The Fortunate Ones
Page 7

I spend an hour in the employee break room, divvying up knives and forks, and in that time, I add another quote to my collection.
“Do you think James Ashwood has his suits custom made?” I ask the coworker assembling cutlery with me.
From Yvonne, a member of the kitchen staff: “I don’t care where he buys ’em as long as I know where the zipper is.”
Alrighty then.
I finish up the rest of my closing duties and then head to check on Brian. Last time I saw him, he was on his way to confirm that James’ group had everything they needed, but that was at least an hour ago. I’ve been chatting with the kitchen staff long enough that the dining room should be empty. PLEASE GOD, LET IT BE EMPTY. I want to go home and sleep before I have to wake up and do this all over again.
The club’s chandeliers are set to dim continuously during dinnertime so that guests arriving at 5:30 PM are illuminated much more than those rolling in around 8:00. Now, as I leave the kitchen, the room is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. All the tea candles have been extinguished, and the hallway light that usually illuminates the hostess podium is off. Brian must have finished my closing duties for me, which means I’m that much closer to freedom.
I step into the dining room, prepared to make a beeline for the podium, grab my phone and purse, and get the hell out of this place before anyone can assign me last-minute duties. A quick glance toward the fireplace confirms that James’ group is gone, and the servers assigned to his table made quick work of the aftermath. It’s almost like he was never there at all, except I have the open Google search on my phone to prove he was.
I make it another few steps before the sound of a glass being put down on the bar catches my attention. I whip my gaze across the space and there he sits.
Alone at the bar.
CHAPTER FOUR
His rich brown hair glows beneath the dim, warm light, and his elbows are resting on the bar as his thumb brushes back and forth across the brim of a whiskey glass. I stand frozen as he pauses and takes a slow sip.
I don’t think he knows I’m here. I glance back to the kitchen door and then across to the podium. I’m not supposed to leave until the last member is gone, I get that, but being here right now feels like an invasion of his privacy. Where is Brian when I need him? Surely the bartenders didn’t leave James Ashwood to fend for himself? Dear god, did he have to pour his own drink? Brian will never let us hear the end of it. There will be 50 all-hands-on-deck meetings, maybe more.
I chew on my lip, willing Brian to magically appear. I need to know what I’m supposed to do here. James doesn’t look like he wants company, but I don’t want to get fired. I could ask him if he needs anything, but that’s not my job. Where is the bartender? His waiter? How about a freaking bus boy?
I take a small step toward the podium, contemplating breaking out in a full sprint, but his voice catches me before I can.
“Come have a seat.”
I freeze like a deer caught in headlights, and then I do the very ridiculous, very sitcom move of glancing over my shoulder to confirm that he is in fact talking to me.
There’s no one else in the room.
I turn back to him. He’s taking another sip of his drink. I clear my throat and try to speak without conveying how much he’s caught me off guard.
“Oh, err, I’m on the clock. Actually, is there anything I can get you, Mr. Ashwood? The kitchen is still open.”
That’s a lie. When I passed by, the kitchen staff was wrapping up for the night, cleaning and prepping for tomorrow, but I don’t care. I will force one of them to whip something up if James wants it, and if they don’t agree, I’ll do it myself. I’ve seen inside the refrigerators back there—there’s more than enough fancy food to mask my ineptitude.
“You’re still on the clock?” he asks, still facing away from me.
“Yes.”
With that, he uses his foot to push aside the barstool beside him. Now it’s angled to face him, and it’s clearly an invitation for me to sit.
“So then there’s no problem. I pay the club, the club pays you, and now I’m asking you to sit.”
His words are demanding and clear. This man has entitlement seeping from his pores, but his tone catches me off guard. It’s surprisingly gentle, almost…sad.
I step closer. “I really shouldn’t. I have closing duties.”
He chuckles, just once, like he knows I’m lying. “I’m sure they can manage without you.”
And then finally, he turns and levels me with his searing gaze. As I suspected, his eyes are dark brown, almost black, and they pack quite a punch.
“Mr. Ashwood! I didn’t realize you were still here.”
It’s Brian, finally. He’s rushing into the room to aid our last, lonely member, but James is still focused on me, studying me just like I’m studying him.
“I’d like Brooke to sit with me for a few minutes,” he says to Brian. “Can you spare her?”
“Oh!” Brian’s gaze volleys between us. “Of course, but it’s up to Brooke. Her shift is ending soon.”
I’m shocked by his answer. I assumed he would force me to sit and entertain James. Now, the decision is up to me, and that somehow makes it easier to step closer and accept the barstool he’s moved aside for me. Brian says he’ll be in his office if Mr. Ashwood needs anything, and before he leaves, he shoots me a warning with one look: don’t say anything stupid.
Then we’re alone again in the quiet dining room.
I situate myself on the barstool so my cocktail dress falls as far down my thighs as the silky material will allow. James acts like he doesn’t notice as he takes a long pull of his drink. I wonder what number he’s on. He doesn’t seem drunk, but he’s been in the club for hours, so there’s no way he’s exactly sober.
I turn and study his profile. At this proximity, I can see everything I’ve been imagining for the last few weeks. My gaze drags across his strong jawline and then higher, across his cheekbones. He’s still clean-shaven, and I wonder if he usually has more stubble by this time of day.
Maybe I would have asked him, but he speaks up first.
“Tell me the real reason you didn’t want to sit with me.”
He asks the question with a small, teasing smirk, and it makes me want to tease back.
“I didn’t want to get fired.”
His smirk extends another inch and he turns to face me. I’m sad to lose his profile, but this is so much better. It’s intoxicating to sit this close to him, with his full attention aimed at me. His eyes hold mine and I want to continue like that, meeting him spade for spade, but I cave. My gaze falls to my lap, and then over to the rows of expensive liquor lining the back of the bar.
“Having a drink with a member off the clock hardly seems like a fireable offense.”
“Well if I’m off the clock, I might as well just head home,” I say coyly.
“Something tells me you’ll stay.”
His voice is so smooth and enticing. It’s confident, but not nearly as sharp as I’d imagined.
“I usually don’t keep company with guys like you,” I say, giving him the real reason. I catch his raised eyebrows out of the corner of my eyes. Maybe my honesty caught him off guard. “Sorry, you’re probably used to staff members kissing your ass.”
He nods. “Usually the right cheek, but your boss, Brian—he goes for both.”
Is that genuine humor? It feels like a trap, as if he’s trying to bait me into incriminating myself. I remain silent, half tempted to slide off the barstool and leave.
“Well if it matters, you’re not my usual type either,” he offers.
What’s that supposed to mean?
“Well, yeah. I’d imagine you spend less time with the help and more time with the helped, like the group you came in with.”
“Those women came with my friends, part of the celebration committee,” he clarifies.
I remember that’s why he came in tonight.
“What are we celebrating?”
“We? Technically I’m the only one with a drink.”
He holds up his tumbler to prove his point.