A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(5)

“It means beloved,” a middle-aged woman with a smoky voice says from the table next to mine. She’s poking her refried beans with a fork, and when she looks up, she smiles. “Querida means wanted.”

CHAPTER 3

I’m standing in the back room as Santo lectures me for (a) spilling my drink everywhere and causing a scene, and (b) not knowing the menu already. He’s a big guy with a shaved head and grease burns up and down his arms, and I try to tell myself he’s probably a teddy bear on the inside. But I’m pretty sure that’s not true.

Santo says that he doubts I’ll make a capable server, especially since I have what he calls “butterfingers,” but he’s willing to give me a shot since he’s understaffed. I’m grateful. Humiliated, but grateful.

Even as he talks, I glance toward the dining room, thinking about Diego. About the girl on the church steps. I run through a list of possibilities: low-blood-sugar-induced hallucinations, narcolepsy, schizophrenia. Obviously there is no way that stuff really happened to me just now, so it has to all be in my head. There’s an explanation, and I’ll figure out what it is. I just can’t panic in the meantime.

Noticing my distraction, Santo dismisses me to the food line to help load trays, saying that he doesn’t trust me on the floor without an escort. And since the water incident, Abe has been too busy to train me.

It’s nearly two hours—and countless plates of food—later when Abe comes up to me at the line, reaching past me for a tray. “Hey,” he says. “Do you think you could help me out for a second?”

“Sure!” At this point I’ll do anything to get out of the sweltering kitchen.

“Thanks,” he says, sounding relieved. “They just sat tables seven and eight. Would you mind getting their drink orders for me? I’m slammed right now.” I agree, and he rushes back onto the floor.

I follow after him, grabbing a green pad of paper from the register as I pass. I feel like a real server, and it’s kind of exciting. Abe heads to the counter and I make my way over to his section.

At table seven is an older woman whose overabundance of perfume tickles my nose. She tries to give me her food order twice, but I honestly don’t know what she’s talking about. So I tell her I’ll send Abe right over and promise to be back with her iced tea.

As I’m passing by table eight, the person there reaches to gently touch my arm, startling me. I gasp and swing around, dropping my notepad on the floor. Nice. Maybe I do have butterfingers. I bend quickly to gather the pages that have scattered.

“I’m so sorry,” a soft voice says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

At the sound, my heart kicks up its pace and I slowly lift my eyes. The guy—the hot one from the motorcycle—is looking down at me, apologetic. The frazzled feeling I just had immediately evaporates as I stare at him, struck by how incredibly handsome he is up close. His eyes are an amazing shade of hazel, more green than brown. His dark hair is long, curling under his unshaven chin, evening out the prettiness of his features. He’s certainly rough around the edges, but I like it. He looks kind of dangerous.

“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing the last of the papers and standing. I’m suddenly self-conscious and want to smooth back my hair, but decide that would be trying too hard. “Did you want something?” I ask him instead.

He chuckles. “I was hoping for food, but if that’s too much . . .”

“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that it’s my first day and, well”—I lower my voice, confiding in him—“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He leans toward me. “I won’t tell on you.” He whispers as if we’re in a conspiracy together.

I smile, looking down at the crumples of paper in my hand. “I appreciate that. And I can’t help with the food, but maybe a drink?”

“A Dr Pepper if you have it,” he says, sitting back against the seat. He opens his menu, and I take the opportunity to run my eyes over him one more time. His brown leather jacket is worn and his dark sunglasses are tucked into the collar of his T-shirt. As he turns the pages, his every movement is tender.

When he looks in my direction again, a small smile tugging at his lips, I realize I’ve been staring at him long enough to be obvious.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “You’re . . . really distracting.”

“Thank you,” he says in an amused voice. “You’re a bit distracting yourself.” He closes his menu and leans his elbows on the table, giving me his full attention. When his gaze locks on mine, pinning me in place, I take a deep breath. And then I remember that I’m still at work.

“I should go,” I say, motioning to the tables around us. “Otherwise I’ll never win employee of the month.”

He smiles. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

And when he turns back to his menu, I walk away—pulse racing, face flushed—and hurry toward the drink station.

Abe asks for my help on another table, and I never make it back to the guy from the motorcycle. I’m seriously disappointed, but far too busy to focus on it.

I follow Abe to the table of a guy with a buzz cut and a sleeveless T-shirt that says AMERICAN MADE on it. The customer mumbles that it’s about time, and by Abe’s cool expression, I half wonder if he’s going to dump the sizzling fajitas in the guy’s lap.