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Up close, he exudes a sort of aggressive authority, a way of standing with his broad shoulders pushed back and his chin lifted high. He’s used to moving through life unchecked, that much is clear.
“Are you all right?” he asks, pointing down at my cup. “Your coffee’s half gone.”
I glance down at my now-soaked dress and on cue, a few drops of coffee hit the floor. “Oh, yeah…” I laugh awkwardly. “I prefer to look at it as half full.”
“Mr. Ashwood!” Brian says as he screeches to a halt behind me. “I’m so sorry for the wait!”
He shakes his head. “It’s not a problem. Your hostess was just helping us.”
It’s here that I should probably clarify that I’ve only ever seen James Ashwood from afar. Maybe someday I’ll stop referring to him by both his first and last name, but for now—and honestly, probably for always—he will remain James Ashwood. Without a doubt, he falls into the George Clooney category of men. From polling the women around the club, there isn’t a single person walking around here with two X chromosomes who doesn’t find him extremely attractive.
In the last month, I’ve heard numerous over-the-top phrases uttered about him.
From Janine, the sous chef in the kitchen: “He’s so hot I want to bake him into a pie and sit on it.”
From Hannah, one of the tennis pros: “His ass is like a perfect eclipse—you’ll go blind if you stare directly at it.”
I want to be impervious to his charms and looks because he seems like a royal pain in the ass, what with the cars, and the suits, and that soul-stealing smile he’s aiming at one of his dinner dates right now. They’re quite a group. Altogether, they could star in a 90210-esque drama about beautiful young people. There’s a perky Asian girl with cropped black hair, a svelte blonde with swoon-worthy red lipstick, a redhead with boobs they can probably make out from the space station, and a gaggle of men that compliment them well. I plan on getting a better look at them all as I lead their group to their table near the fireplace, but Brian steps forward and announces that he’ll be taking them instead. Apparently, he doesn’t trust my line-leading abilities, or maybe he’s mad that I left my post for half a second.
I watch the backs of their shiny, privileged heads as they step past the podium. James is flanked by Nunga-Nunga Ginger and Svelte Blonde as he makes his way through the dining room, and I know for him, our short exchange is already forgotten.
Their servers are already in place, ready to start wine service. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but one of them presents him with a bottle of high-priced champagne. He nods and waves for his guests to claim their seats. I’m still staring, waiting for something. I’m not sure what it is until he glances back and his eyes meet mine across the dining room.
A ton of bricks fall on my chest.
I’m paralyzed.
And then he smiles, and it’s small, hidden, like we’re both in on a private joke, but there’s no time to read into it. His attention sweeps back to his guests and there’s a family walking up to the podium, ready to be seated. I shake my head. Clear my throat. Blink—again—and then force a wide smile for the members in front of me.
“Good morn—evening. Have you reservated…I mean, do you have a reservation?”
I use the next few hours during my shift to dissect James Ashwood, as if by breaking him down into chewable parts, he’ll be easier to assess and subsequently dismiss. I suspect most of his power, like mine, comes from his hair. It seems odd, I know. There are few men known strictly for their locks. Fabio is, of course, one of them, but rest assured, the two have nothing in common. James’ short hair is a rich, dark brown with a natural wave that’s almost boyish, but with a touch of pomade the strands stay put in a business-friendly, panty-dropping look.
Separate from “the hair”, there’s his bone structure: firm jaw, straight nose. It makes me want to vomit in my mouth to say his face could be chiseled from marble, but it’s the only way I can convey JUST HOW BEAUTIFULLY PROPORTIONED THIS MAN IS! Roll over in your grave, Michelangelo. See if I care.
I suspect his eyes are brown, but I feel like if I were ever close enough to notice the intricacies of his irises, I’d pass out before I could study them. As much as I’d love to go into detail about the rest of him, I can’t because I don’t know the details. His body definitely seems to be in good shape under his suits, but maybe that’s the magic of expensive tailoring. He’s definitely tall, but I couldn’t rattle off an exact figure to save my life. Maybe one day I’ll be with him when he robs a convenience store and I can use the ruler taped by the door to confirm whether he’s 6’0’’ or a little over.
