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“No ifs, ands or buts. You’re going out on maternity leave this week. I’ll be darned if you do anything to cause my nephew to pop out early.”
Okay, so the child wasn’t technically a relation of mine, but close enough. I intended to spoil him as if he were family just the same.
Ally rubbed her lower back. “My kid isn’t that touchy, and neither am I. Besides, it was my fault. Balance is all off right now. I’ll take care of it.”
Evidently, Greta was not moved by our touching display of bestie concern. “I don’t care which of you ladies gets out there and cleans up that coffee, but one of you better get your behinds moving right now or else.”
I was about to tell Greta what exactly she could do to my behind—as in kiss it—when the sharp click of expensive shoes made me turn around.
And came face to chest with Oliver Hamilton.
He towered above my five-two by about a foot. Or three. Even though he was an identical twin, there was no doubting which Hamilton I was eye-to-pec with right now. Seth never wore full suits, instead often pairing dark jeans with a jacket and shirt, sans tie. Oliver seemed to wear nothing else. I’d only seen him in jeans twice, and once was when he was helping Seth with some work around the house. The jeans had looked fresh off the rack. Just as today’s suit looked custom and exquisitely cut to fit his chiseled frame.
He had no business being back here. It was bad enough Seth showed up in the diner’s kitchen all the time, but now Oliver? But Oliver went where he pleased and was rarely told no.
“Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said in his smooth, deceptively calm voice. His eyes, however, blazed like charred embers from a fire. So dark they could’ve been black, especially when he looked pissed.
Like right now.
I blinked. “You forget to take your meds again, Hamilton? What are you doing back here? Employees only.”
But he wasn’t speaking to me. No, his attention was squarely fixated on Greta, who seemed caught between squirming and fluttering at being under the relentless scrutiny of such a dominating man.
Either that, or Greta’s tighty-whities were a size too small. Which would explain a lot.
“Oh, I know we haven’t.” Greta was instantly all aglow, a bright smile wreathing her normally stern face. She pushed past me and held out a hand to Oliver. “My name is Greta Conrad. I’m new in town. Just moved here last week. Old friend of Mitch’s. He owns The Rusty Spoon,” she added proudly, as if Oliver would be impressed by her important friends.
I hid a smirk behind my hand. Not so much.
Oliver just stared at her hand without taking it. “Lovely. Let me tell you who I am. My name is Oliver Hamilton, and Alison is my sister-in-law.” He jutted his chin at Ally, who was turning the shade of the tomatoes lined up neatly on the kitchen island. “So, I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from making physical demands on a woman who is nine months pregnant. Or else I’ll be forced to contact my lawyer, and no one wants that, do we?”
“Oliver,” Ally said weakly. “I’m fine, and I only have two days left—”
“Do we have an understanding?” Oliver interjected, staring hard at Greta.
Greta’s smile was long gone. She nodded quickly, then pinned me with a look. “What about this one? Is she your sister-in-law too, or can she actually work to clean up the mess she caused?”
I bristled. Oliver hated me. Lord only knew what he’d say. Probably tell Greta I could clean the floors and the toilets too, for good measure.
“She’s on a break right now.” His gaze dropped below my face and lingered. “She must be, since she isn’t even fully dressed.”
I let out a startled squeak and grasped my half-open shirt tighter to my now heaving bosom and raced into the back hallway. I beelined for my locker in the break room, moving as fast as my sensible soles would carry me.
Thank heavens the break room was empty. See, the universe could be benevolent now and then.
Talking to Greta and Ally with my shirt half open over my granny bra—hello, DDs require more support than your average demi cup—was one thing. The line cooks had been on a smoke break out back, and I’d been flustered enough not to give them a second thought. Jean, one of the other waitresses, had probably come in and gone out without my notice, but she probably wore granny bras too.
Oliver, however, was a very different story.
Rule number one of having a mortal enemy—never let them see you sweat…or walking around in your underwear, especially if it wasn’t remotely sexy.
I spun the combination on my locker. Okay, so he wasn’t my mortal enemy. We didn’t have any grievous reasons not to like each other, except that he slept with any female who moved, and I couldn’t get any action unless I paid for it. Not that I should hold that against him, but I did because he was a humorless boob who took himself far too seriously.
And who had just swept in and defended his sister-in-law—and me, sort of—like a knight in Hugo Boss.
I tossed my wet apron into the bottom of my locker and whipped off my shirt, dropping it in the same pile. I’d tidy up later. The important thing now was to grab my highly revealing tank top—great job in choosing a spare shirt, past Sage—and apron. Well, after I used some of the tissues I kept for emergencies to blot my considerable cleavage. At least the coffee hadn’t done much more than slightly irritate my skin. The pinkness was already beginning to fade.
Small favors, because an ER trip for burned boobs was the last way I wanted to spend the afternoon.
