There is no way soul mates could exist in a sea of opportunity.
But as I lay here with her, drifting between sleep and awareness, I can't help but wonder if I'm wrong. Because everything about this feels right.
Too right.
8
Anna
Ten hours I've been on my feet. I'm a hot and sweaty mess, and I swear I stink like pasta sauce and salmon. My ankles feel like they're starting to swell because my shoes are getting tight, and the laces are pressing into my skin.
And yet, even now, hours after last night, I still feel like I'm riding some high. Dash is on my mind. The memory of his broad shoulders and bright blue eyes are still giving me butterflies as I run around the restaurant doing a million different things.
My lips still feel heavy from his kisses. The places on my body that his fingertips dug into and squeezed are still tingling. His presence is all over me, and it isn't leaving. I'm wearing the shadows of his touch, his lips, his tongue, all like layers of clothing I can't take off.
I hear my boss yelling from in the kitchen. He's screaming at one of the cooks about a piece of veal that's over cooked. Everyone can hear him. The guests stop talking momentarily, taking notice and listening.
Giovanni's voice drops to an angry, audible whisper, then the kitchen door swings open hard, almost smacking another waiter in the face as he walks past with a tray of drinks. He walks with heavy feet to the bar, leaning over and speaking into the bartender's ear.
The room settles back into its rhythm. The tables are talking again, eating and laughing and having a good time. It's bizarre to me the way my boss can be so heated one second, that it looks like his eyes are going to pop out of his head, and then the next, it's as if nothing happened at all.
I don't like it. He's unstable and treats all of us like we're nothing. Like we're animals who need to be trained to grovel at his feet.
Why am doing this?
I know I'm here because I need the money. I have goals, dreams, visions of what I want to do with my life. I can't do any of it without money. Money makes the world go round is a truth no one can deny.
So, here I am, working my ass off doing a damn double for a jackass who thinks he owns the world and everyone in it.
Giovanni Scaramuchi is a scum of a human being. He's always looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. As if I'm just going to throw myself at him one day because he's my boss.
I'll never do that. I wouldn’t care if he was the damn president of the United States, I'm not a girl who will just spread her legs if she’s told to.
As I bend over the table to clean up the dirty dishes, I can feel my boss watching me. I glance over my shoulder to find him leaning against the bar, his eyes dead set on me. He's drinking a martini with a single olive on a toothpick bouncing around in the alcohol.
Mr. Scaramuchi smiles at me with his thin, dry lips, and gives me a wink. I half smile just to be nice, because he is my boss, and I was raised to be respectful. I go back to cleaning off the table, piling the dirty dishes into the gray bin pinned to my hip.
As I walk toward the kitchen, my boss flips two fingers for me to come see him.
“Yes, Mr. Scaramuchi?”
“You did a great job cleaning that table, Anna. Best I've seen in a long time. How about you go dump that bin, and then go clean table twelve. It needs your tender love and care.”
“Sure,” I answer. Dumping the dishes in the kitchen sink, I take the bin with me back to table twelve. It's not my table tonight, but I'm not going to argue with him.
I repeat the same steps as before. Remove dirty dishes, spray the table, then wipe it clean. And again, his eyes are on me. They follow my every move around the room. From table to table, patron to patron.
“Anna,” he calls out to me from across the room. “You missed this table over here, next to me.”
I roll my eyes to myself and do as he asks. He's watching me like a sick pervert, undressing me with his eyes as I lean over the table. He licks his lips and nods his head for me to come close.
I walk toward him, stopping a few feet away. “Yes?”
“Closer,” he says, slapping the chair beside him.
“I'm fine where I am.”
“Anna, I'm not going to bite you.” His lips curl into a thin grin. “Unless you ask me to.” He takes a long stride forward, bringing himself inches from me. “I'd be more than happy to take you in the back and bite you all over.”