Page 6 of Five Days to Be Mine

“You didn’t have to do that.” Her laughter evaporates as suddenly as it came.

All I want is to pull this woman into my arms and hold her.

“This is my place, and I am responsible for what happens inside.”

Mara tilts her head. “Not according to the waivers we signed, where we acknowledged all risks and assumed personal responsibility. I can look after myself.”

“Assuming all risk doesn’t mean putting up with douchebags,” I say. “Can I get you a drink?”

I noticed throughout the night that she only drank water, and she’d been here with the Wilson's for hours and hasn’t eaten a single thing.

Mara glances down, then quickly meets my gaze and looks away. She shakes her head.

“We have great mocktails,” I offer, in case she doesn’t want anything alcoholic.

“I…” The direction of her eyes floats behind me.

I smile at my head server as she carries a full tray of drinks to the table in the corner.

“Tell me, Mara, or I’ll have to punish you,” I lean in slightly, blocking her view of the tables beside her.

“Why, for choosing something sweet?” She juts her chin out, as if daring me to tell her that she can’t eat something with sugar. The attraction I’ve felt for this woman ever since she walked through the door of my restaurant racks up another notch.

“No, for not being honest. I saw you eyeing the tray as Chantel passed you.”

“We aren’t in a scene,” she smiles.

Is that a hopeful note in her tone, or am I just being hopeful?

I test the waters by offering my palm out flat. She tentatively puts her hand in mine, and I close my fingers around hers.

“You’re right. We aren’t in a scene. Not yet,” I raise my hand, signaling Chantel.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Brennon?” Chantel says.

“What two mocktails have been the most popular tonight?”

“Holiday Mule and VanCityLights.”

“What’s in the VanCityLights?” Mara asks.

“Vanilla syrup, passion fruit puree, a splash of grapefruit juice, a dash of bitters, club soda and a drizzle of maple syrup.”

“Sounds great,” Mara says.

“Please also bring us a full appetizer tray.”

“You got it, Mr. Brennon.”

“I’m not hungry,” Mara moves her fingers out of my hand, and I let them go.

“I notice you haven’t eaten anything tonight.”

“I was planning on grabbing something at home.”

“My chef would be personally offended,” I say with a smile but my tone conveys I don’t find this funny.

“Then your chef needs thicker skin,” Mara smiles shyly. But she puts her hand back in mine, and my heart skips a beat.

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