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Because if that was a thing, then all the shirts he owned with food stains meant he was eligible to win the spot for People Magazine’s “most sexiest man alive.”
He ripped the paper ring off the rolled-up napkin, dumped the utensils onto the table, and reached across the table to wipe her lip. If he allowed the butter to continue to cling there, he was going to launch himself across that fucking table and lick it off.
Again, he had enough marks on his face from his freckles alone, along with a couple of small scars from when he was a kid, he didn’t need her handprint from a slap adding to them.
But when he sat back, he did notice her blue-green eyes flare. He showed her the napkin. “You had a smudge of butter…”
“Thanks, but you just could’ve told me.”
“True, but what would be the fun in that?”
“First opening the doors for me, now this… You seem to be a real gentleman.”
He snorted and rubbed his hands together. “Then my evil plan is working.” And he was somehow pulling it off since no woman had ever mistakenly called him a gentleman.
“Your mother must have taught you manners.”
“That’s not all she taught me.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Do tell.”
Shit. He wanted to tell Mel about his mother being a dance instructor since she’d probably appreciate that fact, but he couldn’t. She would ask questions, like the studio’s name and where it was located. It might be simple small talk but he’d still have to give her false answers once he scrambled to come up with them.
If only he’d met her while he wasn’t in the midst of being undercover… Especially in an undercover assignment trying to document the illegal activities of the new owners of her place of employment.
Suddenly the waitress was back, plunking down Mel’s large grilled chicken salad and his soup, whatever it was. He never paid attention to what she announced as the soup of the day, he just ordered it.
He glanced down. Minestrone. He tried not to gag. Thank fuck he ate earlier.
He forced down the rising bile and unwrinkled his nose.
“You okay? You’re the first person I know to like minestrone. I can’t stand it.”
“I should’ve ordered a salad.” He needed to turn the conversation back to her and the club, not talk about the food. “So, do you plan on trying to stick it out at The Peach Pit now that the Demons have taken over?”
She swallowed another mouthful of salad. “Unfortunately, right now I have no choice but to stay.”
“But you’re considering other options.”
“Of course. I’ve been looking elsewhere but well-paying jobs in my particular line of work are scarce. No surprise, right? Unfortunately, being a strip club manager is a pretty small niche and not quite the same as running a restaurant or a sports bar. I could do it but I’d rather not. Anyway… Here’s a secret I haven’t told many people… I’ve been saving to buy my own club.”
The last part tumbled out quickly, like she didn’t want to tell him and hoped he didn’t pay attention to it. But he heard it and it definitely caught his attention. “Yeah? One like The Peach Pit?”
“Absolutely. Strip clubs can be a gold mine if managed properly. Some days I just want to walk out when Cookie doesn’t show up because I’m exhausted. But then I dig deeper and stick it out because I tell myself it’s more money to put aside for my dream.”
“I’ve never met anyone who thought owning a strip club was their dream business.”
She speared a piece of chicken with her fork and brought it to her lips. “Then you haven’t talked to the right person.”
His lips twitched. “Apparently, I’m talking to her now.”
“The girls are loyal to me and I’m loyal to them. Luckily, they would go wherever I go. The secret—that really shouldn’t be a secret—is treating them right. I’d love to own an upscale club with an upscale clientele where I could offer my employees benefits and maybe even tuition and childcare assistance. By treating them fairly and with respect, the turnover would be greatly reduced,” she explained.
“I figured women stripped out of desperation. To make a quick buck.”
“Some do, but not all. I didn’t and ten years later I’m still at The Peach Pit.”
“But you’re no longer dancing on stage.”
“I could if I had to.”
“But you don’t,” he said more firmly.
“Right. I don’t, but if I had to…”
Was she thinking about getting back on stage? “You said you only started dancing to put yourself through college.”
By repeating what she told him the other night, he wanted to prove he’d been listening. It was one more way to build her trust.
“That’s why I started but not why I stayed.” She stabbed at a few chunks of lettuce dripping in vinaigrette. “Believe it or not, I loved stripping. I loved being on stage. I loved entertaining. I even loved interacting with the customers. When you’re working for the right club and have a great manager, it doesn’t feel like work. I consider pole dancing, whether for exercise or work, an art.”
