Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(27)

I feel unsatisfied and restless, but I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I can’t seem to find my place in the world. Rachel is expecting, Wynn has moved in with Emmett, while I’m barely in the beginning stages of a relationship, and about to have to leave my apartment.

So I decide I want to try to buy my own place rather than rent. Set down some roots. To do that, I need a boost of income, enough for me to save up for a small down payment. I really need to be earning more if I hope to buy my own place—one where I won’t be getting kicked out. Ever. I boot up the computer and spend all night searching Monster.com and the classifieds, and end up making a few queries.

Two days later, I get a call and land a huge gig.

The gig requires me to wear a black waitress uniform with a cute little white apron. I’m serving at some sort of investors’ get-together, where would-be investors can learn the how-to’s of investing.

I’m there early that evening, helping set up the kitchen and uncork the wine and fill the glasses. Soon a live band is playing in the main room, and groups of men are scattered throughout the space that’s big enough to sit two hundred guests. I walk past tables with a tray of wine glasses containing a crimson-red cabernet, heading toward the area my boss told me I would be responsible for.

I have never waitressed before and although my uniform fits me all wrong, I am completely focused on not spilling the tray of glasses as I head to the nearest table and start setting down drinks when a familiar voice reaches me.

“Gina?”

I cringe, but force myself to turn.

Paul is standing only feet away, sharply dressed in a tailored suit with cuff links and an expensive but simple tie clip, surrounded by similarly dressed executive types. And I stand here in an ill-fitting waitress outfit with an empty tray in my hand, instead of a toothbrush.

He runs his gaze down my body in disbelief. I can see it in his eyes: Wow, you’re a waitress?

He looks at my attire with quickly growing scorn, and I want to throw my tray at him while, at the same time, wanting to hide behind it. I guess I knew, deep down, that I’d one day bump into him again. I always imagined I would look successful, have an incredibly hot guy on my arm, and be wearing my best dress. I always imagined I’d lift my nose at him, like the scum that he is.

I didn’t expect it to hurt, still. After all this time. For the sight of him to rip off the Band-Aid I’ve worn for years and make me bleed again.

I don’t love you…

I want to yell. I want to hide. And I hate hate hate that what I really want to do is cry, as if I haven’t cried enough for him already.

But all I can do is turn away and charge across the room, almost stumbling to get away, until I finally reach the kitchen. My eyes burn and I hate that they burn. I feel small and I hate that I feel small. I set down the tray, fumble through my pockets, and take out my phone.



Me: So Paul is at this gig I’m working…



Rachel: NOOOO! Gina, breathe. Don’t talk to him, don’t even look at him!!!



Me: I’m his waitress!



I wait for her reply, and it takes nearly a minute to appear on my screen.



Rachel: Gina…don’t be upset but, I told Saint I wanted to leave our event early to go support you, and guess who punched the table and shot out the door?



“Gina? What are you doing in here? Go back out there, please,” my boss snaps.

Hastily I tuck my phone away and hurry to refill my tray. With every glass I fill, I brace myself to go out there again. I fantasize about walking out and dumping the tray accidentally on Paul’s lap. Then I picture walking out with my best smile and…and what?

I exhale, balance the tray in one hand, and head to the main room.

I scan the area for Paul. I need to know where he is just to avoid him, but my gaze pauses on a tall man in the entrance, talking to my boss.

Shoulders a mile wide that taper down to a narrow waist and, as if that weren’t enough to stop you in your tracks, add to that a butt that seems to be held up by angels.

I take in the back of his full mane of blond hair and I know, my body knows—my heart leaps a little, my stomach tumbles, my skin pricks—that it’s Tahoe even before he shifts and lets me see his profile.

He’s in a crisp black evening suit. Dark black slacks, white button-down shirt, sharp gray tie. His lips look moist, and stained red. As if he was messing with someone not long ago. His blue eyes flare when he sees me and for the briefest instant, they flash protectively.

The event manager walks over to him. “Mr. Roth, we were told you were too busy to lead the gentlemen’s conference but it’s an absolute honor, please—”

“I’m not staying,” he growls, dismissing him.

Clearly this event was not as good as the other one Tahoe was attending with the Saints tonight.

Then I feel fingers on the small of my back, undoing the knot at the back of my apron. He speaks close to my ear. “You’re done here.” He lifts my apron off over my head, sets it aside, takes my tray and sets it down, and won’t heed any of my protests as he leads me out the door.



*



We’re in his car, heading to my place, and I’m barely holding myself together. I’m acting like it’s nothing. “Pretty arrangements, though not my color of choice for a gentlemen’s event.”