Page 20 of IOU

“Can you have this reheated?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow at my plate before flicking up to meet mine. “I’ll get your waiter.”

I slide the plate to the edge of the table. “That won’t be necessary.”

There’s something to be said for a gambling man. Risk is always our reward. I live by the challenge and die by the loss. And right now, I want to see the cards this girl is holding. Is she a doormat, or does she have some fight in her? I couldn’t tell earlier, but now, I’m in the betting mood. Those stormy eyes of hers aren’t submissive. So why shut down at the mention of her assistant manager? Is she scared she’ll be fired?

Her finger slides the plate back toward me. “It will be necessary. Tucker will be happy to reheat your food.”

I slide it back, a smirk playing at the corner of my lips. “I want you to do it.” I shove the plate a little farther until it meets her waist. “And quickly. I’m tired of waiting.”

I realize about two seconds too late, as my delicious steak and potatoes slide down my shirt, that I was right. Those eyes did have some fight in them.

“Oops,” she says, feigning shock. “I’m so sorry. I will have Tucker order you another.” Her eyes go hard as she backs away from the table. “I’ll even have him order it warm.”

Rowan shoots up from the table about to teach our little waitress a lesson.

“It’s fine,” I assure him, knocking the remnants of food onto the floor before lifting my gaze to the hotheaded waitress. “I appreciate that”—I read her name tag and say with a low warning—“Ainsley.”

Her throat works. She’s not so big now.

“Look, I’m—”

I cut her off. “Going to tell my waiter to bring my food now before I call Sam personally.”

She agrees, nodding up and down. “Yes, sir—I mean, of course. Right away. Again, I’m so sorry.”

Once Ainsley has disappeared into the back, I manage to get most of the food off my shirt before—“I told you we should have gone to Gigi’s.”

Rumor has it she’s banging an old dude.

“You threw food on him?”

The horror in Boss’s eyes doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies. I’d just about had myself convinced in the car that it was no big deal, accidents with plates happen all the time. For all the hot guy knew, I was a new waitress with butterfingers.

I look down at Bostic’s feet, his black combat-style boots, shiny and clean, unlike my scuffed ballet flats. “Technically, I didn’t throw it,” I say hesitantly, raising my gaze to meet his. It’s not as aghast as it was a few seconds ago. Maybe the killer cup of sweet tea I made is helping.

“So, it was an accident, then?” The one arched brow he raises dares me to lie.

“Uhh ... I wouldn’t say an accident. More like ... his fault.”

The other eyebrow rises just a fraction. “His fault?” I’m starting to believe that coming back to the firehouse after my shift was a bad idea.

I blow out a breath that makes my lips vibrate with a funny noise. “Fine, okay. I did it on purpose.” Hair falls across my shoulder, blocking Bostic’s and Luke’s—who’s pretending not to listen as he stirs the pot of spaghetti noodles for the ten thousandth time—view of my reddened cheeks.

“Did he do something to upset you?”

Yes! This is precisely the question Bostic should be asking. Except, how can I admit the truth without sounding like a hateful ass that needs to be shamed? I bite my lip and flash a look of help to Luke, who quickly turns back around and stirs. Traitor.

“He did.” I nod several times, hoping Bostic will jump in with another question. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t.

Okay.

No big deal. Women lose their shit all the time. If they didn’t, men would act like they ran the world. A little bit of crazy never hurt anyone.

Except for the dick-ish dude’s shirt—that’s for sure ruined. He can kiss wearing that sexy as sin, dark button-down goodbye.

“What did he do to deserve his dinner on his lap?”

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