“If she’s not old enough to rent a car, then she’s too young for me,” I say.
“That is the most asinine thing you’ve ever said.”
I’m about to argue when she returns with our beers. “Do you know what else you boys want?”
Yeah, I want to take you home and fuck you six ways to Sunday. That's what I want, angel baby. I want you naked and spread all over my house.
But I don't say that. I just stare at her again, because I evidently don’t know how to talk anymore.
Blake chuckles. “We’ll just take two fully loaded cheeseburgers.”
She gives me a look, like she’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she spins around and leaves the table again.
“Dude, you can't even talk. I mean, I've never seen you like this. All through high school, you were all top man on campus. You could talk to any chick.”
“That's not just any chick.” I jab my finger into the tabletop.
“Well, then talk to her; bring her home.”
Yeah, there are a thousand reasons why that’s a shitty idea. Starting with she’s too young for me and ending with this bullshit with my grandfather’s will. I need to get serious about finding a wife or my future will be screwed. I do not have time for this.
But that doesn’t keep me from watching as she approaches another table. It’s a round table of guys about our age, maybe a little older. And they’re handsy. She's smiling it off, smacking their hands away, dancing around the table so that she can get away from the one that clearly has some sort of problem with hearing the word no.
I’m seconds from getting to my feet, but then she leaves the table and is off to the kitchen.
“That shit is not okay,” I say.
“No, it's not,” Blake agrees.
“That happens again, and I'm putting a stop to it.”
It does happen again. And I don’t put a stop to it. Not because I don’t want to. But because she’s deft at putting a stop to it on her own, and she’s quick about it, rendering me useless. Which frankly pisses me off. If this shit happens every night that she works—it turns my stomach to even think of her having to fend off this many advances every damn night.
So when she approaches our table to bring our burgers, I’ve had enough.
I look up and catch her eye. “What's your name, angel?”
“Amber.” She puts her hand on her hip, not moving even an inch away from me. “What's yours, cowboy?”
“Quincy, but everyone calls me Quinn.”
Just then, Blake’s phone rings. He grabs it off the table and is answering it before he even walks away.
“What can I do for you, Quinn?” she asks, propping her hip against the edge of the table like she’s settling in to chat.
“I just thought I’d warn you that I'm about to cause some trouble on your behalf.”
Her brows raise and she gives me a grin. “Are you, now?”
“Because I don't like men putting their hands on you. And clearly they don't know how to hear the word no.”
An expression flickers across her face that I can’t quite read. Like she’s surprised and a little amused. She pats my shoulder. “That’s very sweet of you to try to come to my rescue, but I promise, I can take care of myself.”
“You put up with this kind of thing every night?”
She shrugs, which is as a good as admitting that yes, she does. “Just part of the job.”
“Sounds like you need a better job.”