Just a Distraction (Tate Brothers #6)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Rose

The only thing worse than serving food at a restaurant on a busy Friday is worrying that your bra is going to fail you while you’re serving said food.

And by bra, I mean the whole thing. The nursing breast pads. The “cups runneth over” feeling. My white server’s blouse.

You see the issues I got going on, right?

So tonight, at Casa del Cibo, I hope the customers are too busy with their menus and velvety, cheesy Italian food to notice if things go south.

It’s weird that I actually work here. Sometimes, when I’m waitressing, my imagination convinces me that an alternate universe opened up and swapped my life for someone else’s. It’s a tiring, thankless job that I tried to avoid having.

I will admit it can have its perks, though. Like when the front of house staff seats a gorgeous, lovely man eating alone in the candlelight on table five.

I cannot ever date this gorgeous man, or any other, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy looking at him.

Olive skin. Thick, glossy dark hair. Impossibly dark eyes. A model’s chiseled jawline, yet just a hint of roundness in his cheeks. And, above all, a smile that jiggers my insides.

I’ve seen him here before, but I’ve never gotten lucky enough to be his waitress. He’s completely off-limits, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself a little.

Water? Tea? Me?

Ha!

On the opposite end of the restaurant, at the drink station just inside the kitchen, I laugh at my own little joke as I sneak a glance at him again.

With his warm-green wide-leg pants, Van’s sneakers, and cream-colored Henley, he’s the perfect counterpart to the rest of the crowd dining here. It was like the waitressing gods said, “Tonight’s going to be hard for Rose, all the way around. Let’s throw her a bone and give her the customer from heaven.”

I carry a big glass of ice water to him, feeling the all-too-familiar burning sensation in my breasts. My baby recently decided to wean himself. It’s only day two of the process, and I’m in a lot of pain. Nothing that my arm pressing tightly against my chest and a Geez Louise under my breath can’t fix.

I’ve done the cabbage leaf thing and had about ten cups of sage tea. It’ll start helping soon, right?

Yes, I’m a mother, and I regret nothing that brought me my lush, squishy, perfect little boy, Callum.

Hoping beyond hope that my breast pads are still holding up their end of the bargain, I set the man’s ice water in front of him and flash the brightest smile I can manage. The din from the restaurant behind us shrinks as his luminous eyes meet my own.

“Welcome to Casa del Cibo,” I say, the heavy burn in my chest subsiding enough to allow me to speak without gritting my teeth. “I’m Rose. How’s your evening going?”

He nods. “Never been better. Italian food’s my guilty pleasure.”

“That’s good to hear.” My gaze flicks over the dining room’s dim lighting, emerald-green vinyl booths, and landscapes of Italy on the walls. I shrug. “This place is not without its charm.”

I can see why people like Casa del Cibo. The food is good, and there’s sort of a friendly, back-to-yesteryear vibe in here. But for me, things became tainted when my boyfriend, Blaine Scano, the manager, dumped me right before the birth of our child. What’s the opposite of seeing things with rose-colored glasses? That’s how I view Casa del Cibo’s now. With a bitter taste fogging up my lenses.

To be clear, the food here doesn’t give you a bitter taste! Unless you’re talking about the mushroom risotto with sardines, but that’s a whole other story.

Jordo, the busboy, brings up the basket with warm, fresh bread and a dish of butter pats in gold foil and sets them down on the table near the guy’s glass.

“Thanks, man.” I catch him inhaling a little as he nods to Jordo. “This smells good.”

So beyond his killer looks, he’s kind to busboys. Nice.

Most customers don’t notice the busboys. Most customers barely notice me, their eyes blipping up from the menus only long enough to place their order.

Actually, I do get noticed, but not in the ways I want. There are the guys who notice me for all the wrong reasons. I hoped having a baby would change that—that somehow I’d have this stamp on my forehead of “mother” and they’d back off and keep their distance.

But no, that’s not what happened. I’m objectively pretty, in a vaguely Sicilian- Eastern European-Mexican sort of way. I got good genes from my mom, I guess. And I’m not trying to brag, I’m really not. But becoming a mother didn’t seem to slow down the unwanted attention, even though I slip on a fake big-box store wedding ring when I’m working.

I didn’t have a chance to grab the ring out of my work locker today, though, because I was late for my shift and Blaine had already started accosting me with texts before I’d arrived.

He even lit into me when I was in the kitchen grabbing some extra menus. He was so loud the customers probably heard him shouting.

He needs to just calm down. I’m always on time . . . well, almost always. And I’ve worked here for over a year, so that should count for something.

“You need another minute to look over the menu?” I ask my handsome customer.

“No, uh, I’m ready,” he says, before ordering the risotto with mushrooms and sardines.

Huh. I have to warn him. With the way our eyes keep meeting, I’ve already sort of been feeling like it’s him and me against the world. Or at least him and me against Blaine and the rest of Casa del Cibo.

“Is this your first time at Casa del Cibo’s?” I ask, taking the menu from him. I brush a strand of hair out of my face. I know he’s been in here before, but maybe he’s had the good sense not to order this particular dish.

“I’ve been here a few times.”

I step to him, bending closer as I lower my voice. “I’m just asking because the dish you ordered?” I hesitate, check over my shoulder, and then turn back to face him. I pull a face, crossing my eyes and sticking my tongue out the side of my mouth.

He snorts a laugh. “What should I have instead?”

“Do you trust me? Because I have something I think you’ll really, really like.”

“I trust you,” he says, a smile easing across his mouth. “Bring me your favorite.”

“Prepare to be amazed.” My gaze lingers.

And I don’t know. There’s something about his expression that’s so open that I do something I never do. I become the teensiest bit vulnerable with a customer.

“Can you keep a secret?” I ask. It comes out of me before I can stop it.

At his sweet, slow grin, I still, tossing another look behind me. I have two secrets begging to be released from me, but I’m not going to mention the fact that my chest area is bursting and if I don’t hurry and change out my breast pads, I’m going to have circular stains on the front of my work uniform.

So, I choose the slightly less embarrassing option. Not that there’s anything wrong with breastfeeding! It’s just that I’m not going to tell a complete stranger, the guy I’m serving, that I’m having trouble with my body.

“My boss has been bothering me for a long while and I’m cooking up a plan . . .”

His brows go sky high. “Is that who was yelling? Was he yelling at you?”

My face burns and I clamp my lips tight.

“I only heard when the door swung open for a second,” he assures me. “Look, if he’s harassing you, I’ll gladly give him a piece of my mind.”

Honestly, it could be considered harassment, but I can’t jump into that idea with this guy. “No. It’s not that extreme.” I laugh him off. I lower my voice and cup my hand beside my mouth. “I’m hoping to take a can of whipped cream to his ride out back.”

I regret it instantly. How unprofessional of me to admit something like that.

“That’s your plan?” His eyes narrow as his eyebrows knit together. “Whipped cream?”

I straighten. “I know. I shouldn’t—”

“No, I’m saying we can totally come up with a better plan. Come on, Rose.”

I absently fiddle with my nametag. I sort of like how my name sounds on his tongue. “You’re quite the fussy customer, aren’t you?”

I make a show of leaning nearer to him with my finger on the menu, pretending like we’re innocently discussing his order. “What’s a better plan than messing with his ride?” I whisper. “He would marry his ride if he could.”

“Maybe we should come at him with something more embarrassing.”

My smile bursts open. “Like what?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe taking him down a notch might help the greater good. The other servers might be grateful for that.”

“Oh, I’m the only one he mistreats.”

His jaw tightens and his gaze flicks over me. “Well, even more reason to embarrass him.”

“Wait. No.” I glance over at the kitchen. “I can’t get you involved. I don’t even know why I said anything.” I clap my hands over my cheeks. “It was unprofessional of me.”

“Stop.” He lightly rests his hand on my elbow. “I’m glad you said something.” When he removes his hand, I realize his touch had been warm. So brilliantly and unexpectedly warm, like when sunlight spills onto the kitchen floor and your bare feet soak it in.

“Just—” Now my neck is warm. “Forget it. Are you waiting on anyone else to join you tonight, or . . .?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he says, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him. “I’m here on a Friday night, eating by myself because everyone else in my family has a significant other they’re spending time with and I don’t. So . . .” He leans back against his chair. “We’re doing this.”

I chuckle, crossing my arms over my chest. “Wow. Alone on a Friday night? That’s a little pathetic,” I tease, and ignore the thrill that the thought of he’s single brings up.

I think I might be the pathetic one.

He nods and takes a sip of water from his heavy, icy glass. “It is. That’s why you need to help me out with my boring, pathetic night.” His gaze flicks over my face, seeming to take in every detail of it.

I look behind me again. The tables on either side of us are empty, so it’s giving us a bit of a buffer from anyone hearing. “So, what’s your idea that’s so much better than my whipped cream one?”

“Well, he’s obviously got narcissistic tendencies.” His tone is joking, but he’s not wrong.

“Obviously,” I agree.

“And he’s got bad breath and webbed feet.”

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Nailed it.”

“Does your boss do the cooking?”

“No. He’s part owner. He does administrative stuff.” The reason he wasn’t fired long ago is because his family owns the place. It’s why he can get away with all the crap he pulls.

Like scheduling me to work tonight, of all nights.

My customer tips his head back and laughs, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Nerves tickle my middle. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing too terrible, I promise.” His eyes bore into me. “I can’t have him messing with you.” His chuckle is low as his words reverberate through me. “Let’s do this.”