I’m a damned good waitress, and I can carry six plates at once. Nobody waits for long when they’re lucky enough to sit at one of my tables.
Stone always sits at my table.
“You’re so stubborn,” Marcy hisses at me, as I pick up the order. “And a liar. Make sure you’re near some water because you’re pants are on fire.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not lying. He doesn’t care about me.”
I serve an old married couple and then it’s time for Stone. He’s reading the menu, even though he has to have it memorized, since it hasn’t changed in the twenty-eight years that I’ve been alive.
“What can I get for you?” I ask, pulling out my pencil and order pad. He looks up from his menu, giving me a good dose of his drool-worthy, beautiful green eyes.
Damn. His drool-worthy, beautiful green eyes are my trigger. Normally, I’m an intelligent, put-together, woman, but when he looks at me, I turn into a spastic idiot.
Stone Jenkins has always made my body react in a very specific way. Besides the throbbing, melting, pelvis on fire kind of way, I get a chemical reaction from him that affects my neurological system. He’s like some kind of World War One chemical weapon, totally against the Geneva Conventions.
When in close contact with Stone, first I gasp, like I’ve been underwater for thirteen minutes and get my first whiff of oxygen. After the gasp, my body spasms violently. And for the finale, my bones turn soft, and I fall. As hard as it is to believe, this is my reaction every single time I see Stone Jenkins. Every time I get up close and personal, my decades of pent up puppy love takes over, like a Rottweiler in heat.
And I get up close and personal with Stone every night he’s on the island. He orders, I wait on him, and I have a seizure.
Tonight is no different. We lock eyes, and I gasp. My body convulses, and my arm unbends with amazing force, throwing the pencil from my hand like a dagger over Stone’s head and into the wall.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened…”
And then the finale comes, and my knees buckle, throwing me head first onto Stone’s table, where I knock off the condiments with a crash to the floor and throw up a cloud of sugar and salt into the air.
Stone jumps up and scoops me up off the table. “Are you okay?” he asks, clutching my shoulders. I will my Stone chemical reaction to end, but he’s touching me. I can feel the heat of his hands through the polyester sleeves of my uniform. I will myself to act normal. How much humiliation can a woman take?
“I’m fine,” I say. “There must have been something slick on the floor, and I slipped.” I say this to a spot about three inches above Stone’s head, because I don’t trust myself to make eye contact with him again.
Stone nods and sits down. This is the game we’ve been playing for years. I act like a lunatic, and he pretends it’s all normal. A lesser man would sit at a different table. A different man might suggest I get an MRI to see what’s happening in my screwed up brain. But Stone just tidies up the condiments and closes his menu.
“I think I’ll try the meatloaf tonight, Norma,” he says.
“I’m hearing good things about the chicken fried steak tonight,” I say, talking to my order pad.
“Okay. Chicken fried steak. Give me a cup of coffee with that, too, please. With…”
“Lots of cream,” I finish for him. “Coming right up.”
I take a deep breath and walk away from the table as fast I can. I place the order with the kitchen and rest my hand on the counter, trying to catch my breath.
I’m so pathetic.
“Smooth,” Marcy says, sauntering up to me. “Real smooth.”
“Every damned time. It’s like I’m allergic to him.”
“He’s staring at you.”
I don’t dare look his way. “He’s probably wondering how I survived to adulthood when I’m such a klutz.”
“Nope. He’s looking at your ass.”
“No he’s not,” I say, smacking
Stone always sits at my table.
“You’re so stubborn,” Marcy hisses at me, as I pick up the order. “And a liar. Make sure you’re near some water because you’re pants are on fire.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not lying. He doesn’t care about me.”
I serve an old married couple and then it’s time for Stone. He’s reading the menu, even though he has to have it memorized, since it hasn’t changed in the twenty-eight years that I’ve been alive.
“What can I get for you?” I ask, pulling out my pencil and order pad. He looks up from his menu, giving me a good dose of his drool-worthy, beautiful green eyes.
Damn. His drool-worthy, beautiful green eyes are my trigger. Normally, I’m an intelligent, put-together, woman, but when he looks at me, I turn into a spastic idiot.
Stone Jenkins has always made my body react in a very specific way. Besides the throbbing, melting, pelvis on fire kind of way, I get a chemical reaction from him that affects my neurological system. He’s like some kind of World War One chemical weapon, totally against the Geneva Conventions.
When in close contact with Stone, first I gasp, like I’ve been underwater for thirteen minutes and get my first whiff of oxygen. After the gasp, my body spasms violently. And for the finale, my bones turn soft, and I fall. As hard as it is to believe, this is my reaction every single time I see Stone Jenkins. Every time I get up close and personal, my decades of pent up puppy love takes over, like a Rottweiler in heat.
And I get up close and personal with Stone every night he’s on the island. He orders, I wait on him, and I have a seizure.
Tonight is no different. We lock eyes, and I gasp. My body convulses, and my arm unbends with amazing force, throwing the pencil from my hand like a dagger over Stone’s head and into the wall.
“Oh,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened…”
And then the finale comes, and my knees buckle, throwing me head first onto Stone’s table, where I knock off the condiments with a crash to the floor and throw up a cloud of sugar and salt into the air.
Stone jumps up and scoops me up off the table. “Are you okay?” he asks, clutching my shoulders. I will my Stone chemical reaction to end, but he’s touching me. I can feel the heat of his hands through the polyester sleeves of my uniform. I will myself to act normal. How much humiliation can a woman take?
“I’m fine,” I say. “There must have been something slick on the floor, and I slipped.” I say this to a spot about three inches above Stone’s head, because I don’t trust myself to make eye contact with him again.
Stone nods and sits down. This is the game we’ve been playing for years. I act like a lunatic, and he pretends it’s all normal. A lesser man would sit at a different table. A different man might suggest I get an MRI to see what’s happening in my screwed up brain. But Stone just tidies up the condiments and closes his menu.
“I think I’ll try the meatloaf tonight, Norma,” he says.
“I’m hearing good things about the chicken fried steak tonight,” I say, talking to my order pad.
“Okay. Chicken fried steak. Give me a cup of coffee with that, too, please. With…”
“Lots of cream,” I finish for him. “Coming right up.”
I take a deep breath and walk away from the table as fast I can. I place the order with the kitchen and rest my hand on the counter, trying to catch my breath.
I’m so pathetic.
“Smooth,” Marcy says, sauntering up to me. “Real smooth.”
“Every damned time. It’s like I’m allergic to him.”
“He’s staring at you.”
I don’t dare look his way. “He’s probably wondering how I survived to adulthood when I’m such a klutz.”
“Nope. He’s looking at your ass.”
“No he’s not,” I say, smacking
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