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“I’ll have…” He looks up, and my breath hitches in my throat. I manage to write down his order as he lists the exact same meal—the one I have memorized. His blue eyes are intense, and it makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. Well, other than the fact that I still have the same shoes on my feet. I’d love to know what he’s thinking. Then again, the way he was just staring at my feet with a scowl on his face, maybe not.
“And to drink?” I ask him.
“Water.”
“Of course, I’ll get this put in and have your salad right out.” I turn and walk away, mindful that his eyes are on me. I can feel his stare. Typing his order into the computer, I go gather his salad and another fresh glass of water. “Here you go,” I say, setting it in front of him.
“Tell me, Layla, have you worked here long?” he asks. He’s been making small talk all week. What is there to do in the area? How far to the nearest mall? Questions that surprise me coming from him, but ones we get from tourists all the time. Well, until this one.
I look around and realize the other diners have left, and it’s just the two of us. “I have. I just had my seven-year anniversary.”
He nods. “Do you like working here?”
He’s not giving me the creep vibe, but I’m still uneasy with his questions. “I do. I needed a job, and the Emerald gave me a shot. I’ve been here ever since.” Taking a deep breath, I internally chastise myself. I don’t know why I just blabbed all of that.
“I’ll go check on your meal. Enjoy,” I say, turning away before he can ask another question, and I spill my life story. It’s those eyes. He could get me to tell him anything. He should work for the CIA or something. Hell, he might, I know nothing about him. I don’t even know his name.
I busy myself with my other tables, and this time when I drop off his meal, he’s on the phone having a conversation, so I’m able to drop off his food, along with steak sauce, a refill, extra napkins, and rush off. I don’t know what it is, but there is something about him. It’s as if his presence alone is commanding. I check on my other tables, then head back to his, hoping that he’s still occupied with his call.
When I approach, he lifts his head and watches me. “Did you save room for dessert?” I ask.
“Just the check,” he says, tossing his napkin on his now empty plate.
“Great, here you go. I can take it whenever you’re ready.”
“Wait.” He stands, pulls his wallet out of his pocket, grabs a few bills, and hands it to me. “Keep the change, Layla,” he says. His fingers slide across mine as he hands me the money, and my hand tingles from his touch.
“Thank you, uh, sir,” I say, fumbling with my words and once again making myself look like a fool in front of him. Unlike him, I’ve not badgered him with questions, including his name. He always pays in cash, so there is no credit card to tell me his name. Hence the nickname, Blue Eyes. It fits him.
“Owen.” He holds his hand out for me. My fingers are still tingling, but my manners and blatant curiosity of the magic of his touch—and if it will happen a second time—have me placing my hand in his.
“It’s nice to meet you, Owen. Thank you for your generosity.” I know I already thanked him for his gracious tips, but there are several bills now shoved in my apron, and I’m certain it more than covers his meal, just as before.
“You work every night?” he asks.
I can see how he would think that. I’ve been here every night this week. “Most weekends. I don’t mind the shifts that no one else wants to work,” I say with a shrug. Again, giving him more information than necessary for the conversation.
“Do you ever get a night off?”
“Yeah, usually not on the weekend. This week I picked up some extra shifts.” His eyes bore into mine, unnerving me. Shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I look over at the table. “Thank you again. Have a great night.”
“Are you dismissing me, Layla?”
“N-No.” I clear my throat. “No, just, uh, thank you. You don’t have to go.” I stumble over my words. I don’t know who this guy is, but from a look, you can tell he has money. Just my luck, he’s some big wig that could get me fired. I need this job.
Reaching out, his thumb lightly brushes under my eye. “You look tired.”
Who is this guy? He’s seen me a handful of times, and he thinks he knows I’m tired? What’s worse is I am. I haven’t been sleeping well. There is no reason for it, but the truth is apparently obvious in my eyes. “Just a long day,” I answer him.
