Better With You (Better Love 2)

“I need you to take table 32. It’s not in your section, but Erika just got sat with a fifteen-top and she’s in the weeds.” Her eyes are all business. Sarah runs a tight ship.

“I don’t know what any of that means, but sure.”

She rolls her eyes at me and turns to greet some new customers. While I’m waiting for her to check them in and put them on the waiting list, I readjust my ponytail, then grab a napkin from the stand and swipe it over my forehead and the back of my neck. It’s hot as shit in here.

Sarah turns back to me as I’m tying my giant t-shirt up on the side with my extra hair tie. An inch of my stomach shows, and you can just see the crescent moon tattoo on my hip peeking out of my jeans. I’m doing it so I don’t sweat to death, but if it also gets me tips, I’m cool with it.

“Fifteen-top means a table with fifteen customers. In the weeds means she’s busy as fuck. Table 32 is the big corner booth in the back of Erika’s section.” I nod and she shoves five menus at me. “Go with God.”

I snort a laugh and head to table 32, swinging by the drinks station to get five ice waters first.

As I approach the corner booth, I recognize a very familiar head of hair tied into a half-bun, brown scruff on a strong jaw, and tree trunk-like biceps. Riggs.

Next, I recognize a familiar brunette beauty, with expensive highlights and a Vogue cover model face, who just happens to be draped all over Riggs. Talia.

Awesome.

I’ve blocked his number and so far, have avoided looking him up on social media. I almost caved last night. I have a feeling this encounter will make or break my restraint. I steel my resolve, put on a sugary sweet smile, and walk up to the table.

I don’t give a shit.

“Hey, guys,” I chirp as I set out the ice waters. “Welcome to Cheap Seats. I’m going to be your server tonight.”

I stand tall and lock my eyes on Riggs. He’s staring at my hip, right where the crescent moon tattoo is peeking out, and I can feel the heat radiating from where his eyes are focused. I hate the pang of longing that prickles over my skin. I clear my throat loudly and his attention snaps to my face. He knows I caught him; his body is stiff as stone, but his face is an impassive mask. I raise a brow and take a minute to look him over before dropping an impromptu bomb. “My name’s Alex.”

So much for pretending like I don’t give a shit.

Riggs’s eyes flare slightly, and then I look at the rest of the table. Talia is squinting at me like she knows something’s up, but the other people at the table—two more guys and a girl—are completely clueless.

“Our special tonight is fifty-cent wings. That includes nuggets—I mean boneless. Can I get you guys started with something to drink besides water?”

I’m passing out the menus when one of the guys at the table—blond, fit, probably one of the jock roommates—calls me on my shit.

“Wait,” blondie shouts, “your nametag says Bailey.”

I widen my eyes at the guy, the picture of innocence, and say with a fake surprised giggle, “Oh! It does.” Then I look back at Riggs, drop the smile, and deadpan, “my bad.”

Everyone is quiet for a minute as Riggs and I have a stare off, but then Talia slides her perfect hand down his shoulder and draws my attention to her.

“We’ll start off with two pitchers of Miller Lite, please.” She’s all smiles, but I can’t stop thinking about her slender fingers and elegantly manicured nails gripping on to those familiar biceps. “We’ll need a minute for our food order.”

I nod and give her a tight-lipped smile, then turn on my heel to put in their drink order.

I grab the pitchers from the bar and enlist the help of one of the bussers to bring the glasses since I don’t trust myself with a heavy tray. I’m still a novice at this serving thing and I’m not trying to spill a shit-ton of beer or break a bunch of glasses, especially not in front of these jerks. Riggs Stanton will never catch me off my guard ever again.

They’re talking about me when I head back to the table. I can tell from the way their heads are bowed and their eyes keep shifting toward me. Of course, their conversation stops when I step up with the drinks, but I grit my teeth and swiftly get to work, setting up the glasses and pouring the first round of drinks into the pints. It’s dumb that we have to do this—I’d much rather drop the pints and pitchers and be done with it—but the manager requires us to pour the first round, so I do it. Because I also am not trying to piss off the boss.

I’m pouring the fourth beer when the blond jock speaks up.

“Hey, Pixie Girl, you ride a motorcycle?” I can tell just from the way he says that sentence that he’s drunk. They all probably pre-gamed before coming to Cheap Seats.

I nod. “Sure do.”

“See, dude! I told you it was her.” He smacks the shoulder of the guy sitting next to him with a laugh.

“Shut it, Dylan,” Riggs warns through clenched teeth. His voice is low and calm, but there’s an undercurrent of tension that piques my curiosity.

I glance at Riggs as I ask the friend, “And just who do you think I am?”

Riggs’s mask has slipped now, and he’s staring daggers at his friend, but the friend is oblivious.

“The mysterious little sprite that Riggs was boning,” he shouts with a laugh. “With the green hair and the motorcycle.”

My heart clenches and my stomach swirls as Dylan and the random girl sitting next to him have a laugh at my expense.

He was talking to his friends about me? Telling them that I was someone he was boning? Jesus, this guy just keeps surprising me, but no longer in a good way.

“Someone he’s boning, huh?” I keep my tone bored and my brow raised, but my hands are closed tightly around the last pint glass and the pitcher handle. If I let go right now, I won’t be able to hide how violently they’re shaking.

I take a minute to glance at Talia—poor girl looks sick—and I want to tell her that I didn’t know, that I’m sorry her boyfriend is a run-of-the-mill fuckboy, and that she definitely deserves better. I almost do, but then I look at Riggs and he’s shooting murderous looks at his friend, which just infuriates me more.

He thinks he’s going to keep me a dirty little secret? Going to minimize me into a girl he tricked and boned and fooled into catching feelings, then joked about with his douchey friends?

Well, newsflash, Riggs Stanton.

I’m no one’s conquered conquest.

I’m the hero in every single one of my stories.

“Boned,” Dylan clarifies. “Past tense. Right, Riggs?”