Page 2 of The Hang Up

“This place is teeming with women tossing you interested glances that you ignore.” He raised a perfect brow. “Some tossing themselves literally—”

“She tripped, Mitch.”

“And you caught her.”

“Was I supposed to let her faceplant onto the floor?”

“No. I suspect you were supposed to be so charmed that you bought her a drink. Or begged to get her number.” He accepted the glass of wine from the server and sipped. “Whatever the kids are doing these days.”

“You’re barely thirty. Still a kid.” My own forty-eight felt ancient by comparison, thanks to my time as a CEO. “And I don’t beg.” I scowled at him. “We’re getting off point.”

“Fine. Make your point. I’ll wait.”

“Are these women interested in me? Or my money?”

Mitch sighed. “I’ll give you that one. But, you can’t let that stop you from trying. And you have a brilliant assistant who can spot a gold digger from a mile away.”

“Where were you with Victoria?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“I believe I was in second grade learning fractions.”

I rubbed my thumb against my brow, trying to ward off the headache. “This is your way of cheering me up?”

“That would be an impossible task.” He sipped his white wine as he glanced around the room. He always ordered the same thing, so he had no reason to complain when I ordered for him.

“What about her? She’s your type, right?” He nodded to a table with two women. I knew immediately which one he meant. The blonde. She was pretty and curvy and a younger version of my ex-wife. Her friend was younger, still carrying that girl-next-door look. Neither of them did anything for me. They didn’t notice us looking, thank God. They were busy talking to one of the chefs.

My gaze snagged on him: broad shoulders that tapered to a slim waist. My heart quickened as I wondered if he had a six-pack underneath the uniform—and then I heard the clinking of something hitting the floor, but it barely registered because he bent down to pick it up, and… Holy fuck, that ass was perfect. Juicy. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever used that word before when it came to a body part, but it fit so well that I couldn’t unthink it. I tried to remind myself why we were here and where my focus needed to be, but all I could think about was the feel of hard muscle as I ran my hands up his strong thighs.

“Go over and talk to her.”

His words startled me out of my fantasy, but I didn’t correct him or look away. No one knew I was attracted to men. I’d never let myself explore the possibility. Victoria and I had married young, and I’d dated sparingly since the divorce. But I’d never had this reaction to anyone.

I ignored Mitch and his inevitable questions because feeling something so strong after feeling nothing—holy Jesus, his pants were stretched tight, revealing the indecent cleft of his ass. My heart pounded, drowning out everything else. I knew I was being a perv. Why couldn’t I look away? He stood, and I very much wanted him to turn around. Would I be able to see the outline of his—

“Joshua…boss?” Mitch’s voice and the snapping of his fingers sounded far away. “Mr. Miller.”

The gorgeous specimen jerked around so quickly that I was unable to hide the want in my eyes.

My gaze flew to his face. His all-too-familiar face framed by short blond hair, slightly darker than I remembered. His ready smile dropped, and he took a step back.

I reached for my scotch, but my brain and body seemed disconnected, and I knocked my glass over instead. What little there was—it had been almost empty—soaked into the tablecloth. I scooped up the ice, glad for the cold, wondering if I should hold it to my face to cool it off or slip it down my pants. My body hadn’t quite gotten the message that this kid—no, man, definitely a man—was off-limits. He rushed over to help, bombarding my senses with a familiar and not-so-familiar scent. Citrus and something else I couldn’t place, but God, it was intoxicating.

“Mr. Miller? I—” His voice cut off as we both reached for the last ice cube and our fingers brushed.

I inhaled sharply at the current sparking through me, surprised the ice didn’t melt in my hand. What was happening? I ducked my head to regain composure and dried my hands on the napkin. When I could breathe again, I risked a look.

His face had turned a delicious shade of red. “Are you—” He stopped and pulled himself together. Standing taller. His face smoothing out. The answering desire—had I imagined that?—was no longer visible. He returned to the professional he was, except for the hint of red still staining his cheeks.

“How are you, sir?” His blush was as familiar to me as his voice. Older, yes. More confident? Fuck, yes. I swallowed the lump in my throat and every one of my inappropriate thoughts.

“Brock.” My mask was back in place as I stood. “I’m good. How are you?” I asked, extending my hand.

He started to reach out but then jerked his hand back. “I’m fine.” When his eyes met mine, I could see the storm brewing. Was he remembering the last time we’d seen each other? And would he be so polite if we weren’t at his place of employment? Being a chef probably necessitated him being good with people. With customers. And not yelling at them to fuck off.

He could be as polite as he wanted. The fuck off was clear in his eyes. I stuffed my hands in my pockets to keep from touching him. I’d wanted that moment. The one hinted at by the brush of our fingers.

But I didn’t deserve it. Not after the way I’d treated him. Dismissed him.

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