Faking It For Mr Right

To my surprise, Bob isn’t glaring at me or mouthing at me to get back to work. He’s still standing there grinning at his fistful of cash. Even the angry man has stormed off, hopefully to go and clean his suit instead of continuing to drink the beer he’s clearly had enough of.

“Um, I should get back to work though,” I stammer, reluctantly. “Thank you so much for what you just did. Seriously.”

The man shakes his head. “Believe me, it was nothing.” He steps back, giving me space, but the air just feels cold and empty where he’d been standing a second ago. As if there was an electrical charge between us, one that I miss the second it breaks. Then he flashes me another grin. “Come by my table when you have a moment. I’d like to get to know you a little better…?”

“Melanie,” I reply, catching his drift and offering a hand.

He grips my palm once more, and I wish I could keep my palm trapped between his strong, capable fingers for longer. But he lets me go all too soon. “Xander,” he replies, and points toward a corner table. “That’s me.”

“I’ll come by in a few,” I promise, and stand stock still, watching him effortlessly weave away through the crowd. People shift out of his way without even seeming to realize it, as if they too can sense the aura of confidence oozing off of him.

“Melanie.” My boss is glaring again, and I jump back to attention. “Come on,” he snaps, nodding toward the floor. “Before someone steps in this and sues us.” But at least the usual bite is gone from his tone, his voice back to its normal growl, rather than the deadly quiet fury.

I leap toward the bar and grab a broom and dustpan, along with the cloth from earlier. It takes me a good fifteen minutes to finish wiping up everything—more than a few shards of glass skittered away through the crowd of bar patrons, and I have to crawl between legs to finish sweeping.

When I’m finally done, I return to the bar to dump the glass shards, wring out the cloth, and grab the food waiting under the warmer for my own tables, which I’ve been neglecting. With a few more apologies for the wait to my annoyed customers, I drop off their food, then slip away to swing past Xander’s table.

He has a book propped open on the table in front of him. A glimpse of the cover makes me smile. I recognize the author, a nonfiction comedic author I love to read. “That one is great,” I comment as I pause beside him.

He folds the book facedown onto the table with a grin. “I preferred her last one at first, but this one is growing on me.”

“Just wait for the ending,” I promise. Then I smirk. “But no spoilers.”

“Naturally.” His smile widens, and he pushes out the chair across from him.

After one last nervous glance around the bar, I perch on the seat. “I can only talk for a second,” I say, well aware of what Bob will do if he catches me sitting here.

Xander catches my drift, and glances over my shoulder. “Will your manager relax if I pay him off again?” he asks, and I can’t help it. I burst into laughter.

“Got to be honest,” I say. “I’ve never seen a customer call Bob out on his shit so effectively.”

Xander shrugs. “What can I say? It’s a gift.” His eyes flash. “I recognize invaluable people when I see them. And I understand what makes the less talented ones tick.”

My heart skips in my chest. “What makes you think I’m so invaluable?” I ask, unable to help myself, shaking my head a little at the insinuation.

“Just watching you today.” He gestures at the room around us. “I’ve seen you pick up twice as many tables as your coworkers, and run errands for them on top of your own orders.”

My cheeks flush. “You’ve been watching me.” It’s not a question.

He bows his head. “Guilty.” He nods toward the book on the table. “What can I say? Sometimes people watching entertains me more than reading. Especially when someone catches my eye.”

My breath hitches. He’s flirting with me. Definitely. And I’ve got to admit, I haven’t seen a guy as smoking hot as him come through this town in… well, possibly ever. Every man of dateable age in the area, I’m either related to, know far too much about to ever want to hit on, or have dated in the past. It’s never exactly gone well.

Hot out of towner is proving too difficult to resist. Even if a little voice in the back of my head keeps warning me to get back to the floor. “So, just guessing from the suit, are you in town for Amy’s wedding?” I ask, tracing circles from the sweat off his glass of Coca Cola on the tabletop between us.