Ink Exchange

Chapter 6

Leslie slipped into the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and tried not to fall to pieces. Her hands shook. Someone else needed to handle the odd guest; she felt frightened by his attention, his too-intense stare, his words.

"You okay, ma belle? the pastry chef, Etienne, asked. He was a wiry man with a temper that flared to life over the oddest things, but he was just as irrationally kind. Tonight, kind appeared to be the mood of choice, or at least this hour it was.

"Sure." She pasted a smile back on her face, but it was less than convincing.

"Sick? Hungry? Faint?" Etienne prompted.

"I'm fine, just a demanding guest, too touchy, too everything. He wants … Maybe you could figure out what to order—" She stopped, feeling inexplicably angry at herself for thinking, even for that brief second, of having someone else order his food. No. That wouldn't work. Her anger and fear receded. She straightened her shoulders and rattled off a list of her favorite foods, complete with the marquise au chocolat.

"That's not on the dessert menu tonight," one of the prep cooks objected.

Etienne winked. "For Leslie it is. I have emergency dessert for special reasons."

Leslie felt relieved, irrationally so, that Etienne's rum-soaked chocolate decadence was available. It wasn't as if the customer had asked for it, but she wanted to give it to him, wanted to please him. "You're the best."

"Oui, I know." Etienne shrugged as if it were nothing, but his smile belied the expression. "You should tell Robert this. Often. He forgets how lucky he is that I stay here."

Leslie laughed, relaxing a bit under Etienne's irresistible charm. It was no secret that the owner, Robert, would do almost anything to please Etienne, a fact that Etienne pretended not to notice.

"The order for table six is up," another voice called out, and Leslie resumed her work, smile sliding back into place as she lifted the steaming dishes.

As the shift wore on, Leslie caught herself looking at the two odd guests often enough that she had a difficult time concentrating on her other tables.

Tips will be low if this keeps up.

It wasn't like touchy guests were unheard of. Guys seemed to think that because she waited tables she'd be easily swayed by a little charm and affluence. She smiled and flirted a bit with male diners; she smiled and listened a few minutes longer with older guests; and she smiled and paid attention to the families with children. It was simply how it went at Verlaine's. Robert liked the waitstaff to treat the guests personably. Of course, that ended at the threshold of the restaurant. She didn't date anyone she met on duty; she wouldn't even give her number.

I would with him, though.

He looked comfortable in his skin, but also like he'd be able to hold his own in the shadowy parts of the city. And he was beautiful—not his features, but the way he moved. It reminded her of Niall. And he's probably just as unavailable.

The guest watched her in much the same way Niall did, too—with attentive gazes and lingering smiles. If a guy at a club looked at her that way, she'd expect him to hit on her. Niall hadn't, despite her encouragement; maybe this one wouldn't go further either.

"Leslie?" The guest couldn't have spoken loudly enough for her to hear him, but she did. She turned, and he gestured for her to come closer.

She finished taking an order from one of the weekly regulars and just barely resisted the urge to run across the room. She navigated the space between the tables without taking her eyes off of him, stepping around the busboy and another waiter, pausing and moving between a couple leaving the restaurant.

"Did you need something?" Her voice came out too soft, too breathy. A brief flicker of embarrassment rolled over her and then faded as quickly as it had risen.

"Do you—" He broke off, smiling at someone behind her, looking as if he'd laugh in the next moment.

Leslie turned. A crowd of people she didn't know stood in a small circle around Aislinn, who was waving at her. Friends weren't welcome at work; Aislinn knew that, but she started walking across the room toward Leslie. Leslie looked back at the guest. "I'm so sorry. Just one second?"

"Absolutely fine, love." He pulled out another cigarette, going through the same ritual as before—snapping the case shut, tapping the cigarette on the tabletop, and flicking the lighter open. His gaze didn't waver from her. "I'm not going anywhere."

She turned to face Aislinn. "What are you doing? You can't just—"

"The hostess said I could ask you to wait on us." Aislinn motioned at the large group she'd come in with. "There's not a table in your section, but I wanted you."

"I can't," Leslie said. "I have a full section."

"One of the other waitresses could take your tables, and—"

"And my tips." Leslie shook her head. She didn't want to tell Aislinn how badly she needed that money or how her stomach clenched at the possibility of walking away from the eerily compelling guest behind her. "Sorry, Ash. I can't."

But the hostess came over and said, "Can you take the group and your tables, or do I need to have someone pick up your tables so you can take them?"

Anger surged in Leslie, fleeting but strong. Her smile was pained, but she kept it in place. "I can take both."

With a hostile look at the table behind Leslie, Aislinn went back to her party. The hostess left too, and Leslie was seething. She turned to face him.

He took a long drag off the cigarette and exhaled. "Well, then. She seems territorial. I suppose that little look was a don't-hit-on-my-friend message?"

"I'm sorry about that." She winced.

"Are you two together?"

"No." Leslie blushed. "I'm not… I mean—"

"Is there someone else? A friend of hers you see?" His voice was as delicious as the best of Etienne's desserts, rich and decadent, meant to be savored.

Unbidden she thought of Niall, her fantasy date. She shook her head. "No. There's no one."

"Perhaps I should return on a less-crowded night, then?" He traced a finger up the underside of her wrist, touching her for the third time.

"Maybe." She felt the odd urge to run—not that he was any less tempting, but he was looking at her so intently that she was certain he wasn't anywhere near safe.

He pulled out a handful of bills. "For dinner."

Then he stood and stepped close enough to her that her instinct to flee flared to life; she felt suddenly sick in the stomach. He tucked the money into her hand. "I'll see you another night."

She stepped backward, away from him. "But your food isn't up yet." He followed, invading her space, moving so close that it would seem normal only if they were about to dance or kiss.

"I don't share well."

“But—“

"No worries, love. I'll be back when your friend isn't around to snarl at me."

"But your dinner …" She looked from him to the bills in her hand. Oh my gods. Leslie was startled out of her confusion by the realization of how much she was holding: they were all large bills. She immediately tried to hand some of them back. "Wait. You made a mistake."

"No mistake at all."

“But—“

He leaned in so he whispered in her ear, "You're worth emptying my coffers for."

For a moment she thought she felt something soft wrap around her. Wings.

Then he pulled back. "Go tend to your friend. I'll see you again when she's not watching."

And he walked away, leaving her motionless in the middle of the room, clutching more money than she'd ever seen in her life.