Promised (One Night #1)

Promised (One Night #1) Page 3

As five o’clock approaches, I sink into one of the brown leather couches and open a can of Coke, hoping the caffeine and sugar might snap me back to life. I’m knackered.

‘Livy, I’m just going to take the rubbish out,’ Sylvie calls over, yanking the black sack from one of the bins. ‘You okay?’

‘Fabulous.’ I hold my can up and rest my head back on the sofa, resisting the temptation to close my eyes, instead focusing on the spotlights in the ceiling. I can’t wait to fall into bed. My feet are aching, and I desperately need a shower.

‘Is anyone working or is it self-service?’

I jump up from the couch at the sound of the impatient but smooth voice, and swing around to tend to my customer. ‘Sorry!’ I rush to the counter, smacking my hip on the corner of the worktop and resisting the urge to curse out loud. ‘What can I get you?’ I ask, rubbing my hip as I look up.

I stagger back. And I definitely gasp. His piercing blue eyes are burning into me. Deep, deep into me. My gaze drifts and takes in his open suit jacket, a waistcoat and pale-blue shirt and tie, his dark stubbled jaw, and the way his lips are parted just so. Then I find those eyes again. They’re the sharpest blue I’ve ever seen, and they’re cutting right through me with an edge of curiosity. The definition of perfection is standing before me and it has me staring in wonder.

‘Do you often examine customers so thoroughly?’ His head cocks to the side, his perfect eyebrow arching expectantly.

‘What can I get you?’ I breathe, waving my pad at him.

‘Americano, four shots, two sugars, topped up halfway.’ The words roll from his mouth but I don’t hear them. I see them. I lip-read every word, writing them down while keeping my eyes on his mouth. Before I know what’s happened, my pen has drifted from my pad and I’m scribbling on my fingers. I glance down with a frown.

‘Hello?’ He sounds impatient again, prompting my eyes to snap up. I allow myself to step back and take in all of his face. I’m shocked, not because of how incredibly stunning he is, but because I’ve lost all of my bodily functions, except my eyes. They’re working just fine, and they can’t seem to disconnect from his flawlessness. I don’t even lose my concentration when he rests his palms on the counter and leans forward, encouraging a wave from his tousled dark hair to fall onto his forehead. ‘Am I making you feel uncomfortable?’ he asks. I lip-read that, too.

‘What can I get you?’ I breathe once more, waving my pad at him again.

He nods down to my pen. ‘You’ve already asked me. My order’s on your hand.’

I look down, seeing ink strewn all over my fingers, but it doesn’t make a bit of sense, not even when I try to match up the pad to where the pen has trailed off.

Slowly lifting my eyes, I meet his. There’s an element of knowing in them.

He looks smug. It’s thrown me completely.

I scan the information stored in my mind from the last few minutes, but I find no order for coffee, just saved images of his face. ‘Cappuccino?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Americano,’ he counters smoothly on a whisper. ‘Four shots, two sugars and topped up halfway.’

‘Right!’ I snap myself from my pathetic awestruck state and move to the coffee machine, my hands shaking, my heart thudding. I bash the filter on the wooden drawer to rid it of the used beans, hoping the loud smacking will knock some sense back into me. It doesn’t. I still feel . . . strange.

Pulling the lever on the grinder, I load the filter up. He’s staring at me. I can feel those piercing blues penetrating my back as I faff and fiddle with the machine that I’ve grown to love. It’s not loving me right now, though. It’s not doing anything I tell it to. I can’t secure the filter in the holder; my shaking hands are not helping in the slightest.

Taking a deep, calming breath, I start again, successfully loading the filter and placing the cup underneath. I press the button and wait for it to work its magic, keeping my back to the stranger behind me. In the whole week I’ve worked at Del’s Bistro, I’ve never known the machine to take this long to filter some coffee. I’m silently willing it to hurry the hell up.

When an eternity has passed, I take the cup and slip in two sugars, ready to top it up with water.

‘Four shots.’ He breaks the uncomfortable silence with that soft rasp.

‘Pardon?’ I don’t turn around.

‘I ordered four shots.’

I look down at the cup, containing just one shot, and close my eyes, praying for the coffee gods to help me out. I don’t know how long it takes me to add three more shots, but when I finally turn to deliver his coffee, he’s sitting on a sofa, relaxed, his lean physique stretched out, his fingers tapping the arm. His face doesn’t show a hint of emotion, but I detect he’s not happy, and for some strange reason that makes me really unhappy. I’ve handled that damn machine perfectly all day, and now when I really want to look like I know what I’m doing, I’m coming off as an incompetent fool. I feel stupid as I hold up the takeaway cup before placing it neatly on the counter.

He looks at it, then back to me. ‘I want to drink in.’ His face is serious, his tone flat but sharp, and I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s being difficult or genuine. I don’t remember him asking for a takeaway; I just assumed. He doesn’t look like the type to sit around in back-street bistros. He looks more like a champagne bar, mingle-with-the-money type.

Grabbing a coffee cup and saucer, I simply transfer the coffee and shove a teaspoon on the side before taking steady steps over to him. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop the chinking of the cup on the saucer. I place it down on the low table and watch as he swivels the saucer before lifting the cup, but I don’t hang around to watch him drink, pivoting quickly on my Converse and escaping.

I virtually burst through the swing door of the kitchen, finding Paul putting his coat on. ‘All right, Livy?’ he asks, his rounded face scanning me.

‘Yep.’ I dive into the large metal sink to wash my sweaty hands as the bistro phone starts ringing from the wall. Paul takes the initiative to answer, obviously concluding that I’m dead set on scrubbing my hands until they disappear.

‘For you, Livy. I’m outta here.’

‘Have a great weekend, Paul,’ I say, drying my hands before I take the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Livy, honey, are you busy tonight?’ Del asks.

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes, I have a catering contract for a charity gala and I’ve been let down. Could you be a doll and help me out?’

‘Oh, Del, I’d love to, but . . .’ I have no idea why I said I’d love to, because I really wouldn’t, and I can’t finish that sentence because I can’t find a ‘but’. I have nothing to do this evening except faff around my grandmother and get told off for it.

‘Ah, Livy, I’ll pay you well. I’m desperate.’

‘What are the hours?’ I sigh, leaning against the wall.

‘You star! Seven to midnight. It’s not hard, honey. Just walk around with trays of canapés and glasses of champagne. Piece of cake.’

A piece of cake? It’s still walking, and my feet are still killing me. ‘I need to go home to check on my nan and change. What should I wear?’

‘Black, and be at the staff entrance of the Hilton on Park Lane at seven, okay?’

‘Sure.’

He hangs up, and I hang my head, but my attention is soon pulled to the swing door when Sylvie bursts through, her brown eyes wide. ‘Have you seen it?’

Her question quickly reminds me of the stunning creature who’s sitting drinking coffee in the bistro. I almost laugh as I place the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him.’

‘Holy f**king shit, Livy! Men like that should carry a warning.’ She glances back into the bistro and starts fanning her face. ‘Oh God, he’s blowing the steam off his coffee.’

I don’t need a visual. I can imagine it. ‘Are you working tonight?’ I ask, trying to divert her dribbling into the kitchen.

‘Yes!’ She swings back towards me. ‘Did Del ask you?’

‘He did.’ I unhook my keys and lock the doors that lead to the alley.

‘He tried to get me to ask you, but I know you’re not mad about night work, what with your nan at home. Are you doing it?’

‘Well, I agreed.’ I give her a tired look.

Her serious face grins. ‘It’s closing time. Would you like to let him know that it’s time to go?’

Stupidly, I’m battling off the shakes again at the thought of looking at him, and I chastise myself for it. ‘Yes, I’ll tell him,’ I declare with all the confidence I’m not feeling. Rolling my shoulders back, I walk with sureness past Sylvie and into the bistro, coming to an abrupt halt when I see he’s gone. The strangest sensation comes over me as I scan the area, feeling a bizarre sense of desertion mixed with disappointment.

‘Oh. Where’s he gone?’ Sylvie whines, pushing past me.

‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, slowly walking to the abandoned sofa and picking up a half-drunk coffee and three pound coins. I separate the napkin that’s stuck to the bottom of the saucer and start to screw it up, but some black lines catch my attention and I’m quickly unravelling it with one hand and flattening it on the table.

I gasp. Then I get a little mad.

Probably the worst Americano that I’ve ever insulted my mouth with.

M.

My face screws up in disgust, along with the napkin as I ball it and stuff it in the cup. The arrogant arsehole. Nothing makes me mad, and I know it exasperates my grandmother and Gregory, but I’m really heated with annoyance now. And it really is over something quite silly. But then I’m not sure if it’s because I failed to make good coffee when I’ve been doing so well, or simply because the perfect man didn’t approve of it. And what does M stand for, anyway?

After disposing of the cup, the saucer, and the offending napkin, then locking up with Sylvie, I finally reach the conclusion that M stands for Moron.

Chapter 2

Del leads us through the staff entrance of the hotel, dishing out instructions, pointing to the serving area and ensuring that we’re aware of the type of clientele.

Bottom line: posh.

I can deal with that. Once I’d checked on Nan, she virtually pushed me out the front door and chucked my black Converse out after me before she went to get ready for bingo with George at the local oldies group.

‘Never leave anyone with an empty glass,’ Del calls over his shoulder, leading on, ‘and ensure all empties are delivered back to the kitchen so they can be washed and refilled.’

I follow Sylvie, who’s following Del, listening intently as I pile my heavy hair up and secure it with a hair tie. It sounds easy enough, and I absolutely love people-watching so tonight could be fun.

‘Here.’ Del stops and thrusts a round silver tray at both of us, looking down at my feet. ‘You didn’t have any black flats?’

Following his line of sight, I look down and pull my black trousers up a little. ‘These are black.’ I wriggle my toes within my Converse, thinking how much more my feet would hurt if I were wearing anything else.

He doesn’t say any more; just rolls his eyes and leads on until we’re in a chaotic kitchen space where dozens of hotel staff are flying around, shouting and barking orders at each other. I move closer to Sylvie as we continue walking. ‘Is it just us?’ I ask, suddenly a little alarmed. All of the frantic activity suggests a lot of guests.

‘No, there will be the agency staff he uses, too. We’re back-ups.’

‘Does he do this a lot, then?’

‘It’s his main income. I don’t know why he keeps the bistro.’