Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

Louis Armstrong starts singing in my head about what a wonderful world it is, and I feel like a real marshmallow, but I don’t even care.

I finish fixing the two salads for my table, grab their bruschetta, and head back to the dining room. My heart pumps as I look toward his booth, but it’s still empty. I wonder if he’ll want me to spend the night again. Since we were leaving the Christmas bubble and heading back to work, when I left his house today, we didn’t address the future—not even as far as later tonight. I leaned up on my toes to kiss him goodbye, he grabbed my butt, and then we separated and I drove here.

I already miss him. I’m so stupid.

I can’t help grinning, though. I don’t care if I’m stupid, as long as I get to feel this giddy.

Another new table comes in, so I go over to sell them on some drinks. They bite, naturally, and I make my way to the bar.

“What’ve you got for me?” the bartender asks.

Felix is bartending tonight. Depending on the bartender, I always make my own drinks, but he’s quite efficient, so I could probably let him do it, especially considering there aren’t many people over here right now. Three older couples are scattered around the bar—all tourists with too much sun on their cheeks. A pair of young, dolled-up girls sits directly across from me, heads huddled together, both of their eyes glued to Felix—the blonde checks out his ass, while the brunette bites her lip, gazing at the biceps bulging out from under his tight black T-shirt.

They clearly want his attention, so instead of letting him make my drinks, I move behind the bar. “Why don’t you go entertain your own customers?” I advise him. “I’ve got these.”

“‘Cause I’m not a piece of meat,” he tells me, leaning close. “Those girls are crazy.”

“They do have crazy eyes,” I agree, grabbing the olives. “They’ll probably give you a good tip.”

“Eh, I’m gonna play it aloof. Dole out my attention in shot-form instead of a beer they can nurse. I bet they like assholes anyway.”

I can’t help smiling. “We all like assholes.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” he mutters. “Let me make the second drink. I need something to do.”

Without looking up, I nod down the bar where a tourist in a white shirt is dangerously close to finishing her wine. “Why don’t you go sell that lady a refill?”

“They’re ready to leave.”

“They’re in Vegas. They should buy more alcohol and have more fun. Come on, you can do it. I believe in you.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but nonetheless wanders down the bar to check on the couple.

I like Felix. He’s a really good bartender, and a really good server. He only serves the people who sit at the bar when they want food, but I think we should cross train him. He remembers orders—even complicated ones—without writing them down, he knows the menu well enough to give customers opinions on different dishes, he can sell customers on more food or alcohol without being pushy and turning the dining experience into an obnoxious one, and he’s attractive, so he’s nice to look at for the groups of single ladies we get in here. Maybe when Rafe makes me head waitress, I’ll see if I can get Felix interested in learning the floor.

I’m distracted by my future plans for the restaurant when suddenly a firm hand lands on my hip, and I feel the masculine presence of Rafe Morelli behind me. A grin steals across my face as he tugs me back against him, running his other hand down my side.

“Hello, Virginia.”

I let my head fall back against his shoulder briefly, since we’re more or less alone over here. “Good evening, Mr. Morelli,” I return playfully.

Suddenly, he steps away and his arms fall. It’s a smooth, subtle movement, but he’s not touching me anymore, so I sure notice. I glance up to see why and Felix is approaching.

“Evening, Felix,” Rafe says, more formally.

“Rafe,” Felix says, inclining his head slightly.

“Been busy tonight?”

“Not too busy,” Felix responds, not expanding on that like he normally would.

Rafe doesn’t linger. Now that Felix is glued to my side, apparently, Rafe makes his way around the bar, telling me he’ll be at his booth.

I clear my throat, wondering if I should poke around and see if Felix saw Rafe touch my hip. Even if Rafe and I are sleeping together, it’s not something I want anyone at the restaurant to know about. Not only because Rafe’s always professional here and I don’t want anyone thinking otherwise, but because people are assholes, and then when he promotes me, instead of saying, “Oh, after four years of busting her ass at this restaurant, Virginia is finally getting a promotion; good for her!” they will gossip about how I slept with Rafe to get a raise.

Which I would, to be honest. I would sleep with Rafe for a piece of candy that had been dropped on the floor; it’s just a fun thing to do. I now completely understand every random booth girl he has ever brought through this restaurant. In fact, I’m wondering if my dismissal of them as uninteresting is inaccurate. Maybe they weren’t being interesting on purpose, because they figured the more they bored him, the faster he would get them out of their clothes and move on to much more fun activities. Maybe they were secret geniuses.

As I place the martini and cocktail on my serving tray, Felix’s voice pulls me out of thoughts of Rafe’s former booth girls.