Page 59 of Ewan

“Why are you frozen in the middle of the room? Is something wrong?” she asks, visible concern pushing her eyebrows up.

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“Did you take their order?”

She flicks her chin toward Ewan’s table.

“I was about to do that but I waited for them to get seated.”

Her eyes move to their table.

“They all sit now. Go now before someone else does. This is historically one of the best tipping tables.”

I can’t argue with that, so I flash a smile, turn around, and stride to them, trying not to dwell on what might happen next.

What could happen, anyway?

The man might not even remember me.

Okay, we kissed, so he might remember me, but that might not bear any relevance to him.

My ex-husband forgot he was married to me while still being married to me.

So, I muster enough courage to pull up next to the table, but not near him. Although my eyes are trained on the table, my focus is solely on him.

His eyes lift casually, a smile warming his looks, but that moment is brief, an ice storm taking over his eyes.

Surprise glimmers in his gaze, though, and tension claims his shoulders.

I thought I was nervous about meeting him again.

Turns out I have completely ruined his evening by being here, and we haven’t even talked.

I pretend I don’t know him, thinking it’s the best course of action, anyway, and introduce myself and take their orders, dutifully flipping my tablet over and lodging them in so the bartender can start working on them.

All this time, I keep my focus on the person I am talking to, but even so, a microcosm of thoughts forms in my head, and inappropriate heat lines the inside of my dress.

I wish I could fan myself with the tablet. I’m that hot.

Eventually, I get to him.

“What about you, sir?” I ask, a smile on my lips, talking to him like I’ve never seen him in my life.

His stare is more intense than a sword sliding through the air with the clear intent to kill.

I hold his gaze with a stubbornness I never thought I had while he pilfers my brain with his blue-gray eyes, looking for a crack in my facade.

Ultimately, I pass the test, and he lets his gaze dip, even so, igniting brushfires along the neckline of my dress and making a delicious pull tighten inside my abdomen.

This was the stare of a man who had spared me once.

And these are the eyes of a man who also wants to know whether I’m a friend or a foe.

Whether I like to blabber about stuff and create some awkward situations. Or I do know my place and know how to read the room.

Had he wanted to make a public announcement about our last encounter, he would have done so.

The silent exchange between him and me doesn’t register with the people around the table.

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