Finally, Jake speaks. “Then I suggest you apologise.”
The woman’s lips pucker. She’s not such a big shot in front of a stern-faced cop. “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding,” she mumbles to my feet.
Sorry, my arse. “That’s fine. I’ll replace the mocha.”
“Oh, no. Don’t worry.” The mocha woman pats her flat stomach. “I probably shouldn’t have the extra cream anyway.”
There are a few seconds of awkwardness as the table of women all exchange glances with each other and Jake. Meanwhile, I’m acutely aware of Mick’s cologne and memories of his tongue, dick and fingers waking up my rusty lady parts. Which is totally inappropriate.
Jake breaks the stand-off. “Have a nice day, ladies. And remember to keep your hands to yourselves.”
I suppress a giggle at his condescending tone and follow him and Mick to a corner table far away from the troublesome foursome. Mick caresses my forearm before sliding into his seat.
I grip my iPad. “Thanks for saving my arse back there, but shouldn’t you two be working?”
Mick picks up the napkin holder, then places it down. Glances at Jake. Clears his throat. “I wanted to wish you good luck with the new job.”
“You did that this morning.” And in a much more naked way.
His cheeks turn a shade brighter than the red tabletop.
Jake tugs at his tie, clearly picking up on the subtext. Best to move the conversation along. “Well, thanks. Do you want a double espresso?”
“Yes, please.”
“And you, Jake?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“Jules.” Mick takes my hand, his thumb caressing the wrist. His eyes darken to the finest chocolate as his gaze dips to my cleavage and back to my face. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.” I peck him on the cheek. In my peripheral vision, I see the ladies at table three react to the intimate action. Yeah, bitches. Drool all you want, but this hunk of a man is returning to me tonight.
My bravado is short-lived. By the time I’ve finished my shift, picked up Riley from school and driven us home, my feet are balls of fire trapped in my shoes. I push open the front door and shuffle down the hallway.
“Do your feet hurt, Mummy?”
I go to say no, but from the concerned expression on Riley’s face, she’d know I was lying. “Yeah.”
She stares at my shoes. “Do you want me to rub them?”
That’s so thoughtful, but God no. The last thing I need is anyone touching them. “I’m good. Thanks for offering.” Zola sits to attention, begging me to play. “How about you and Zola go outside for a while, and then I’ll help you with your homework?”
“Okay.” She needs no further encouragement, sliding the back door open and running into the backyard, Zola behind her.
I collapse onto the sofa and kick off my shoes. Ruptured blisters mark both heels, and the big toes are flattened. I don’t recall this much agony when I waitressed at uni. Even for the short time I was in the Middle East, my feet never throbbed like this and it was forty-degree heat. I hobble into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine. If ever I needed a drink, it’s today.