Piece by Piece (Riggins Brothers 2)

We’ve done this dance many times before. “Yep. Just like oil and water,” I say, and he throws his head back and laughs.

“I’ll wear you down. Just you wait.” He grins and strolls toward the kitchen.

Shaking my head, I grab the glass of tea I just made for Owen and head to his table. “Here you go.” I set the drink in front of him with a straw. “Your food will be right out.”

“He your boyfriend?” he asks.

“Who?”

“Surfer boy.” He motions toward the kitchen.

“Definitely not.” I laugh.

“He know that?”

“He’s very much aware that there is nothing between us other than being coworkers and there never will be. Not that it’s any of your business.” Turning on my heel, I walk away. I’m half tempted to let Oliver take over his table, but who knows what he would say to him. The lunch rush is slow today, and I’m grateful since I’ll be here until closing. Peering through the kitchen door, I see Linda, Ronnie’s wife, plating up his meal. They work opposite shifts most days, but it works for them. I grab another glass of tea, a few napkins, and a bottle of ketchup and place them on a tray. When Linda slides the plate through the window, I’m ready for her.

“Thanks, Linda.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” She smiles kindly and goes back to work.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, setting everything from my tray on the table in front of him.

“No.”

That’s it, one word, short and to the point. I don’t bother to say anything else, already sensing he’s in a bad mood. I walk away and check on my other table. I ignore the fact that I can feel his eyes on me. It’s with extreme effort that I don’t look in his direction. When I drop off my other table’s meal, I walk toward him. “Leave any room for dessert?”

“When is your next day off?” he asks, not bothering to answer my question.

“What day is it?” I ask him.

His brow furrows. “Thursday.”

Mentally I pretend to go through my schedule in my head. “Tomorrow,” I say, trying to hide my relief. Today is a nine-day stretch for me, and my third double during that time.

“Have dinner with me.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

“Why do I need to give you an explanation? I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Layla.”

My name almost sounds like a warning rolling off his lips. “Owen,” I counter. I see the corner of his lip twitch.

“I’ll be at your place around two.”

“Why so early?” I ask, and he grins. Damn it.

“I’ll be there at two, Layla.” He stands and tosses a few bills on the table.

I don’t break eye contact when I say, “That’s too much.”

He leans in close. So close I can smell his spicy cologne, feel his hot breath as it hits my ear. “My money, Layla.”

Goose bumps break out on my skin. He’s lethal, with those eyes, and that deep voice, and his… commanding attitude. I should hate it. Hate him, but it has the opposite effect on me. It turns me on, and I hate that. I hate that my body betrays me, and I can’t seem to resist him. I want to tell him not to bother showing up, that I won’t be there, but we both know that would be a lie. I’ll be there, and I’ll be ready. Call it curiosity.

I watch him until I can no longer see him. He’s like a tornado that has stormed into my life. He’s stubborn as hell, and his eyes give all new meaning to the phrase panty dropper. My gut tells me he’s trouble, but I’m still going to be ready to go with him tomorrow—wherever it is that he’s taking me. My life has zero fun, zero excitement. I work too much to have time for much of anything else. But I’m living on my own, have food on the table and a roof over my head. I do that all on my own. I never want to have to depend on anyone else to take care of me. That was how my mother lived her life and me by association. I never want to live that way again.

The rest of my day drags on. I go through the motions, but my mind is on Owen and why he would want to have dinner with me. He’s seen where I live, where I work. He’s out of my league financially. And he’s being cryptic about being at my place at two. Dinner is not until five, at least. I know he’s not one to eat early. What could he possibly have planned?

“Hey, Layla. I got a customer at the bar asking for you,” Mark, the bartender, tells me.