Page 7 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Pepper dabbed at her eyes and dramatically sniffled. “That man who just came in—”
My stomach dropped. “Mr. Boudreaux?”
Pepper nodded, then launched into an outraged rant.
“He said he wanted a table, and I told him unfortunately we were fully committed, and he said what the hell did that mean, and I tried to nicely explain that we didn’t have any available tables, and then he said all snottylike, ‘Don’t you know who I am!’ and demanded I find him a table, and I said I just told you there aren’t any tables available, sir, and there’s a waiting list a mile long, but he cut me off and said—really mean, too, he’s like a crossbred dog!—that his name was all over our menu and if I didn’t get him a table, he’d make sure our name was all over the papers, and not in a good way, either, because he knew all the press! So it was like he threatened me, and when I got upset, he growled at me to stop sniveling! Sniveling! Doesn’t that just dill my pickle!”
Pepper ended her rant with a stamp of her stiletto heel.
I pinched the bridge of my nose between two fingers and sighed. So Mr. Boudreaux didn’t have a reservation after all. And trusting Pepper to do her best hadn’t exactly worked out as I’d hoped.
“All right, Pepper, first thing—calm down. Take a deep breath.”
Grudgingly, she did.
“Good. Now go back out there and tell him—nicely, please—that the owner will be out to speak with him in a few minutes. Then show him to the bar and have Gilly give him a drink. On the house.”
“But—”
“Pepper,” I interrupted, my voice firm. “That is Jackson Boudreaux. Not only could the man buy and sell this town a hundred times over, he’s no doubt connected with all kinds of highfalutin folks, which means that if he feels mistreated, all those people are gonna hear about it, which isn’t good for business. I’m sorry he wasn’t nice to you, but you need to learn how to handle peacocks like that without getting your own feathers ruffled.”
Smiling to soften my words, I squeezed Pepper’s shoulder. “And remember, the biggest bullies are the biggest babies inside. So just picture him in a nappy with a bottle stuck in his mouth, and don’t let him intimidate you.”
With a toss of her head, Pepper sniffled again. “I’d rather picture him with a bucket of crawdads shoved up his tight ass in place of that stick.”
The loud cackle from the front of the kitchen was Eeny.
“Charming, Pepper,” I said drily. “Now go.”
With a final sniff, Pepper turned and flounced out.
It was ten minutes before I could steal time away from the kitchen. When I stepped out from behind the swinging metal doors, I saw Pepper had followed my instructions.
Jackson Boudreaux stood at the end of the bar, glaring into his drink like it had made a rude comment about his mother. Though the rest of the bar was crowded, around him there was a five-foot circle of space, as if his presence were repelling.
I wonder if he smells?
Judging by his appearance, it was a distinct possibility. The black leather jacket he wore was so creased and battered it could have been from another century. The thick scruff on his jaw made it obvious he didn’t shave on anything resembling a regular basis, and his hair—as black as his expression—curled over the collar of his jacket and fell across his forehead in a way that suggested it hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in years.
No wonder Eeny had called him a werewolf. The man had the look of something wild and dangerous you might run across if you were out for a midnight stroll in the woods.
He looked up and caught me staring.
From all the way across the room I felt the weight of his gaze, the sudden shocking force of it, as if he’d reached out and seized me around the throat.
My breath caught. I had to convince myself not to step back. I forced a smile. Then I made myself move forward, when all my instincts were telling me to turn around and find a vial of holy water and a gun loaded with silver bullets.
I stopped often to shake hands with the regulars and say hello as I made my way through the room, so it was another few minutes before I made it to the bar. When I finally found myself standing in front of my intended target, I was dismayed to see his expression had turned from merely unpleasant to downright murderous.
The first thing Jackson Boudreaux said to me was, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
And my oh my did the Beast have a beautiful voice.
Deep and rich, silky but with an edge like a purr, it was at total odds with his unkempt appearance. It oozed confidence, command, and raw sex appeal. It was the voice of a man secure of his place in the world—a voice that was as used to giving orders to employees as it was to women beneath him in bed.
A flush of heat crept up my neck. I wasn’t sure if it was from annoyance, that voice, or his disturbing steely-blue eyes, which were now burning two holes in my head.
Before I could reply, he snapped, “Your hostess is incompetent. The music is too loud. And your drink menu is pretentious. ‘Romeo and Julep?’ ‘The Last of the Mojitos?’ Awful. If I were going on first impressions, I’d guess your food is awful, too.”
