Page 2 of Abyss

“Fine.” Arlo’s jaw shifts slightly before he blinks at me without an ounce of the empathy I’m starting to feel for myself, given Stella’s high opinion of our boss and overlord. “Kavi, take table sixteen—the booth in the back with the twogentlemen. Make sure to take a bottle of the limited-edition vintage Dom Perignon. It’s what he likes.”

“Yeah, because apparently, a fourteen-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne is just a bottom-of-the-barrel, budget-friendly choice for the rabid beast to keep his snarl at bay,” Stella mumbles with a tightened jaw before replacing it with a mile-wide fake smile when a family of four walks to the stand.

I hesitate for a few seconds before finally walking toward the bar while Stella directs the family to the other side of the room.

While the bartender looks for the bottle, I run my hand down my black skirt. It’s on the shorter side, well above my knees, and tighter around my waist and ass than I remember it to be, but it’ll do. I’m just happy I found it in the pile of clothes in my closet I was waiting to donate. With less than a hundred dollars in my bank account, it would have killed me if I had to spend any of it on a skirt.

My normal attire consists of bargain-basement and thrift-store finds. Occasionally, I’ll rummage through my mom’s closet, but since most of her things are about a decade or two out of style, I’m usually stuck with jeans, some sort of graphic T-shirt, and my trusty old pair of Doc Martens. It’s a win when neither my jeans nor my T-shirt have holes in them, but a purposeful fashion statement when they do.

If only the popular rich bitches from high school could see me now.

Taking a calming breath, I walk over to the table in the back with the bottle of champagne that costs more than my car, two flutes, and a couple of ice waters on a tray.

One of them, a younger man—likely a few years older than me, and also of Indian descent—stops speaking when I approach, turning to me with a smile. I set the waters and empty flutes in front of each person and regard the other . . .

Oh . ..

The other is . . . He’s . . .

Am I having a brain aneurysm? Why am I losing my grasp on my vocabulary when I should be composing sonnets about this guy’s jawline, writing dissertations about his ridiculously chiseled face? Seriously, the man looks like he was carved by angels themselves.

And I haven’t even moved past his face.

He doesn’t grace me with an acknowledgement—not even sparing me a look—so I continue my perusal down to his smooth, pink, and oh so kissable lips. They’re surrounded by salt-and-pepper stubble that looks more than a few days old, but not because he hasn’t had the time to shave. No, it’s intentional.

Everything about this man—from the way his obscenely broad shoulders look both tense and relaxed, to the way he continues to stare ahead, watching me in his periphery, to the way his jaw ticks subtly—is intentional. Purposeful and confident.

He doesn’t have the time to be casual or spontaneous.

My eyes continue down, past his unbuttoned collar, settling on the divot at the base of his neck. There should be no reason for a divot to cause my vagina to pulse like she’s under duress, but here we are, fluttering and pulsing like she’s about to take flight.

His biceps are basically trying to rip out of his suit, his thick forearms—one banded with a watch that probably costs as much as a house—peeking out at the end of his sleeve. His thick fingers, attached to massive hands, are steepled on the table almost as if he’s trying to refrain from tapping out a bored rhythm.

I’ve just dropped my eyes to get a glimpse of his wide thighs—How much time does this man spend in the gym?—when a cleared throat has them landing back on that divot. I mean, snapping to his lips. Er, his eyes.

His very sharp, very irritated blue-gray eyes. “You’re new.”

“Uh . . . um,” I stammer, trying to come to. How long was I out?Five minutes?Five hours?Jesus Christ, did I fall into a coma? I place the tray against the bottom of the booth and wrap my hand around the champagne bottle. “Yes. Um, I’m Kavi. I’ll be your server today—”

“Where’s Stella?” His deep voice, along with his two-word interruption, like a veiled threat, causes my stomach to dip. “I don’t like dealing with new staff.”

“She’s, um . . .” I look around, as if perhaps Stella might materialize out of thin air, before wiping my sweaty hand over my skirt. “She’s serving other customers. But I can assure you, I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Then tell Arlo I’ve asked for Kevin.”

“It’s fine, Hudson.” The other man waves his hand, speaking to Mr. Personality. “Stop giving the poor girl grief.”

“I’m not here to be a guinea pig for new staff, Dev. I expect prompt and exemplary service,” he snaps.

Jesus. Asshole much?

I’m not sure how I do it, given my racing pulse and shaky legs, but I throw my shoulders back, tilting my head up. Mom always says that when faced with fear—or, in this case, a fire-breathing dragon with a stick up his butt—half the battle can be won with good posture.

“I assure you, the service will be everything you expect.” His narrowed glare at my response has me withering slightly before I look at the bottle in my hand, having no recollection of how it got there. I lift it to show him the label. “Do you . . . I mean, would you care for champagne?”

He doesn’t respond, going back to looking straight ahead, but the other man—Dev, I believe the snarling lunatic referred to him as—gives me the same pitying look I’d be giving myself if I could, sliding his flute forward. “I’d love some.”

I take a stilling breath, hoping my apprehension regarding the bottle in my hand doesn’t show. I haven’t opened a champagne bottle before, but I’ve seen people do it plenty of times. Honestly, how hard could it be? I’m sure those catastrophic videos online where the cork goes flying through a window or up into a lightbulb are probably just exaggerated scenarios for comic relief.

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