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He has kind eyes, and a sympathetic smile.
“Can I?” he asks, miming writing something down.
I pass him the notepad and pen, my skin starting to burn as I wait, too afraid to look back over at Apollo, and even more petrified to read whatever Orion is writing.
It’s probably just their dinner order.
Goddess, don’t let it be something else.
I’m starting to think he might be different to his brothers. I would hate to be proved wrong by words.
Reading is my only real escape from this reality.
Words can cut deep.
He passes back the pad, managing to save it from Thor’s snatching grasp as he does so.
His hand closes over mine and I feel the tiniest flutter of butterflies in my belly.
“Thank you,” he says, before he lets go.
I smile at him, and move away, heading straight back to the kitchen before I read their order.
Four orders of stew, please. No salads.
And I’m sorry for my idiot brothers.
They were born assholes.
Ignore them.
It makes me laugh a little. Orion is definitely different from his brothers.
I still shouldn’t let that make me like him, but I don’t seem to have any control over that.
I signal to Emily for four stews and then I go grab the usual jugs and glasses for their water.
Picking up a tray, I bring it over and Emily puts the bowls down, adding extra while pulling a face when I signal that it’s for the royalty.
Apparently, there was some dough left over from yesterday’s lunch that was baked into small rolls to go with the stew. She places four of them on a plate and I put it on the tray with the rest of their food.
It definitely makes it look like we put in extra effort for them.
Astor comes with me to bring the water.
I put the tray down on the empty stool by the side of the table, and I make sure I give the fullest bowl to Orion. Apollo gets the one that looks like it might be more veg than meat. I leave the rolls at Orion’s side, and I catch the nasty glare Apollo gives me for not treating him like the king of the table.
I ignore it. I smile at Orion and wait for Astor, giving her my empty tray to take back to the kitchen with her own.
I move over to the table of groupies, notepad at the ready.
They frown at me uniformly. One puts a hand in front of her mouth as she leans to one of her friends. Astor slaps her hand down in passing, making her face pale and her mouth gape.
“There’s no room for rude in the dining room,” Astor says, winking at me as she disappears into the kitchen.
The whole table seems stunned.
I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
